Blood Sword Legacy 01 - Master of Surrender

by Karin Tabke

  Isabel set her jaw and closed her eyes. The warmth of his breath against her ear startled her in its intensity. As he softly spoke, he made her body react in a way she was not comfortable with. But his words were enough to cool her ardor. For he spoke of something she held precious.

  “The proof will be on the sheets on my wedding morning.”

  “Not all maids bleed.”

  Her cheeks warmed to hot. She turned to him, beseeching. “Sir, please, such a topic is too personal to speak of.”

  He raised his hand to her, and she flinched, moving so far from him she bumped into Rorick, who was more than happy to right her.

  Rohan’s eyes narrowed. But he continued to move toward her. In a surprisingly gentle action, he rubbed his knuckles against her cheek. “I will keep my oath to you, damsel. While I look forward to pleasuring myself with your body, I will not breach that thin piece of skin you cling to so churlishly. You will remain intact for your husband.”

  “Rohan,” Wulfson called from across the table, “what have you planned for the morrow?”

  Rohan took a long draught from his cup. “When we slake our hunger, we will gather and speak of the morrow. Until then?” Rohan glanced over to a serving maid, who was more than buxom and who eyed him coquettishly from below dark lashes. “Enjoy the fruits of our labor.”

  Wulfson laughed and took a long pull from his cup. When the girl, Lyn, came around, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her across his lap. She squealed and made as if to be gone from him, but her eyes smiled. “A wench to warm my pallet this eve?” He poured half of his cup of wine into the deep valley between her breasts and drank deeply from her. The table erupted in cheers as Wulfson lapped up every drop of wine covering her full breasts.

  Isabel turned her head away, not wanting to watch what would undoubtedly be her turn next. She just prayed Sir Rohan would have more courtesy for her and ravage her behind closed doors.

  It seemed that with Lyn’s ravishment more girls appeared and found the knights to their liking. Rohan called for another barrel of wine to be tapped, music erupted, and the bells from dancing girls chimed in tempo to the lute and the pipers’ tune.

  The hall came alive as the knights imbibed the hospitality of Rossmoor. When Sarah, the daughter of Edwin, her father’s deceased gamekeeper, came forward, dancing in a tempting way before Rohan, Isabel lost all yearning for food. Rohan turned from Isabel and relaxed back into his chair. She could not see his face, but from the smiles on Sarah’s winsome lips and the way she pressed her bosom in his face, she knew the knight enjoyed the show. When Sarah pressed her hands to Rohan’s knees and pushed them apart, then moved between them and continued to dance like Salome, Isabel felt as if she would be sick. How could Sarah be so brazen? Isabel looked around to the other village girls. Some of them were recently widowed. Were they so desperate to survive that they would prostitute themselves to these invaders?

  Isabel swallowed hard. Had she not done the same? Had she set the example for these girls? Sacrificing her body for Russell’s life? Did they feel they must sacrifice themselves as well to stay alive?

  A wave of self-revulsion crashed through her. Her stomach rose as if rancid meat festered there. Pressing her hand to her belly, Isabel turned to Rorick, who was the only man at the table not besotted with one of the village girls. She placed her hand on his forearm. “Sir knight, I don’t feel well, would you—” Before she could utter another word, he pulled her up.

  “Say no more, milady. The fresh air will clear you.” He led her to the now repaired front portal and opened it just enough to let her slip through. She saw him turn to look back into the hall, no doubt at Rohan. Rorick’s face hardened. Isabel turned and caught her breath. Rohan stood tall, dark, and angry at his chair, poor Sarah desperately gyrating to regain his lost attention.

  “I do not wish to bring Rohan’s wrath upon you,” Isabel offered.

  Rorick threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Rohan’s wrath? Nay, I fear it not.”

  He pushed her through and closed the door soundly behind them.

  Isabel inhaled deeply, the chilled air hurting the inside of her chest, yet it was cleansing. “Thank you,” she softly said. She noted that the torches were lit and burned brightly along the stone walls of the manor. There were several staked torches lighting the way through the courtyard to the bailey and farther beyond to the village. Several shadowed sentinels patrolled the premise.

  “More ride warding off those who might try to take from Rohan what he has won this day.”

  “’Tis not right!”

  “’Tis war, Lady Isabel.”

  “’Tis not my war.” But she knew her words rang false. Alefric had been a staunch supporter of not only Edward but Harold. “My father will—”

  “Nay, Lady Isabel. Your sire’s time is up here. Your brother’s as well. William will be crowned king, and everything will change. ’Tis best to digest it now so that you do not continue to feel as you do.”

