by Karin Tabke
“Nay,” she murmured, their breaths mingling.
He trailed a wet fingertip across the high swell of her breasts. Her body shivered at the touch. Heat rose in her cheeks.
“Aye, I do, and you would do well to know it.” He pressed his open palm to her left breast and softly squeezed. She closed her eyes as shame flooded her. But worse than that, in the very deepest recesses of her body, a spark of pleasure ignited between her thighs. The sensation was foreign, yet it intrigued her more than she would ever admit. Confusion reigned in her head. Arlys had touched her thus, and she had felt nothing but irritated. His kisses left her cold. Yet he was gentle. Not like this barbarian.
“Not only are you a murderer, but you are not a man of his oath.”
Rohan would not be waylaid. “Your mocking words do not affect me, damsel. I will do as I please. And at the moment”—he pressed his lips to her throat and pulled her closer, as she stiffened, bracing her arm against the pull of him—“you please me.”
“You gave me your word. You would leave me intact,” she breathed, trying hard to ignore the way his lips branded her skin and the warm flush cascading through her because of it.
“Aye, I gave you my word not to take your maidenhead.” He pulled back from her, and his tawny eyes sparkled. Isabel shivered. He was going to trick her. “But you swore before my men and your people to allow me to explore what lies beneath your gown. And there is more than your maidenhead at stake.”
Isabel cried out and pushed back, shoving the linen into his face. He sputtered as the soap burned his eyes. She scurried to the door, intending to leave the chamber, but his harsh words stopped her. “Break your oath to me, Isabel, and see mine broken as well.” He grabbed the pitcher of rinsing water from the bench and poured some over his face. When he opened his eyes, they were red, but she could see he was free of pain. “Now, get thee back here and complete my bath.”
Isabel knew a deep-seated anger she had never felt toward another human being. Not even Arlys’s treacherous cousin Deidre, who took every opportunity to flirt with another’s intended.
Isabel set her jaw and returned to the task. She ignored the smooth thickness of Rohan’s muscular chest and the way his arms rippled with strength when he brushed back his thick raven-colored hair from his face. She tried to forget the odd sensations his touch stirred. She set her mind instead on the matter at hand. Show a guest, albeit an unwelcome one, the hospitality decorum dictated, then be gone from the room.
“How is it that such a removed shire is so rich in population and appointments?” Rohan asked.
Glad for conversation that did not center on her or their respective oaths, Isabel eagerly answered. “The population has dwindled since the landing of your duke. But the land is fertile, the rivers require tolls to pass, and they teem with fish. My father’s stables boast a bloodline coveted by kings and emperors. But more, since my great-grandfather’s time, Rossmoor has traded vigorously with the Easterners.” She smiled. “And the Vikings. ’Tis how he acquired my great-grandmother Signund.”
“He traded for her?”
“Not quite. He borrowed her with no intention of returning her.”
“Did not her father demand payment for a stolen daughter?”
Isabel laughed. She felt his body tense at the sound but continued to run the linen across his chest into a rich lather. “Nay, he stole her from a beached dragon ship laden with Danegold. He fled with her and the treasure, saying it was dower money, since he had no use for Nordic lands. He built Rossmoor with his angry in-laws in mind. Until your arrival, this hall has not been breached.”
Rohan took the opportunity to remind her of their arrangement. “Aye, and I wager your thighs have not been breached, either.”
Isabel sat back and glared at him. “Sir, I am a lady gentle born. Could you not curb your crudeness?”
He shrugged. “’Tis what I am. Crude.”
“Does not make it right. If you know these things are offensive, then why not work to change them?”
Rohan sat up in the tub and turned his back to her. “I tire of this conversation. Finish the bath so that I may join my men and hear less waspish words.”
Isabel lathered up the linen and scrubbed his wide back. “I am not waspish.”
“I said your words were. There is a difference.”
From his anxious movements, Isabel knew he was eager to be gone from the tub. Quickly, she rinsed him. As he stood, she wrapped him in a linen towel. He took it from her hands and tied it around his waist. He looked up at the colorful banners adorning the high walls bearing her father’s standard. A golden hawk clutching a Viking ax.
