Authors: The Mistress of Rosecliffe
Rexanne Becnel (17 page)
Rhys did not deviate from his work. “Linus and Gandy have heretofore led difficult lives, badgered and mistreated. I deal with them fairly and so they follow me. They are loyal to me,” he added with emphasis.
“I believe they are. But what of Tillo?”
“Tillo?” Rhys lifted his head and stared at Newlin with narrowed eyes. “Do you imply that Tillo is not loyal?”
Newlin smiled, so sweetly he momentarily appeared childlike. “I understand the great truths of this world. But people … People have wills of their own. How they use that will, ah well, even I am sometimes surprised.” Then he rubbed his hands together. “’Tis cold in here. Methinks even your great beasts of burden would appreciate a fire this day.”
Rhys only grunted and returned to his work. But after a
few moments when Newlin turned silently to leave, he stopped him with a grudging question. “When will FitzHugh arrive?”
few moments when Newlin turned silently to leave, he stopped him with a grudging question. “When will FitzHugh arrive?”
Newlin stared out of the stall, into the dim recesses of the stable aisle. “Soon enough.”
“He has learned what has occurred here?”
Newlin nodded, then began to rock forward and back, a faint movement that Rhys found disconcerting. “Be careful of what you have put into motion, lad. You may achieve your aim and yet nonetheless never reach your goal.”
“I am no lad,” Rhys snapped, glaring at the old bard.
Other men would have quaked at the threat in Rhys’s demeanor, but not Newlin. “No, you are no longer a lad, not in strength or in prowess with yon sword. But you are not so changed from the lad you once were. You are still Owain’s son.”
“And always will be!” Rhys stated, holding the sword up with a strong, steady hand.
Newlin blinked at the light glinting off the flawless blade. “Your will is your own,” he finally said. “I pray you use it wisely.”
Josselyn did not look up when the messenger approached Rand, except to sigh in dismay. Another summons or invitation or urgent request, no doubt. They’d been in London but three days and she’d already begun to tire of the endless round of private discussions, secret meetings, and political maneuverings. As two of the mightiest lords along the Welsh marches, Rand and his brother Jasper had been sucked into the maelstrom surrounding the strong-minded young king’s ascension to power.
Added to that, they had learned only yesterday that John FitzHugh, Randulf’s dissolute older brother, had died two weeks previously, leaving no known heir. That meant that Rand would now be invested as Lord of Aslin.
Josselyn wasn’t certain how she felt about that. Despite their Welsh heritage, she and Jasper’s wife, Rhonwen, already were being pulled into the social machinations of the female side of the royal court. As Lady Aslin, she feared the pressure would only grow stronger.
For the most part Josselyn found life in London pretentious
and oftentimes even silly. But the court of King Henry was new and not yet settled. Rand had assured her that court life would not always be this frenetic.
and oftentimes even silly. But the court of King Henry was new and not yet settled. Rand had assured her that court life would not always be this frenetic.
At least Henry’s queen, the lovely Eleanor, was no milksop. Though Josselyn had not spent much time with her, it was plain to one and all that she was both intelligent and worldly. She would be a strong influence on her younger husband and his court, Josselyn decided. A woman’s touch on the reins of power met with her complete approval.
“Something’s afoot,” Rhonwen murmured, nudging her with her elbow.
Josselyn looked up from the trio of ribbons she braided for Gwen to wear in her hair. Later today the girl would be presented to the queen. “What now? Could it be that someone has been seated at the wrong end of the tables?”
Her sarcasm faded, however, when Rand stiffened. And when he grabbed the messenger by the front of his tunic as if to murder the man, Josselyn leaped to her feet, the dainty ribbons forgotten.
“How can that be?” Rand hissed at the trembling man through gritted teeth. “I built Rosecliffe to be impregnable!”
“Yes, milord. But … but he tricked everyone—”
“Osborn is no fool to be taken in—”
“Rand!” Josselyn cried. “What is it?”