  “But—?”

  “If your sire lives and if he is smart, he will go to William and pledge his fealty. William is a harsh man, a warrior at heart, but he is also just. Mayhap he will allow your sire some claim.”

  “But what of my people? What of me?”

  He looked down at her, and for such a fierce knight, he gave her a most compassionate expression. “Your people, should they serve the new lord here, will prosper.” He touched a golden curl that blew toward him under the strength of the breeze. He brought it to his nose and inhaled. “You, my lady, will find a husband worthy of your bloodline and live to give him many children.”

  “I have no dower. I will come to him soiled! What man of means would want a bride such as myself?” The contempt and anger in her voice nearly strangled her. She faced Rorick full on. “Is your master so rigid he cannot see he ruins my chance for any husband?”

  “Aye, Rohan is unbending. And with reason.”

  “Rorick, the men call for you,” Rohan said from the threshold. Isabel’s stomach lurched at his voice. His eyes burned bright under the torchlight. His jaw was set, and his brows drew ominously low over his eyes.

  Rorick turned and bowed. “Good eve, Lady Isabel.”

  Isabel nodded. “Good eve, kind sir.”

  As the door closed behind Rorick, Isabel glared up at Rohan. He stood rigid and still, glowering down at her with his hands behind his back.

  “You will find no ally among my men. Our bond is unbreakable.”

  “’Twould seem you are all the same, yet your man Rorick is not the savage you are.”

  Rohan smiled, and she shivered. It was a smile that said that whatever she thought of Rorick, she was far off the mark. “Does he rape, pillage, and plunder as you do? And what binds you? The scar? As boys, did you play at blood brothers?” She said it contemptuously, demeaning their tie.

  Rohan’s jaw flexed. “Mock what you don’t understand. It matters not to me.”

  Isabel felt an infuriating urge to strike him. Instead, she started for the stable. “I must see to Russell.”

  When he made no move to follow her, Isabel picked up her step. She was met halfway by Thomas. “Milady, allow me to escort you,” he said.

  Isabel started at his appearance but nodded. They both looked over their shoulders to see Rohan striding their way. “He watches you like a hawk watches a mouse, milady. I have news of Arlys.”

  Isabel’s heart lurched in her chest. “He does live?”

  “Aye, and he prepares to free us from the Norman yoke.”

  As Isabel entered the stable, she was met by one of Rohan’s men. Not a knight but a foot soldier. “I am Lady Isabel, here to see to my man. Let me pass.”

  The soldier looked past her to where she was sure Rohan stood. She fisted her hands. It infuriated her that she had to ask permission to see her people.

  The guard nodded, and Isabel hurried to where Russell lay in the straw. Thomas disappeared.

  She knelt beside the sleeping b
oy and touched a gentle hand to his back. He flinched and turned his head to face her. “Milady,” he moaned. “It burns like fire.”

  She shushed him. “I’ll cleanse the area again, then apply more balm. ’Twill soothe the fire.”

  She set about her chore, and after she pressed the cool compresses to his back, Russell said, “Already the heat vanishes.”

  “The balm will be better.” As she smoothed it over his raw skin, he tried to rise on his elbows. “Stay quiet, Russell, you will need your strength.”

  “Lady, forgive me for missing my mark.”

  “You did not. The problem lay with your target. I swear he is the devil’s spawn. I doubt a thousand arrows could have hit true.”

  “I fear for you. He will ruin you.”

  “Do not worry over me, Russell. I will do what I can to keep my innocence. There is naught you can do.”

  “I will kill him if he touches you.”

  “Stop such foolish talk! He will cut you down in your boots. I could not bear to lose you. My honor is mine to maintain. You will need your strength.” She bent down and whispered for his ears only, “Arlys comes.” Russell turned and tried to face her. She nodded her head. “Now, get rest. I will see you on the morrow.”

  Isabel stood and turned to leave the stall. Rohan’s dark shadow moved forward, intercepting her. She caught her breath. She did not hear him come so close. Had he heard? Her limbs quaked, but she quickly composed herself. “You startled me.”

  He took her elbow and guided her out of the stable back to the manor. It rose tall and bright in the short distance. Rossmoor. Her birthplace. In the hands of a foreigner. And one who held no regard for her people or their traditions. Her great-grandfather’s legacy would die with her and her brother.