“Have these banners bearing your father’s coat of arms removed from these walls. And move your possessions in here.”
Did he say to move her belongings to this room? “But—”
He turned to face her. “Your sire is no longer lord here.”
“Should he swear to the duke?”
“William has no trust of you warring Saxons. He would put his own men, men he can trust, in the power positions.”
“What of my brother? He could wed with a Norman. ’Tis what my father did.”
Rohan smiled and continued to dry himself. The damp linen clung to his muscular body. Isabel kept her eyes pinned to a spot on the wall behind him. Twice now she had almost dared to look at his full front. “That would explain your knowledge of my tongue.”
“I have people in Normandy. Would that they knew a bastard claims their kin’s land they would surely raise arms against you! I will petition William myself for leniency.”
“Feel free, damsel, but you will lose.” He dropped the damp cloth to the floor, and lord forgive her, but she could not help the drop of her gaze to what made him a man. She stepped back and pressed her hand to her mouth. Even dormant as it was, it was manlier than those she had seen before. And she had seen plenty. Not that she chose to, but as the lady of the manor, she had bathed dozens of men over the years, and more than a few had made it difficult for her not to look.
This man stood in all of his naked glory before her like a bronze statue of a mythical god. Her mouth went dry. She backed away toward the door. “Sir knight, I beg to be excused. The servants await my commands for setting the feast.”
She didn’t wait for him to give permission. Isabel threw the bolt and hurried through the doorway, never looking back.
To her surprise and disappointment, the hall was filled with many of Rohan’s men. The others, she was sure, were out patrolling the land’s edge. Deep voices rose to the rafters, and from the looks of it, someone had discovered the wine cellar. Several barrels of Aquitaine wine that were set aside for only the most special occasions had been tapped. ’Tis a celebration, Isabel thought wryly. For the invaders.
Mouthwatering aromas drifted from the kitchens. Servants hurried about setting the tables. Lacking several servants at the moment, Isabel hurried to the kitchen to oversee the preparations. Finding the room bustling with activity under the capable hands of Astrid, the unchallenged lady of the kitchens, despite the lack of hands, Isabel nodded in praise. The Normans might think Saxons lacked courage, and mayhap some did, but her people were of hearty industrious stock, and even under duress they found a way to go forward with the day’s chores. Seeing that she was not needed, Isabel looked down at her damp, soiled gown. ’Twould not do for the feast. Quietly, she moved from the bustling kitchens up the back stairway to find her maid.
Rohan stepped down into the great hall, feeling rested and clean. Since his days lying in the urine-and feces-infested mud on the floors of Jubb, he had become an aesthete in his desire to be free of grime. It was the same for the rest of his brothers. They bathed regularly and vigorously. And sometimes, Rohan thought, it was not enough to erase the stench of death. His eyes scanned the hall, looking for the Lady Isabel. He frowned. She was nowhere to be found. An unexpected stab of loss sparred with his anger at her disregard for his authority. It mattered not. He would fin
d her and set a man to guard her. Putting her from his mind since she did naught but cause him ire, Rohan continued to scan the room, his gaze landing on the seven knights who since that time in Iberia six years ago moved together as one with him. They were never far from one another. As they were now. They’d pulled the lord’s table down from its spot of prominence and pushed it close to the blazing hearth where their fallen brother lay.
“Rohan!” Thorin called, raising a goblet of wine. “Come enjoy the spoils of our labor!”
Ioan, Rorick, Warner, Stefan, Wulfson, and Rhys raised their overflowing cups. “Aye, to Rohan, may William reward your efforts with this most worthy of fiefs!” Warner called. “And if you should find the Lady Isabel’s tongue too sharp for your mail?” Warner drained his cup, the wine flowing down his chin to his surcoat. He slammed the empty cup down and challenged Rohan with his grin. “I’ll wager she will find my prick more to her liking!”
Rohan scowled. Of all of them, Warner was the clear cock of the walk. He liked to prattle of love to maids and matrons alike. They seemed to find his pretty words endearing, for he had more bastards than the rest of them combined to his credit.
