Susan Spencer Paul (17 page)

The confusion of the people of Briarstone at their master’s abrupt departure, the disorganization of the workers and goods arriving and the frantic, sick feeling of abandonment Rosaleen experienced as she watched Hugh Caldwell’s tall figure riding farther and farther away, all of it had nearly brought Rosaleen down to tears. Never, even on that morn when her uncle had approached her, smiling with anticipation, holding his whip, had Rosaleen felt such despair. Had it not been for Christian Rowsenly’s innate leadership ability and her own stoic training, she would have been lost.

When he had finally come home, his face swollen with bruises from the fights she’d known he would seek, that damned grin spread on his face, she’d been torn between the desire to scream at him and the need to throw herself into his arms. Later that night, when she’d gone to him, her desire had triumphed.

All had been well until a few days later, when Hugh had taken her strolling in the summer night air after the evening meal. They had been walking very companionably, speaking of common matters, when they had passed the old shed that had once served as a stable and heard someone sobbing within. Exchanging glances, they had fallen silent, and at the same moment had realized who it was.

They had moved at the same time, Rosaleen to speak aloud and Hugh to clap his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. Picking her up, he had carried her across the bailey until they were well away from the stables.

“You will not try to speak with him, Rosaleen,” Hugh had firmly informed her as soon as he’d lifted his hand from her mouth.

Furious, she’d pushed him away. “You wretched beast! How dare you smother me in such a manner!”

“I mean it, Rosaleen,” he continued as if she’d never spoken. “I’ll not have you making Chris feel like a foolish child.”

“I would never do such a thing!” she returned with offense, laying one delicate hand over her breast. “The poor boy is simply overcome by the arrival of the king’s missive this afternoon regarding his late brother’s bravery at Agincourt. It is perfectly clear that he loved John Rowsenly, much as he tries to deny the idea. I see nothing wrong with giving him comfort.”

Hugh was so angry his eyes glittered. “You can’t begin to imagine what that boy is feeling, and I’ll not have you
making him feel even worse with your well-meant comforting.” His hands moved to grip her shoulders. “He loved his brother, aye, and deeply, but John Rowsenly never felt the same. He never said a word to anyone about his little bastard sibling. Not one word, Rosaleen. The man was a damned fool!” Hugh’s expression grew hard as stone. “If I had a brother the likes of Christian Rowsenly,” he vowed, “I would crow of it to the heavens as oft as I could.”

In the end Hugh had reminded her of that wretched vow of obedience she’d so stupidly given him, and like an imperial prince to a slave, he had ordered her back to the keep and had gone alone to see Christian. Rosaleen had sat with her ladies, unable to think on the needlework in her lap, until Hugh and Christian had returned to the hall an hour later, both laughing aloud at some private jest. Christian had looked perfectly well, as though a sad thought had never troubled him, and with a grin he had sat with Hugh to play a game of chess. Later that night, Hugh had made love to her with a fever that had frightened her, just as everything he had done to her in his bed had frightened her, a little.

The things she had learned at his hands! The things she had done! God’s mercy, if her parents could have knownof it all, they would have turned in their graves. After the coarse insults she had suffered at the hands of Simon of Denning, and after all the whores Uncle Anselm and his friends had entertained at Siere during their visits over the years, Rosaleen had thought there would be little left regarding the physical relationship of a man and a woman that would surprise her overmuch, but she had been far, far wrong. Hugh Caldwell had surprised her time and again, and had coaxed her into performing such amazing acts that just to think of them made her blush. And the
things he had done to her…with his hands…and mouth! God’s teeth, even her toes turned red at the memory.

Tucking her legs and arms fully inside the tub, as if to hide them, Rosaleen sank a little farther in the warm water. But that only reminded her of the night Hugh had made a bath for them in his room, when with warm, scented water he had bathed her, and she had in turn bathed him, and they had afterward sunk into the water and…

“M’lady?” Margaret called over the partition. “Do you need a fresh towel?”

Rosaleen had to clear her throat to answer. “No, I thank you, Margaret. I brought one with me.”

“Very well, m’lady. Call out if you need me.”

Margaret went away, and Rosaleen sighed, grateful that the girl hadn’t come around the screen to see her blushes.

“God’s feet, Hugh Caldwell,” she whispered, “what have you done to me? Is it not enough that you occupy my nights? Must you occupy my every waking thought, as well?”

