Rose of rapture (8 page)

Once the three subtleties had been carried around for all to see, they were given places of honor on the sideboard, and the meal continued.

The great hall rang with the raucous babble of voices and laughter. Isabella, seated between Giles and Lionel at the high table, was so excited, she could scarcely swallow a mouthful from the many plates arrayed before her. Never before had she seen such a display at Rushden! It was as though they dined with the King himself, for the girl was convinced nothing could have been finer. Her eyes sparkled as she listened raptly to the conversations going on about her—tales of Court and battles and faraway places—and she felt very ignorant for knowing so little of such matters, despite her lessons and her brother's letters. She worried that Lionel would think her stupid and dull, though he flattered her expertly, outrageously, bringing blushes to her cheeks, while Giles laughed and looked on with loving approval. She felt so awkward and nervous and most unlike herself that whenever a little silence fell, she bubbled over with talk to fill it, then abruptly broke off, realizing she was chattering like one of the squirrels in her menagerie. She knew she had drunk too much wine, for her head was spinning, and she felt hot and flushed. Her pulse raced as she stole covert glances at Lionel beside her and wondered if he had guessed she had fallen madly in love with him at first sight.

It wasn't possible; surely, such things didn't happen.

But they do, she thought. I had only to look into his eyes to know—Oh, surely, he felt it too! 'Twas as though suddenly an arrow pierced my heart—and I thought the bards' songs of Cupid were only a myth!

Isabella blushed again and tried to concentrate on the entertainment: the pretty maids in colorful costumes, who danced on light feet; the acrobats and jugglers, who performed wondrous tricks of tumbling and sent bright balls spinning with a whirl of flashing hands; and the fool, who told bawdy jests and, with sly maliciousness, imitated those who sought to make sport of him. Isabella prayed the nasty dwarf would not see into her heart and expose her girlish dreams to ridicule.

After supper, the long trestle tables were dismantled and pushed back against the walls; and the gay lilt of the flute, the thrum of the lute, and the echo of the harp filled the air with music designed to lure those present into dancing. To Isabella's surprise and astonishment, Richard rose and solemnly bowed low before her, ignoring the red flush of rage and embarrassment that stained Lady Shrewton's cheeks at being pointedly insulted. Honored, thrilled beyond belief, the girl sank into a deep curtsy and extended her hand. She, Lady Isabella Jane Ashley of Rushden,

was to dance with the second most important man in all of England! She would never, not as long as she lived, forget this night or the Duke's dark, sober eyes fixed kindly upon her face as he guided her through the intricate maze of steps, then gently laid her palm in Giles's outstretched hand when the music changed.

"So, dear sister," her brother said, his eyes twinkling at Isabella's highly apparent happiness. "Need I ask what ye think of my choice for ye?"

"Oh, Giles, is it so obvious?" she queried anxiously. "Have I made a fool of myself?"

"Nay." He laughed. "Ye have made Lionel the envy of every man present."

Indeed, it was true: for none could help but mark the favor that Isabella showed to the heir of St. Saviour, and there were many who would have given much to be in his shoes. Lord Oadby, especially, was most displeased with the manner in which his ward was displaying her charms and fawning over Lionel as though he were a prince. How on earth had the tacky little caterpillar metamorphosed into such a beautiful butterfly without ^ the Earl having realized it? Lord Oadby made a mental note to' pay more attention to the progress of his wards in the future— especially the female ones.

Isabella did not see the lasciviously narrowed gaze of her warden as he watched her closely, lustfully contemplating the possibilities of being the first to taste of her innocence. She had eyes only for Lionel, who had claimed her hand for the third dance.

My Lord Lionel, now and for always, she vowed passionately to herself as she smiled up at him with the blind trust of youth.

Never had the days seemed so endless and yet passed so swiftly— too swiftly: for Isabella was young and in love in a way only the young can be—when love is new and shining like a beckoning star, and one rushes toward it without hesitation. It had come in a fleeting moment of breathlessness, a blinding flash of glory; and she reveled in it. First love is like that, clean and fresh, unmarred by the remembrance of pain that tarnishes later loves, no matter how hard one tries to polish it away, never realizing that sometimes, the dim patina, like that of old pewter, is more valuable for its scars.