Rohan strode to the table and took the proffered cup of wine from Thorin. “Warner, should the maid be able to find the prick you boast so fondly of, I will stand back.”
The table laughed uproariously while Warner scowled. Rohan slapped him hard on the back. “Come now, my friend, we know of no fewer than half a score of bastards you’ve left the camp whores with.”
Warner grinned and filled his cup. “Aye, but girls all of them!”
“Warner,” Ioan said, “you have not yet found the womb worthy of your man seed.”
“’Tis a curse we are all afflicted with!” Rorick cried out, and raised his cup but held it high, not drinking from it. His eyes widened, and a small smile twisted his lips. His gaze lay unwavering past Rohan’s shoulder. He noticed his men had all stopped their bantering and looked past him. Slowly, Rohan turned.
His body jerked as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. Something in his gut did a slow, hard roll. His mouth went dry, and he felt his rod rise against his thigh.
Her beauty rivaled the sun’s brightness. And with the realization of how profoundly she physically affected him, Rohan scowled.
Isabel had bathed, and the plainer clothes of her day wear were no more. Now she was richly gowned in a deep crimson undergown with gold embroidery at the hem. Her kirtle was a rich purple and gold velvet with what looked to be jewels sewn into the sleeves. A rich girdle of gold filigree accentuated the full flare of her hips. Her jewel-encrusted dagger hung from it. But what startled him most was her face. Her creamy skin flushed pink, her big violet-colored eyes sparkled even from a distance, and her full lips—Rohan swallowed hard—her full red lips parted as if she waited to be kissed. Her thick golden hair, like fine gossamer, had been brushed to shimmering brightness. It hung long about her shoulders but for two delicate braids entwined with amethyst-colored ribbon framing her face. The edges of the ribbon swirled about her bosom, accentuating the full swell of it. Instead of a veil cloth on her head, she wore a slender woven gold and silver circlet, the form of a hawk crowning it.
When Rohan made no move toward her, Rorick pushed him aside and moved to meet Isabel halfway up the stairway. He bowed deeply, taking her hand. “Damsel, you gift my sight with such loveliness I know not if my mortal self can bear the beauty of such a goddess.”
Rohan rolled his eyes and took another long draught of his wine, all while keeping a watchful eye on his man as he prattled on like an ass to the lady he planned to bed.
Isabel smiled, her eyes only for the Scot. “Thank you, sir?”
He bowed again. “Forgive me my manners, Lady Isabel. I am but a battle-weary soldier who has spent little time in court.” He brought both of her hands to his lips and looked up to her. “I am Sir Rorick of Moray but more recently knight of Duke William. I am your servant.”
“’Tis my pleasure to meet you, Sir Rorick. I pray your chivalry remains intact. ’Tis such a welcome respite to your brethren’s loutish manners.”
Rorick placed her arm in the crook of his and led her down the stairway with great care. He looked up at Rohan and grinned. Rohan scowled. When Stefan and Warner made a great show of placing the lord’s chair at their table for the lady to be seated in, Rohan had the urge to stick his booted foot up their arses.
“Nay, kind sirs, ’tis my father’s chair. Set it aside for his return.”
Rohan slammed his goblet down on the table and turned to Isabel. Rorick continued to smile and to pat the lady’s hand still resting on his forearm. “Your sire, should he return, will find himself seated with the lesser nobles.” Rohan picked up the great chair and shoved it back against the hearth, nearly missing Manhku. He pointed to the spot beside where he stood and ground out, “Now, see thyself perched thus. I tire of this prattle. Call for the food!”
Rorick’s good mood fled with Rohan’s words. He set the Lady Isabel down and gave his friend a sharp glare. “I must apologize for Sir Rohan’s poor manners. He was raised in a stable.”
Rohan grumbled and poured more wine. He would not allow his man’s flirting with a woman he had no intention of keeping to sour his victorious campaign. He caught Isabel’s harsh stare and smiled. He raised his cup and turned to his men. “To the conquering of Rossmoor.” The rafters shook from the boom of cheers. Rohan turned to look expectantly at Isabel. “And to breaching the shrew’s thighs!” While the cheers had been loud before, they nearly split the timbers from the percussion the second time around.
