Washing her hair would have to wait for Ellesmere. Lying out in the open with wet hair might do more damage to her health than the near-rape. A bath would feel wonderful, especially if she shared it with Ronan.
She closed her eyes and cupped one breast, running her thumb over the rigid nipple, humming Ronan’s song. How wanton her thoughts had become since she’d met him.
“Rhoni?”
Ronan’s voice startled her. She ducked into the water up to her shoulders. “I’m here.”
“May I approach?”
“Aye,” she murmured.
For a moment she was tempted to reveal her nakedness, but her courage fled.
Ronan hesitated. “Forgive me. I was searching through saddlebags for more linens to bind Gabriel’s wound. Some of the shirts are suitable for drying cloths.”
He put the linens down by the stream. “Are you all right?”
Her teeth chattered. “Oui, but I’m getting cold. Is Gabriel…will he be—?”
“He’s a brave man. I had to force the point of the arrow through his leg, but he bore the pain well. He’s sleeping. You should come back to the fire.”
It was fully dark now, the forest filling with the sounds of creatures of the night. “I’m afraid to return alone. Turn your back. I’ll be but a moment.”
Ronan had come to the rill to wash the blood from his hands and the grim task of tending Duquesne from his mind. Concerned when he didn’t find Rhoni, he followed the watercourse to the ditch. His arousal spiked at the sight of her, posed like a Greek statue at moonrise with her hair atop her head, one hand cupping her breast. He willed her to rise from the water.
Now, behind him, she stood naked, shivering, drying her body. The glimpse of her breasts straining at the fabric of her ruined shift had confirmed his belief she was beautifully formed. He ached to warm her, comfort her, and obliterate the memory of the horror.
“I’ll need your help with the lacing.”
He turned slowly. She had her back to him, the gown gaping open. Her damp hair hung to her waist like a curtain, revealing only a hint of the whiteness of her skin in the pale moonlight. He gritted his teeth and walked towards her. As he took hold of the laces, she gathered her hair up into a cascading mass on the top of her head, baring her back.
Could she feel the trembling in his hands as he fumbled with the laces? It was impossible to complete the task without his knuckles brushing her skin. His erection strengthened with every touch. As he pulled the laces, the fabric tightened around her breasts and her waist.
“There,” he declared at last. “Done.”
She whirled to face him, a gleam in her eye. “Your breathing is labored, Ronan. Was it such a hard task?”
He grunted, though he was glad to see the sparkle return to her eyes. “It has been a while since I laced up a woman’s gown. I’m out of practice.”
He thought with regret of Mary. The grief was still there, but the pain of it wasn’t as intense.
Rhoni averted her eyes. Did she sense he thought of his dead wife?
He put his hand to her bruised face. “Is it painful?”
She leaned into his hand and put her own atop it. “Oui, but your touch soothes it.”
As your touch would soothe my ache.
He bent to retrieve his cloak and furled it around her shoulders, tying it under her chin.
She smiled coyly. “My parents have a tradition.”
Rhoni’s near death experience seemed to have emboldened her. She lifted her arms and opened the cloak, smiling suggestively. “When my father returns from a journey, be it long or short, he opens his cloak and enfolds my mother in it. Then they kiss.”
Ronan raked his fingers through his hair. His body clamored to hold her against him. But no good would come of it. He pulled the edges of the cloak together. “Your father would have my guts for garters.”
She giggled and allowed him to escort her back to the camp.
By The Fire
Gabriel lay by the fire, covered in cloaks taken from his dead soldiers. He shivered despite the sweat on his brow. The two who had suffered only minor wounds watched over him. Three others lay beside Gabriel, one holding a bloodied rag to his face, the second with his arm in a makeshift sling, which she recognised as the bottom of her chemise, the third nursing a bandaged hand. Ronan and Conall had been busy tending these men while she sat submerged in a ditch. They were Ellesmere men, yet he had cared for them.
“Will they live?”
“Aye.”
“Where are the dead?”
He pointed to the edge of the clearing. “Your men are over there. The brigands are in the forest.”