The Duke of Gloucester had gone, taking his men. But, seeing the girl's crestfallen face and perhaps recalling his own sad, solitary youth, Richard had given Giles and Lionel leave to stay

as long as the summer sun shone in the pale blue sky.

Every morning, Isabella rose, flung open her balcony doors, and begged the trees to keep their leaves just a little while longer; and perhaps because she was a child of nature, they seemed to hear her pleas and understand. Every day, she and Giles and Lionel rode beneath the shade of the spreading oaks and yews, the ashes and pines; and life was good. Never had the girl felt so alive, so filled with joy that she brimmed over with laughter and exhilaration. She galloped recklessly through the woods; she danced wildly in the meadows; she hugged herself with secret delight at night, when she lay in bed and thought of Lionel. She would mourn Giles's departure, but Lionel's leaving ... ah, Lionel's leaving would be the death of her; she was sure. And so each day with him was like a treasure, to be held close and cherished.

It was as though some strange madness possessed her, for she was giddy with love. She could not wait to become Lionel's wife. Isabella had seen the way his eyes raked her budding young body and smoldered like embers with desire. She had felt the electric touch of his fingers and his lips upon her hands. She was certain it was only a matter of time before he gained permission for their marriage.

Oh, Lionel. Lionel!

The girl did not know she had cried the words aloud until she heard the echo of their refrain. She was soaring high above the ground; the swing that hung from a massive oak was her wings, and Lionel's arms were the arms that pushed her. He laughed.

"Higher, 'Sabelle!" he called. "I shall make ye go even higher!"

"Nay! Nay, already I grow faint."

"Then jump." He was suddenly there before her, his arms spread wide. "Jump! I shall catch ye."

She never doubted for a moment that he would. She let go of the swing, flying through the air into Lionel's outstretched arms. They closed about her tightly, and then she and he were falling, falling... tumbling upon the wild summer grass, their laughter ringing out over the small, hushed clearing wherein the swing hung. They stopped at last. Lionel looked down at her, his eyes darkening in a way that sent shivers up Isabella's spine.

He wanted her, wanted her with the hot passion that had come upon him like a fever the first time he'd seen her. It was all he could do to keep from ravishing her then and there. But he held back, for Isabella was no bored Court lady seeking a little amusement during her husband's absence, nor was she some yeoman's

daughter who could not cry out against his rape of her. Isabella was a young maid of noble birth, Giles's sister, and, most important, the King's ward. Like the rest of His Grace's property, one damaged Edward's wards at the risk of one's life. Isabella would expect Lionel to marry her—and rightfully so. He swore silently at the thought, for much as he might have wished it, he was in no position to wed the girl. He was already betrothed— to Lady Gilliane Beaumaris of Devizes.

Lionel's eyes narrowed, glittering with anger and disgust as Gilliane's plain brunette image filled his mind. He had no desire to marry that timid brown mouse who squeaked and scurried from his presence; but she was the daughter of his father's best friend, and the betrothal had been arranged while Lionel and Gilliane had been in their cradles. There was nothing he could do about it, and his impotence in the matter galled him. Why should he be forced to marry Gilliane when a woman like Isabella lay within his grasp?

He was a Valeureux, damn it! Descended from the Normans who had conquered all of England. His bride ought to be thq creme de la creme of women, not some colorless little mouse who would give him a parcel of brats as puny as she. He gazed down at Isabella raptly, his eyes still dark and hungry in a manner that almost frightened her. She was a prize worth having, this slender, silvery forest nymph whom Lionel held in his arms. Ah, what sons she would breed him. fine strong sons a man would be proud to call his own.

The thought of filling Isabella with such sons made Lionel's loins race with excitement. Never had he seen a maid who intrigued him so. Half-woman, half-child, she had bewitched him with her haunting grey-green eyes, her fey, wraithlike grace. He could almost fancy himself in love with the wench, as he knew she was fervently enamored of him.

Aye, Lionel wanted her. He must find a way to have her— Gilliane Beaumaris be damned!

"Ye wouldst drive a man mad, 'Sabelle," he muttered, then brushed a strand of silky hair from her face.