But there was one thing Hugh Caldwell had never done, and never would do. He had never spoken of love. In all the nights they had lain together, pleasuring each other in every way possible save the one that kept her a maiden, not a word of any emotion deeper than affection had ever passed his lips. For Hugh, their coming together each night was normal and expected. It was to be enjoyed while it lasted, and nothing more.

“G
od’s my life, Hugh Caldwell, you’ve done well for yourself.”

Smiling lazily at Peter Brenten, who with Stewart of Byrne had arrived unexpectedly at Briarstone three hours earlier, Hugh drew a sip of red wine into his mouth, swallowed it slowly and, with an air of satisfaction, sighed.

“‘Struth, Peter, lad. ‘Tis indeed the truth.”

He wondered if this was the way his brother Alex felt whenever he sat down with guests in the great hall of Gyer.

Here he was, the master of his own estate, sitting at the head of a richly crafted table, enjoying an impressive meal from the bounty of his own lands and from the full larder of Briarstone, and entertaining his friends in a style and manner that he had never conceived possible. On one side of him, in her place as the lady of the household, sat Rosaleen, managing the progress of the meal with the ease of a skilled hostess and looking so beautiful that he couldn’t help but swell with pride. On his other side sat his friends, appropriately impressed with their surroundings. Below him, spread out in the neat rows Rosaleen had ordered to be arranged, sat all the people of Briarstone, as well as the workmen Alex had sent, eating their meals in comfort and conversing quietly.

He felt, quite honestly, as happy and content as a king overlooking his subjects, and just as regal.

“Will you have more wine, Stewart of Byrne?” Rosaleen asked in a manner so charming that that man looked up at her with an expression of enchantment.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, like a sigh, and watched Rosaleen as she motioned to one of the servers to refill his goblet.

“Do you know, Lady Rosaleen,” he said, continuing to gaze at her with an open admiration that annoyed Hugh, “I find it difficult to believe you are the same lady whom we met so long ago at the Red Fox Inn. You are as lovely as a queen, and not in the least what any of us assumed you to be when we first set eyes on you.”

“Aye, you are most lovely indeed, my lady,” Peter Brenten quickly agreed, not wanting to be outdone by his friend. “I only wish I’d been quicker than Hugh in stepping forward to rescue you, for then you might have come home with me, instead.”

Forcing a smile, and thinking that at Siere these men would have been whipped for speaking to her in such a forward, familiar manner, Rosaleen replied, “You are very kind.”

Hugh, however, frowned darkly. His friends were quick to compliment Rosaleen, yet it was clear they still thought her a common woman who had merely come to Briarstone to live as his mistress. The way in which they called her “lady,” as though the title were a jest, made him want to shove their teeth down their throats.

“You’ve not yet said why you’re on your way to London—” Hugh spoke slowly, willing his taut muscles to relax “—only that you’re meeting Gerry there. Never tell me there’s another war somewhere that you’re off to.”

“No, thank a merciful God!” Stewart declared, setting aside his eating dagger. “But we’re hiring out just the same. Gerry was called to London by Simon of Denning, and he sent us word as soon as he found out what Simon wanted. He would have sent you word, as well, I imagine, if he’d not thought you too busy with your new estate to come along.”

“He was right,” he said, and, having felt her stiffen beside him, glanced at Rosaleen. She had gone quite pale, he noted with concern. Swinging his eyes back to his friends, he prodded, “What soldier work has Gerry found with Simon of Denning, then?”

“It’s about his betrothed,” Peter replied, swallowing a mouthful of parsley bread. “Do you remember how he told us he was going to marry some duchess or countess or some such as soon as he returned from France?”

Hugh shrugged. “I remember, but Simon was a common boaster…it was hard to know when to believe him or not.”

“That’s true enough, but he spoke the truth about that particular matter. Trouble is, the girl was stolen before they could wed. Simon is hiring men to search her out.”

“Stolen?” Hugh repeated with disbelief. “Why in God’s Holy Name would anyone want to steal something that belongs to Simon of Denning? It’s as sure as signing a death warrant, I vow.”

Chewing a sweet, roasted onion, Steward nodded. “But this lady is a rich heiress and supposedly very beautiful. Whoever has her must believe Simon will be willing to pay dearly to have her back.”

Hugh shook his head. “Poor old Simon. That’s a bad turn for him, and he’s a good enough fellow, especially in a fight. How did he manage to betroth himself to an heiress, I wonder? He’s rich enough, of course, but a cruder
devil I’ve never met. God’s teeth, when I think of the way he used to treat his women! Perhaps the heiress ran away to avoid wedding him.”