She shuddered. Wolves and other scavengers would make short work of the Saxon bodies.
She walked over to the dead soldiers. Even in the darkness, they were a gory sight. She knew them all. They were honorable young men, most born on Montbryce lands in Normandie, who had guarded her for years. They’d died protecting her, a girl they probably deemed a frivolous ninny.
Tears welled. She resolved to live a better life, to be more considerate of others, to make their sacrifice mean something.
“You must not feel guilty about their deaths.”
She whirled to face Ronan. “I’ve known these men most of my life. Some of them have wives, children. They died because of me. If I hadn’t insisted on staying in Wales, they wouldn’t have been on this road on this terrible day.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her into his arms. “You cannot think that way. Was staying in Wales a bad decision? Are you sorry you did?”
She pressed her face into his chest, inhaling the male smell of him. “Non. It was the right decision. I’ve seen where I was born, and I’m happy to have spent time with Rhodri’s family—” She hesitated. “—and with you.”
He stroked her hair. “Still a little damp. Come to the fire.”
Ronan put Rhoni as close as he dared to the fire, but she shivered still as he kept watch a few feet away. She was crying, but doing her best not to let him see it. Poor Mary had stifled her sobs and he hadn’t known how to convince her she was a good wife. She’d longed for the convent, sure she was damned because she hadn’t followed her vocation. She never blamed Ronan for it, and was grateful for his patience and kindness, yet she seemed unable to stop the silent sobbing.
It would be better if he didn’t touch Rhoni, but he moved from the log on which he sat to hunker down behind her. He put a hand on her quivering shoulder. She curled up into a tighter ball. “I’m just cold,” she murmured.
He rubbed her arm. “No one blames you for crying, Rhoni. People would worry if you didn’t.”
She turned liquid eyes to him. “I cannot stop. Will you hold me?”
Críost, how this woman tempted him without knowing the fire she played with. He lay down beside her, his head resting on his bent arm. Careful not to touch her with his body, he put a hand on her hip. To his consternation she turned over and snuggled into him.
Desire churned its way through his body clear down to his toes by way of his loins. “Dia, Rhoni.”
This woman was in his blood and his blood was on fire. He’d always been a lusty man, and Mary had never completely satisfied his male needs. But he hadn’t wanted her the way he wanted Rhoni. He cupped her bottom and pressed her to his raging arousal. Her eyes flew open. He feared he’d reawakened the terrible memory of her assault, but instead of fear, he saw desire in her eyes. She opened her mouth in the most blatant invitation to kiss he’d ever seen. It was irresistible.
Still in the throes of shock after her ordeal, she would regret her impulsiveness on the morrow. He’d seen grown men, seasoned warriors, reduced to fits of uncontrollable laughter after a battle.
But desire spurred him on. He kissed her hungrily, plunging his tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her breath, inhaling the tantalizing aroma that clung to her even after her ordeal.
This was impossible. On the other side of the fir
e lay a severely wounded man who might not see the dawn. Others drowsed fitfully beside him. Conall slept but three feet away, though Ronan doubted the boy was asleep.
He broke away from the kiss.
She frowned and pressed her breasts against his chest. “Touch me, Ronan,” she whispered.
“Nay, mo stór, not here. If I touch you I am lost.”
She gazed at him for long moments, then smiled. “But you want to touch me.”
He groaned. “I want to do more than touch you, but I’ve told you before, I—”
She yawned and put a finger to his lips. “I know, I know. Your vengeance.”
She turned away from him, but snuggled her bottom to his arousal. She reached for his hand and cupped it under her breast. “I’m warm now.”
He was on fire.
Heroes Meet
Ram de Montbryce had reassured his distraught wife he would wait until dawn before setting off with his men. The exhausted messenger had arrived with the dire news after midnight and babbled a confused account of the attack. The only thing Ram heard was that Rhoni had been taken by brigands. It had necessitated all Mabelle’s gentling to calm his fury and allow the man to continue his tale.
“She’s safe, milord. She was rescued.”