When he turned to her his face was devoid of all color. But in his pale visage his eyes glowed with fury. And with fear.
“Lady Isolde is … is unharmed,” the messenger babbled, still choking in Rand’s iron grip. “In truth there … there was little bloodshed. And no lost lives.”
“Isolde?” Josselyn’s heart seemed to stop beating. “Dear God, what has happened?” She grabbed Rand by the arm. “Tell me! What has happened at Rosecliffe?”
“Rhys ap Owain.” He spat the words out as if they were foul. Then he abruptly released the hapless messenger. “That bastard son of a bitch.” He swung his fierce gaze toward his brother Jasper. “I should have killed him ten years ago. I should never have listened to you!”
Jasper tensed and his hands tightened into fists. Rhonwen placed a calming hand on his arm. But Jasper’s anger was not directed at Rand. “If he has harmed one hair on her head, I
will kill him myself.” Jasper swung toward the messenger who backed nervously toward the chamber door. “Tell us everything that has happened. Everything.”
will kill him myself.” Jasper swung toward the messenger who backed nervously toward the chamber door. “Tell us everything that has happened. Everything.”
It did not take long, for there was little to tell. Josselyn listened intently, concentrating on every detail and trying to picture the events unfolding in her faraway home. She was horrified to think of her beloved Rosecliffe held by another now, and that so many of their people had been ousted from their homes. But her fears for Isolde were somehow not as desperate as Rand’s.
“He held Isolde in his arms when she was but a babe,” she tried to reassure Rand, trailing in his wake as he strode furiously for the stables. “He will not hurt her.”
“He was but a boy then.”
“A wild boy. An untried, angry boy! Yet still he was always gentle with her.”
“You forget how much he hates me—and Jasper even more. He hates everyone of English blood. God in heaven, but I was a fool to think a knight’s training would change him. That it would teach him honor. And now he has Isolde—”
He broke off and swallowed hard. Then he reeled off a list of orders to the stablemaster.
“When do we leave?” Josselyn asked.
He gave her a sharp look. “Jasper and I leave within the hour. You and Rhonwen and the children will go on to Bailwynn. Gavin is old enough to ride as your protection.”
“I am going to Rosecliffe with you.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw and he started to respond. Then he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, and she saw how anxious he was. “We’ll be traveling at a punishing pace, Josselyn. It will be impossible for you and the children to keep up.”
She came up to him and looped her arms around his neck, unmindful of the stablemaster’s sidelong glances. “I promise you, Rand, that I will not hold you back. Rhonwen and I are already decided, so there is no point in debate. We will ride with you, a family united in the defense of our home. We are a loyal bunch, we Welsh women. We love our men, our children, and.our homes, above all else.”
A faint smile eased the worried lines of his face. “I am glad
to have you with me and not against me, my love. Your Welsh obstinance is a great comfort to me.” He planted a kiss on her brow.
to have you with me and not against me, my love. Your Welsh obstinance is a great comfort to me.” He planted a kiss on her brow.
“But Rhys’s Welsh obstinance is not so comforting,” she said.
He pulled away from her. “Do not defend that thankless ruffian to me. If that is why you ride with us, better that you stay behind.”
She bristled and glared at him. “I ride with you to rescue my daughter and my home.”
They stared at one another a long moment. “Very well,” he conceded. “But we waste time in this palaver. Let us go.”
Yes, Josselyn thought.
Let us go. Let us go and see if our first-born daughter has tamed the wild Welsh-born knight whom no one else seems able to control.
Let us go. Let us go and see if our first-born daughter has tamed the wild Welsh-born knight whom no one else seems able to control.
ISOLDE HATED THE COMPLETED MURAL. SHE HATED IT. YET she seemed ever to find excuses to slip into the master’s chamber, and there she would stand as she did now, staring up at the horrible rearing dragon and the battling wolf beneath it.
It was her best work, she conceded, albeit bitterly. In truth, she should have used a better mixture of paints to preserve it.