“God help her if she did,” Peter said, “for Simon would kill her when he caught up with her.”

“W-would anyone like more wine?” Rosaleen asked suddenly, too loudly.

Hugh turned to look at her again, already aware that she was as taut as a hard-pulled bowstring. The sight of her beautiful face, pale and distressed, sent shivers of warning down his spine. Reaching out beneath the table, he touched her knee lightly and felt her jerk as though she’d been shocked by a lightning bolt. She jumped up, knocking her wineglass over in her haste and scraping her chair loudly on the wooden dais.

“Forgive me, please,” she whispered in a voice that trembled. “I must be excused from table. I…I must go and see to the last course.”

“Rosaleen, whatever is the—”

But she had already turned and walked away, hurrying toward the back of the great hall where the makeshift kitchen lay.

“Ah, the women of France!” Peter Brenten kissed his fingertips in a gesture of tribute. “They have no equal on all of God’s earth!”

Stewart of Byrne laughed. “Nay, lad, but you’re wrong,” he said, and lifted his tankard into the air. “Here’s to the women of Spain! Hot-blooded, fiery beauties, every one of them!” He winked at the group of men who were sitting close by, listening raptly to the conversation taking place by the fire. “You’ll never find sweeter, more willing wenches in any land, lads,” he assured them. “‘Tis God’s truth, I vow.”

Clearing his throat loudly and wishing that his friends would lower their voices, or at least take a look around to see that the men of Briarstone weren’t the only ones listening to them, Hugh said, “Now, good fellows, you both speak falsely. ‘Tis the English beauties who are the best and loveliest of any women on earth.” He sent a cautious glance to where Rosaleen sat with her ladies, only to be met by eight pairs of female eyes bearing expressions so chilling they could freeze a man solid. “The, uh, noblest, bravest…ahem…uh, kindest, wisest and
certainly
the most understanding women ever created by God’s own hand.”

He hoped the words would soothe the women, but he knew matters had probably gone beyond that. It was now several hours since the evening meal had ended, and somehow things had gone from bad to worse. First Peter and Stewart had wanted to gamble, and in an effort to be a gracious host Hugh had let them bring out their dice, though reluctantly, for he knew Rosaleen despised the sport. Next they had drunk themselves into a sorry state and had started gazing with warm interest at the women, until Hugh had had to remind them that they were far outnumbered by the men of Briarstone, who tended to be possessive about their females.

In their drunken state, Peter and Stewart had been indignant and had complained at such inhospitable treatment at the hands of their old friend, but Hugh had diverted them into recounting tales of their battles and conquests, much to the pleasure of the men and children of Briarstone. Somehow, though, the conversation had wandered toward the many sexual adventures they’d enjoyed together during their mercenary years, and Hugh found himself sinking further and further into the un
pleasant mire of fury that the ladies of his household were now directing his way.

After hearing his statement, both Peter and Stewart burst into laughter.

“By the rood, Hugh Caldwell! I’ll not dispute you,” Peter said, “for if there is any man who knows about women, ‘tis you, though all the lovely lasses you courted in France would tear your heart out to hear you say such a thing, I vow!”

“That’s right, lads,” Stewart said to the men of Briarstone. “Your master is as legendary with his female conquests as he is with his sword. The prettiest maids that followed our camp were ever throwing themselves at his feet. ‘Struth! I swear it!”

“The prettiest maids!” scoffed Peter Brenten. “Even the ugly ones ran after him, and by my troth, he did his best to keep them satisfied, every one!” The two men laughed heartily. “A right kindhearted soul is Hugh Caldwell, never wanting to disappoint any of the wenches who’d a yearning for him.”

The men of Briarstone gazed at their master with new admiration, and Hugh wished a hole would open in the floor beneath the rushes and swallow him up. He could almost feel the sharp points of the daggers Rosaleen was looking at him.

“Do you remember those twins who fought over him at Rouen, Peter? In the end he took them both to bed. God’s toes, I’ll ne’er forget the next morn when they came out of his tent. They could hardly walk, either of them, but still looked as pleased as two cats who’d got the cream!”

Hugh set his head in his hands and groaned.

“But that was naught compared to that night in Abbeville—” Stewart began enthusiastically.