Ram’s heart was breaking. His beloved, carefree Rhoni, defiled by some outlaw Saxon lout in his own territory. Heads would roll for this. “By whom?” he’d shouted.
“The Irish baron, Lord Ronan.”
It was a kick in the gut he hadn’t been ready for. He’d looked quickly to Mabelle whose mouth had fallen open. She’d gazed back at him, a bemused expression on her face. “You were right. I will indeed meet this Irishman.”
Ram revisited what the messenger had told him over and over, pacing as he waited for the sun to come up, Baudoin at his side. Rhoni’s brother had been all for setting out as soon as the news came.
Finally Ram could wait no longer. He ordered his thirty knights to mount and he and Baudoin led them out of the bailey of Ellesmere Castle and into the pre-dawn darkness.
Harnesses jingled, hooves thundered, but not a word was spoken for more than an hour. Every man was aware of the dire events that had taken place. The sun came up, but Ram felt no warmth, wrapped in a chill that gripped his heart.
Baudoin’s face bore a mask of ill-concealed fury.
From the account of the messenger they must be nearing the scene of the attack. Suddenly, a youth stepped out of the forest, an arrow nocked to his bow, pointing directly at Ram. The Normans reined in their horses.
Ram drew his sword. “Who are you to dare challenge me on my own lands?”
The boy didn’t take his eyes off Ram, but shouted something in a foreign tongue. Not Welsh though, that much Ram knew.
A giant appeared from the trees, armed with the biggest sword Ram had ever seen. The Earl of Ellesmere recognized instantly this was Ronan MacLachlainn. The eye patch confirmed it. A tide of conflicting emotions swept over him. Mabelle believed this man was Rhoni’s destiny, and for a moment Ram thanked God for it. Yet his heart fell. Life for his daughter with such a man threatened to be full of difficulty. High hopes of a marriage to a Norman nobleman crumbled at his feet.
The giant sheathed his sword and bade the boy put down his bow. “Earl of Ellesmere, Comte de Montbryce, I apologise you were challenged, but we had to be careful. I am Lord Ronan MacLachlainn. Your daughter is safe. I’ll lead you to her.”
The Irishman spoke English, yet he had respectfully addressed Ram with his title in Anglo-Norman French, and known his daughter would be his first concern.
Ram sheathed his sword and dismounted, turning to Baudoin. “Stay here with the men.”
His son bristled, but Ram insisted. “Get them to hew down trees to make biers for the wounded. We don’t want thirty witnesses to Rhoni’s shame.”
Baudoin reluctantly complied.
Ram followed the Irishman to the clearing. Several Ellesmere soldiers lay wounded, among them Gabriel Duquesne. He was relieved the young man had survived. He was a good soldier. Two or three others came to their feet and pressed a fisted hand to their hearts as soon as they saw him.
“Papa!”
Rhoni appeared from nowhere, flinging her arms around him.
“Rhoni,” he gasped. In the darkest moments of his life, Ram had never wept in front of his men, but tears welled. He hugged his daughter tightly, unable to speak. He kissed the beautiful golden hair so like her mother’s, smoothing his hand over it, reassuring himself she was alive.
What to say to her? How to ease the pain of her assault? How to tell her he still loved her, that the loss of her virginity would make no difference.
She broke away from him, a smile on her face. A smile?
“Papa,” she gushed, beaming, “I’m glad you’ve met Ronan. He’s my hero. He saved my honor.”
In the years Ram had suffered from rheumatism, he’d never thought his knees might actually buckle beneath him, but if he didn’t get off his feet, they would. MacLachlainn watched him with one dark eye, his expression unreadable.
Ram released Rhoni and strode towards his daughter’s champion, his hand extended. “I owe you a great debt, Lord Ronan MacLachlainn.”
The Irishman returned the handclasp, the corners of his mouth edging up. When Ram made to withdraw his hand, the giant held on. “I might hold you to that, milord de Montbryce.”
Ronan had lain awake with Rhoni cradled in his arms, anticipating the arrival of her father. When he heard Conall’s call, he hastily disentangled their bodies. This would be a difficult enough encounter without Ram de Montbryce finding his daughter abed with him, though he hadn’t taken her as he’d ached to.