But soon she would scrub it off, she told herself. Soon she would cover it with an even better image. Next time, the wolf would beat down the dragon.
She shuddered at the thought. In a few more days she knew the real confrontation between dragon and wolf would begin. The relative peace of this last week would end and her father and uncle would arrive to finally confront Rhys. But instead of Rosecliffe Castle repelling outside invaders, this time the stout walls would stand firm against the man who had built them.
Isolde hugged her arms around herself and fought back the sting of unhappy tears. It was not fair, not to her father, or to Rhys. She gave a humorless laugh at such an insane idea. How ironic that she, who had hated Rhys ap Owain all her life, could fear for his well-being now, and could even understand what drove his rage.
Had one brief night of passion skewed her thinking so far? It was not just that, she vowed. In truth, it was much more. She’d always envisioned Rhys as an ogre, a monster who hated everyone. But in less than a week she’d witnessed enough of him to recognize the flaws in so simplistic an assessment.
He was a good leader to his countrymen, and fair to those he’d defeated—so long as they did his bidding. He’d not ransacked Rosecliffe as she had feared. Indeed, he seemed determined to make it even more productive than it had been before.
He was a good leader to his countrymen, and fair to those he’d defeated—so long as they did his bidding. He’d not ransacked Rosecliffe as she had feared. Indeed, he seemed determined to make it even more productive than it had been before.
Equally important, he’d made no further attempt to force her to his bed. Nor had any other woman of Rosecliffe been harassed or poorly treated.
What was she to make of a man like that?
She thought back to Tillo’s strange offer to help her escape. There had been no further word on that front, perhaps because the weather was too foul. But Isolde had thought on it long and hard, and had decided it was the only opportunity she would have to avert a battle between Rhys and her family. Even then, her chances were slim. But so long as she remained a captive inside Rosecliffe, she had no chances at all of preventing it.
“So. Again I find you in my bedchamber.”
Isolde gasped and whirled around. One of her hands pressed nervously against the base of her throat when she spied Rhys in the doorway. He leaned his shoulder against the door frame in a nonchalant pose. She, however, with hammering heart and flushed features, felt anything but nonchalant.
He glanced up at the mural, then grinned at her, a smug, slanting grin. “Admiring your handiwork again? Or is there something else you wanted?” This time he looked pointedly at the bed.
Isolde’s face went scarlet. Of late he’d not referred to the passionate hours they’d spent in that bed, when she had believed him to be a minstrel. She’d almost thought he’d put it out of his mind. Ironically, that possibility had dragged it to the forefront of her thoughts. With every passing day her memories of that evening became clearer. With every passing night she remembered something else he’d done, some movement or caress or kiss that had roused a storm of passion in her—and did so again in shameful memory.
Even now, in the middle of the day, those memories did the same—especially when his eyes were so dark and hungry upon her. For days he had ignored her save to issue orders.
Bring fresh water to his chamber. Refill his cup with wine. Brush his tunic and hang it on a peg.
Bring fresh water to his chamber. Refill his cup with wine. Brush his tunic and hang it on a peg.
Why did he look at her now as if he wished to devour her?
She gritted her teeth, turned on her heel, and snatched a candle brace from a small chest. “You are just as crude as your. man Dafydd, it seems. Not that I am surprised. I am tending your chamber as you ordered. That’s all. There are wax drippings to be scraped from this.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. He still blocked the doorway. “Will you let me pass? Or are you so bored that you have come here to torment me, with your unwanted presence?” she added with a haughty sniff.
He pushed off from the deep door opening and approached her—stalked her. Considering her inflammatory words, what else could she expect? Why must she goad him so? Despite her determination not to appear the coward before him, Isolde retreated three steps, until she came up against the bed.
“Shall I push you backward, down onto the bed?” He took her by the shoulders, curving his big hands around them, and pushed, though not hard enough to make her tumble onto the mattress. He was forceful enough, however, that she had to fight to retain her balance. “Are you so certain my presence is unwanted?” he murmured, taunting her. He pressed a little harder, just enough that she had to catch the front of his tunic in her hands to stay upright.