He's going to kiss me, the girl thought, her heart beating crazily in her breast. He's going to kiss me!

Oh, if only the blood would stop rushing through her veins at such a pace! She was so nervous, she couldn't even think. Her hands trembled slightly on his shoulders; her palms were as cold as ice and yet sweating somehow too. It seemed she had waited all her life for this moment, and now that it had come, she didn't

know what to do. She swallowed hard, tilting her face up and parting her lips in what she prayed was the right manner.

Oh, how soft his mouth was, and how it thrilled her, moving against her own gently until she was accustomed to the feel of his lips and had begun to kiss Lionel back with eager shyness, wanting to learn, wanting to please him. Hesitantly, Isabella caressed his golden hair as he wrapped his hands in her own silver cascade, his tongue finding its way inside her mouth to cxptore the sweetness that awaited therein. A warm glow filled her body at the intimate contact, and she pressed herself against him, wanting to make this moment last forever. A low moan emanated from her throat as his hands slid down her back, crushing her to him, and his lips grew more demanding. Suddenly, Isabella was breathless with the wakening of her womanhood. Time stopped and yet flew by on wings, it seemed; and then, without warning, Lionel was drawing away from her, his eyes lowered against her searching, love-filled glance, so she could not read his thoughts. He kissed her lightly once more, then rose and held out his hand.

"Come, 'Sabelle," he said. "It grows late. We must return to the keep."

"Aye," she breathed, then, for one moment, ceased to breathe at all as her hand touched his.

Lionel had kissed many women, but Isabella did not know that. Nor did she know what had caused the brief shadowing of his handsome visage or the agony it foreboded. She knew only that her first kiss was as beautiful as she had dreamt it would be and that she would love Lionel Valeureux until the day she died.

The great hall was still. Isabella sat quietly, embroidering on the tapestry she had begun, which would chronicle Giles's adventures. The girl was clumsy and impatient with her needle when it came to such work, and her task was made even more difficult by the tears that stung her eyes, blurring the design.

The trees had shed their leaves. Autumn was upon them, and Giles and Lionel must journey north to join the Duke of Gloucester. Isabella's brother stared glumly into his wine cup, for he knew how their coming departure had saddened his sister. Lionel, morose as well because he had not thought of some means of extricating himself from his betrothal to Gilhane Beaumaris, plucked idly at the strings of his lute.

He knew that Isabella and Giles both fully expected him to ask for the girl's hand before leaving, and he knew too that he

could not. His position was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that he could not even explain his dilemma to them. The Ashleys were a proud and honorable family. They had taken Lionel into their home and hearts and let it be known that he would be welcome as Isabella's husband. They would scorn and despise him if they discovered how he had deceived them by wooing the girl when he could not wed her; and Lionel found he could not bear the thought of their contempt.

"Give us a song, my lord." Giles spoke with forced cheerfulness, at last, to break the silence, slurring his words just a little, for he was half-drunk.

"Oh, aye!" Isabella cried.

Anything to break the awful stillness of the chamber! Anything so the two she loved most deeply would not see the tears that threatened to spill from her sorrow-filled eyes.

Happy to comply, Lionel strummed a few chords on the lovely lute, which was fashioned of mellow wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

"I shall play ye a song I wrote myself just yesterday eve," he informed them, his eyes upon Isabella's face before he began to sing.

"Scarlet lips hath my lady fair. Soft as silk her flaxen hair. Her beauty lies beyond compare. A white rose is my lady.

"Dusk-pink the cheeks upon her face. Black-lashed eyes of grey-green lace. Fair is she; I rest my case. A white rose is my lady.

"Cupid hath let his arrow fly. I love this maid, I'll not deny. To kiss her lips, I'd gladly die. A white rose is my lady.

"To thee, fair maid, a troth I'll plight. If thou knowest of the try sting site. Meet me there in pale moonlight. A white rose is my lady."

The plaintive notes of the lover's lament died away slowly. Isabella lowered her eyes to her embroidery, her heart pounding with anticipation. The meadow! The meadow in the woods where

the swing hung. Lionel wanted her to meet him there, tonight! She was sure of it. And there, he would ask her to marry him. Tears filled her eyes again, but this time, they were tears of joy.