He suspected from the number of horses arriving that it was the Earl of Ellesmere, but deemed it a good idea to appear with sword drawn. Let Montbryce be aware he dealt with a warrior unafraid to challenge anyone, earl or no.
He was as surprised as Montbryce obviously was by Rhoni’s happy demeanor. He’d expected the horror of her ordeal would have dawned on her during the night, but she’d slept peacefully. He, on the other hand, had spent the night fighting the urge to toss his honor away and possess the angel in his arms.
The earl’s face betrayed his anguished uncertainty as he held his daughter. The Norman suspected rape, hardly surprising since the messenger had been sent off in a state of exhaustion.
He felt compassion for the man, but would have to be wary. The earl was powerful, his emotions frayed by worry for his child, but Ronan needed him as an ally. Had he overstepped good sense in his challenge? He needed to take the measure of this Norman nobleman quickly.
To his relief, a glint of amusement showed in Montbryce’s eyes when Ronan finally released his hand. Strong men despised weakness, but respected strength in other men.
Rhoni stood beside her father and put her hands around his arm, leaning her head against him. She flashed a smile at Ronan. “I’m sorry I’ve been so much trouble, Papa.”
Montbryce cleared his throat and patted his daughter’s head. “You’re safe now. That’s what is important. We’ll discuss your behavior once we’re home. We must take care of these wounded men. How fares Duquesne?”
Ronan led him to the wounded captain. “His pallor has improved, but he’s still feverish. He took an arrow in the thigh. It had to be pushed through. He lost a lot of blood, though the bleeding has stopped now.”
Rhoni grasped Ronan’s arm, pressing her breasts to his bicep, beaming up at him. “Ronan saved Gabriel, Papa.”
The earl clenched his jaw and for a moment Ronan feared he might punch him in the face. The memory of the sharp pain of a broken nose had him unpeeling Rhoni from his arm. The father must not get the idea he’d seduced his daughter while she was vulnerable.
Ronan knelt to feel Duquesne’s forehead. The soldier stirred from his stupor and swallowed hard when he saw Montbryce. “Milord—”
Ellesmere raised his hand. “Not now, Duquesne. We’ll discuss what hap
pened when you’re recovered.”
The wounded man slipped back into sleep.
Ronan came to his feet. “He may yet die of his fever.”
Montbryce put a hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “Nevertheless he has a fighting chance without the arrow in him. He’s a good soldier, from a worthy family. I thank you for your efforts on his behalf. It seems you’re a man to be relied on in dire circumstances. Yet my wife tells me that not long ago you were at death’s door yourself.”
Ronan touched a hand to his eye patch. “Aye. It’s not a pretty tale, but I’ll tell it if you’ve a mind to listen once we get to Ellesmere.”
The Norman stared at him for long minutes, taking his measure. “That’s the least I can do, Lord Ronan MacLachlainn.”
He took his daughter’s hand, the sadness in his eyes acknowledging she was no longer the little girl who had left on the journey to Llansanfraid. “You’ve suddenly grown up, Rhoni. Fathers want to see their children grow to adulthood, but we miss the days they were still children.” He smiled at her. “Are you fit to ride?”
“Oui, Papa.”
“Baudoin anxiously awaits news of you yonder.”
Rhoni grinned, then skipped off to reunite with her brother.
The wounded men were carried to the biers made by the knights. The sun was high in the sky when the cavalcade set off for Ellesmere, led by Ram de Montbryce and his son. Behind them rode his daughter beside Ronan MacLachlainn, now proudly mounted on Gabriel Duquesne’s magnificent beast.
Tale Of Horror
Mabelle de Montbryce paced the solar, waiting for news of Rhoni’s arrival, full of misgivings. She’d often whispered to her only daughter of the intimate joy to be found in bed with a man. It broke her heart that her child’s first experience of physical union may have been one of brutality. How would her flighty daughter cope with such horror? Exile to a convent loomed large. They might as well condemn Rhoni to death.
Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 13