“Cease this foolishness! Leave me alone,” she ordered, though her voice quivered with emotion.
“Who’s to make me?” He whispered the words, bending nearer.
Who, indeed? Her senses were so rattled Isolde could hardly think. “You … you do not condone rape,” she finally stammered. “That’s what you said.”
“No. I do not. But seduction … Seduction is something else entirely. You liked it, Isolde. We both know that. And I liked it, too. Are you ready to be seduced again, sweetling? Is your heart racing? Does your belly grow hot?”
He reversed the pressure and pulled her unexpectedly against him, then rubbed his chest back and forth against her peaked nipples. Just a slight movement, but it inflamed all her
senses. “Tell the truth,” he went on in a husky whisper. “Do your breasts ache for my touch?”
senses. “Tell the truth,” he went on in a husky whisper. “Do your breasts ache for my touch?”
Yes. Yes. Yes! she wanted to scream. But she bit her lips against the traitorous words.
Then one of his knees pressed between her thighs and Isolde let out a guilty little sob. She ached everywhere for him. That quickly. That completely. And it seemed he knew. He pressed more boldly against her so that she rode his leg, and the hot yearning in her nether regions turned to a melting desire.
“Damn, but that feels good. Doesn’t it?” His voice was a hoarse caress in her ear.
Better than merely good
. Isolde bowed her head against his chest and gamely fought the physical longing he roused in her. How could she want this man? How could she?
. Isolde bowed her head against his chest and gamely fought the physical longing he roused in her. How could she want this man? How could she?
Oh, why could he not still be the minstrel she’d thought he was?
“You’re not Reevius,” she muttered in final opposition. She hit his chest with one fist, then with both. “You’re not Reevius!” she cried, lifting a stricken face to him.
His face hardened in a scowl. “
Uffern dan!
I am he,” he swore. “I am he.” Then he drew her up and caught her mouth in a fierce and angry kiss.
Uffern dan!
I am he,” he swore. “I am he.” Then he drew her up and caught her mouth in a fierce and angry kiss.
He was not Reevius, she told herself as he dragged her deeper and deeper into the pure carnality of his kiss. He was not her minstrel, but rather the dragon she hated. The mighty dragon she feared. The magnificent dragon of her painting … of her tortured dreams …
When Isolde finally relented, melting against him and rising into their kiss, Rhys felt a surge of pure triumph, of primitive domination. It was like the best of battles: confrontation and struggle with a worthy opponent, and in the end, victory. He had her now. He’d won. He had but to tilt her back onto the bed and take his pleasure of her, his just reward for these hard days of waiting and wanting.
It had worked, though, for she’d been wanting him, too. Now she was more than ready to be taken.
He plundered her mouth, savoring his reward. But then her hand crept up to cup his face, first one small hand, then the other. She held his face between his palms in a way that felt
at once both erotic and innocent, and without warning, Rhys felt everything change, as if the world shifted beneath his feet.
at once both erotic and innocent, and without warning, Rhys felt everything change, as if the world shifted beneath his feet.
But it hadn’t, he told himself.
He tangled his hands in her silky hair and thrust his hips roughly against her soft belly. She was a willing woman and he a lusty man. It was simple and basic.
With a quick movement he tilted her backward and in a moment he lay over her on the bed, just like before. His mouth crushed hers. He stroked deep with his tongue, possessing her mouth, proving to her and to himself that she was his for the taking. He meant to make her his, and to use her in every carnal way he’d ever learned to use a woman.
But then she sighed, and she circled his neck with one arm, as if intent on prolonging their kiss. Again he felt it, as if something kicked hard in his chest.
Guilt?
No. Not guilt. There was no reason for him to feel guilt.
He pulled a little back from her, but she rose with him and somehow took control of the kiss. Her tongue stroked into his mouth, rousing him with its tentative foray, while one of her hands stroked his ear in the most erotic fashion imaginable.