“At that brothel!” he and Peter finished together.

Mouths gaping, the men of Briarstone leaned closer.

“God’s my life,” said Peter. “You were in rare form that night, Hugh. Rare, indeed.”

Unable to lift his head from his hands, Hugh groaned again, though more loudly.

“That tournament you devised, Hugh!” Stewart nearly howled. “That j-jousting t-tournament!”

“Jousting tournament?” Christian Rowsenly asked curiously.

“Peter, Stewart…don’t do this to me,” Hugh begged weakly.

“Never in my life have I experienced such a time,” Stewart went on heedlessly. “Only Hugh Caldwell could come up with such a game, I vow.” He looked at his miserable friend with affection.

“In truth, it was more like striking a target than jousting,” Peter explained, ignoring the sounds of agony coming from Hugh. “Hugh had all the tables in the place lined up against one wall, and then the wenches sat on the edge, you see, side by side, with their legs spread like this.” He demonstrated with his hands.

The sound of distress Hugh made surpassed description.

“Each man lined up opposite the woman of his choice,” Peter went on happily, “and got his ‘lance’ out and ready. That’s why Hugh called it jousting, because at the signal, each man took off at a run and the winner was the one who could-”

Hugh shot up off his chair. “I think I’ll take Peter and Stewart into Stenwick,” he announced. “There’s a good tavern there, with plenty of whores. What do you say, lads?”

The men of Briarstone protested loudly, but Peter Brenten and Stewart of Byrne, smiling and nodding, were already standing to leave.

Light…it hurt. God’s mercy, it hurt. He tried to move his hand to cover his eyes, and that hurt, too. When was Rosaleen going to have some damned curtains hung over this damned bed?

He ached everywhere. His toes ached, his ears…even his teeth ached. Rosaleen, in her sleep, stretched and made the whole front of him ache.

“Mmm,” she mumbled, and moved again. Her back was against his front, and she reached one hand around to touch his sex, caressing.

“Sweeting,” he muttered, “go back to sleep.”

She kept touching him and took one of his hands, drawing it forward to press against her womanhood. She was hot and very wet, and despite his misery Hugh felt himself hardening. She pressed his other hand against one of her breasts, and when his stiff fingers brushed against the hard nipple, she moaned and moved her soft little bottom against his erection.

“From behind, m’lord,” she murmured, pulling his manhood between her damp thighs and moving rhythmically with it. “Put it into me from behind. Please,” she begged, sounding breathless and not like herself. “Please, m’lord. Do it now.”

It took his dulled brain a moment to understand, though his body was already far ahead. He felt her, Rosaleen, hot and wet and ready for him, wanting him to push himself deep inside her, at last.

“Yes,” he groaned, a mixture of pain and ecstasy. “Yes, my beloved one.” But he didn’t want to take her like this. His Rosaleen was a virgin still, and when they finally
joined their bodies he wanted the moment to be special. Despite the agony it caused him, he lifted himself up on one elbow and pulled her beneath him. “My love,” he whispered as his mouth descended to hers. “My beautiful love.”

But it was wrong. Something was very wrong. The kiss he gave her lasted only a moment, and then he pulled back, his drink-addled eyes opening with difficulty to look at her. She didn’t taste like Rosaleen. Not in the least. Rosaleen’s mouth tasted sweet…like fine wine mixed with honey. This mouth tasted horribly sour, like onions and rotted cabbage. While Hugh’s eyes focused, his hands made other discoveries. The one buried in her blond hair felt a sudden coarseness…a coarseness that had never been there before; the hand resting on one of her breasts felt the smallness, the shapelessness of it…a smallness and shapelessness that didn’t belong to his Rosaleen.

As he pushed himself a little farther away, furiously blinking his eyes to clear them, Hugh’s nostrils suddenly came to life, and the smell that greeted them turned his stomach so violently that it was all he could do to keep from emptying its contents.

This foul-smelling creature was
not
his Rosaleen.

He was in bed with some strange, terrible female, and as his eyes focused, revealing a young, thin, pockmarked girl, Hugh laughed, painfully, from the strange humor of the situation. How had this girl come to be there? Where had she come from?

A short, strangled sound made him turn his numb head, and as he kept blinking he saw Rosaleen, standing in his chamber a short distance from the bed, staring at him in horror.

“Rosaleen,” he croaked, feeling sick and miserable and wishing that this whole nightmare would go away and let him sleep his drunkenness off.