Rohan drank heartily and watched Isabel’s cheeks redden. Aye, the maid could play him false in public. But she would see each night who held the power. His blood warmed, and he rubbed his chest where the wound ached. Aye, taming the Lady Isabel would be a welcome repast for the long winter nights ahead.
Five
Isabel stared pensively into her wine. She wanted to tell the arrogant knight he could not command her like some common house servant, but she caught the eyes of several villagers attending to chores. Winston stacked more logs by the hearth, Lyn lit candles along the lower tables, Garth leashed the hounds, and several others carried out heavy trays laden with food.
Steaming platters of roasted boar, fowl, and venison along with poached fish fresh from the river graced the table. Sweetmeats and late vegetables added to the feast. Yet Isabel’s hunger waned as her logical mind parried with her emotions. She struggled to come up with a viable means to deal with Rohan du Luc.
If she continued to squabble over small things such as taking a seat next to this unwanted and temporary guest, she would lose precious ground and erode whatever small grip of sanity her people held. So, she would concede the smaller skirmishes. For on the morrow, she might need all of her might to fight a much larger battle.
Isabel looked down at Rohan’s large hand holding the goblet of wine, nearly covering the gold and silver chalice. Her body warmed as she thought of his fingers touching her. Her gaze rose to find his tawny eyes steadily watching her.
“Do you think of our time later this eve as I do?”
Isabel’s cheeks warmed, and she looked away, not trusting her voice.
“Here, damsel, drink. The wine, as you know, is exceptional. Mayhap it will settle you,” Rohan offered, sliding his full cup under her nose.
The last thing she wanted to do was drink from the same cup as he. But she had no choice. It would be a battle she would lose, for if she pressed the point, she would go without drink, and at the moment, she had a strong desire for the rich burgundy wine.
She turned the cup halfway around, making a point of sipping from the opposite side from his. The insult was subtle, but she knew she struck a chord when he stiffened beside her.
“Your insult is well taken, and be sure, ’tis no matter to me, damsel. After you, there will be another, then another after her.”
Isabel ignored his jibe and turn
ed her attention to Rorick, who sat to her right. His deep blue eyes sparkled in mischievous humor. She noticed he had the same half-moon scar on his chin as did Rohan. Her eyes moved to Wulfson and the one called Ioan, then to several others. The eight knights sitting at the lord’s table all possessed the same scar and the same crimson sword plunging through the skull.
“How came you all by the scars on your chins, and why do only those of you with the scars bear the blood sword on your surcoats, Sir Rorick?” Isabel softly asked.
The fire in his eyes dimmed for a brief moment before it rekindled. He took her right hand and brought it to his lips. “’Tis an ugly story not fit for a lady’s ears.”
“Isabel,” Rohan said from her other side, “the trencher is full, and I have cut your meat. Sup. You will need your strength for later.”
Isabel turned from Rorick, who chuckled, and elbowed Rohan hard in the ribs. He let out a soft whuff. “You have the manners of a boar.”
“Aye, and you have the temper of a shrew.”
Isabel noticed that he had indeed cut the meat. And from the looks of it, the choice pieces he placed on her side. Though her stomach gnawed in emptiness, she felt no hunger. Instead, a deep fatigue took hold of her. Her coming days would test her character and try her patience more than at any other time in her life. She took another deep drink of the wine and set the goblet down. Rohan grinned and filled it, then turned the lip of the cup to where she had drunk and pressed his lips to it. He looked at her over the rim. When he set the cup down, he softly said, “I have no such reservation placing my lips to yours, damsel.” He smiled across the rim. “And if we have the time, you will learn to crave my touch.”
Isabel set her hands in her lap, tightly clasping them together. The pain of her gesture made her wince. Rohan speared a large piece of venison with his table knife and bit into it. He chewed thoughtfully and pondered her. After he swallowed, he lowered his lips to her ear and whispered, “’Tis only a temporary meeting of flesh, damsel. There is no evidence left. If it pleases you to say you have not been breached, so be it. ’Twill be our little secret.”