“Jesus, God,” he swore, tearing away from her. “Don’t do that!”
He braced himself on stiff arms above her, appalled by what he’d just said. Beneath him she lay breathless and beautiful. Disheveled, with her luxuriant hair spread about her. Her eyes were bright with desire; her lips were red from their passion. She wanted him and he wanted her. There was nothing complicated about it. So why did he hesitate?
Then she swallowed hard. He saw the smooth undulations of her pale throat. “What … What is wrong?” she asked in a faint voice.
God help him, but he did not know. How could he want a woman so urgently and yet hesitate when she urged him on? He was hard and ready. So hard he hurt. Yet something warned him away from her, some well-honed sense of self-preservation.
But that was ludicrous. She was no man of war with weapon raised to strike him. She was just a woman.
He stared at her, as if at a creature he’d never seen. He’d
had prettier women in this very position before, he reminded himself. Women with bigger breasts and far more experience. Women with clever hands and even cleverer lips. As he stared at this woman, though, the faces and names and. physical attributes of those other women all disappeared. His heart that had been racing with desire began now to hammer with fear.
had prettier women in this very position before, he reminded himself. Women with bigger breasts and far more experience. Women with clever hands and even cleverer lips. As he stared at this woman, though, the faces and names and. physical attributes of those other women all disappeared. His heart that had been racing with desire began now to hammer with fear.
Fear!
God’s blood, was he going mad?
He lurched up from her, then backed away from the bed and stood in the center of the room, staring at her like an idiot. Her confusion was apparent and he took advantage of that to compose his own rattled nerves. “So, ’tis Reevius alone that you desire,” he taunted. “Apparently not. How fickle a lover you prove to be.”
She sucked in a harsh breath at his cruel words, then turned her face away from him, and Rhys knotted his fists in an agony of despair. Why had he said that? He’d hurt her for no reason, none except this unreasoning panic she inspired in him.
Now, though, it was physical pain that tore at his gut, excruciating pain, as if some giant hand squeezed his heart. He watched her curl into a tight ball of misery and shame, and he felt sick to his stomach for making her feel that way.
“Isolde,” he began, reaching a hand toward her—a hand that shook. When she flinched, he let his arm fall to his side.
The silence was awful. It was also accusing. She did not weep, nor did she rail at him. He would have preferred either of those to this rigid silence. But he had struck her a deliberately cruel blow and now he must suffer the only retaliation she could give. Still, he could not leave without saying something to her.
He gritted his teeth, unsure of himself and hating the feeling. “I was wrong to say that to you.”
She did not move.
His chest hurt so hard it was painful even to breathe. “I was wrong,” he repeated hoarsely. Then like a coward, he turned and he fled the scene of carnage—the carnage he’d inflicted because
she
had terrified
him
!
she
had terrified
him
!
How fickle a lover you prove to be
.
.
Isolde lay in the ruined aftermath of desire and heard those
awful words over and over again.
How fickle a lover
.
awful words over and over again.
How fickle a lover
.
He’d seduced her, then taunted her with his triumph. But that was not the worst of it. The worst part was that he was right.
A sob rose in her throat, hot and choking, the same sob she’d suppressed ever since he’d abandoned her to her misery. But she was determined not to allow it release. Bad enough that she was a silly, fickle girl. She would not be a weepy, idiotic one, as well.
Easy to say, she thought as she struggled to control herself. Nearly impossible to do when pent-up emotions burned in her chest for release. Slowly she rolled onto her back—only to be met by the sight of the demon dragon, looming over the embattled wolf. She gasped in renewed despair, and in so doing, lost her fight for control. The sob rose and broke, and her tears burst free. With a cry of fury and shame, she lurched from the bed—the scene of her pitiful capitulation.
“I hate you!” she screamed at the mural, at Rhys, and at herself. “I hate you!” She snatched up the pot of rinse water that still held her brushes, and heaved it at the wall. With a crack it shattered, and water and shards of clay flew everywhere.
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