  “I am not one to give warnings, Lady Isabel. But you are young and inexperienced.”

  Isabel remained silent.

  “I will deal harshly with any and all traitors.”

  “I am sure you will act first and ask questions after your dastardly deed is done.”

  “I am a patient man.”

  “You are a brute.”

  “It has kept me alive.”

  As they entered the hall, Isabel expected to see debauchery abound. Instead, the tables were cleared, the maids gone, the torches dimmed, and the knights, the ones with the scars, gathered around the hearth, their voices low.

  “Have your men had their fill of my food and maids so early?”

  “Wenching and wine do not mix when surely Saxons abound.”

  Isabel threw him a glare, then pushed off from his arm and moved toward the pallet where Manhku lay tossing and turning.

  She pushed past the tall, hard shoulders and sank to her knees beside the African. Pressing her hand to his brow, she recoiled at its heat. She looked up at the men surrounding her. “He burns with the fever. Move the pallet away from the fire.”

  The men hurried to do her bidding. As they did, Isabel hurried to the kitchen, where she drew cool water from the well and grabbed several clean linens from a cabinet.

  When she returned, Rohan scowled, no doubt angry that she had not asked permission to leave the room. She moved past him, sank to the floor beside Manhku, and immediately set about removing his clothing. When she could not pull the hauberk over his head, Ioan and Wulfson helped. As they pulled his last layer of clothing from him, Isabel gasped. Manhku sported the same scar on his chest as did Rohan. And on closer inspection, she saw he also bore the same crescent-shaped scar on his chin.

  She pressed her fingertip to the spot at the bottom of his throat where the sword scar began. The mending tissue was hard and heated. Her initial reaction was horror. She wanted to recoil, to turn away, but she did not. A sense told her these men all bore the mark, and if she were to reject them for it as if it were a curse, she would never be able to retake the slur. The pain one endured to benefit from such a scar must have been horrendous.

  She turned to look up at the knight who had tossed her world into the air. He stared back at her with hard, cold eyes. Her brow wrinkled. What manner of men were these?

  Rohan dropped to one knee and placed his hand to his man’s brow as if her word were not good enough. “The fever rages.”

  “I fear his wound will fester.”

  Rohan caught her eyes with his. “My ax is sharp should the poison spread.”

  Isabel’s jaw dropped at his nonchalant offer. “How could you be so callous? A knight without a leg is one without an identity. He would have to beg in the streets for his dinner.”

  Rohan stood. “Manhku will never have to beg as long as I live. I owe him my life. I will see to his.”

  Isabel turned back to Manhku. She soaked the linens in the cool water and began to bathe him. For a long time, the men were silent as she ministered to their fallen comrade. It was an odd silence. And Isabel found a small comfort in the fact that these men, all vicious killers, would entrust their man into her hands. Hands of the enemy. She looked down at Manhku’s face. And since his color had lightened from the blood loss, she noticed for the first time a series of circular tattoos on his cheeks. She turned back to look up at the gathered knights. Each of them different in his own right but all somehow the same.

  Too tired to contemplate them more, Isabel bent her full attention to bathing Manhku in the cool water. So intent was she that she did not hear the men behind her leave the hall until she turned to ask Rohan to fetch her more water and realized they were gone.

  The water in the bucket had warmed. She picked it up and walked quickly back to the kitchen to refill it with cool water. As she drew up the bucket, a small sound behind her caused her to let go of the rope and turn. Rohan stood in the doorway, filling the space almost completely. “The linens have warmed the water,” she said.

  He took a step closer. She backed up, the edge of the well biting into her backside. The hard flicker of her heart in her throat nearly choked her. In the low light of the tapers, Rohan’s eyes glowed like molten coals. She was trapped. “I—I must fetch more cool water.” Isabel turned quickly around, grabbed the handle to the rope, and began to wind it up.

  Rohan’s large hand stayed hers. She stiffened, and as she did, he moved closer. So close she could feel the thick column of his manhood against her back. His heat and strength engulfed her. Isabel squeezed her eyes shut and set her jaw, not wishing to experience on any plane the way he made her body feel. “P-please,” she whispered.

  His free hand slid around her waist, and he twined his fingers with hers on the handle. Bending down, he nuzzled at her ear, and Isabel nearly crumpled to the floor. His greater strength prevented it. When he splayed his big hand across her belly and pressed his groin firmly against her back, Isabel cried out, “Please!”

  “Aye, I please, Isabel. I please very much.” He turned her in his arms and bent to kiss her, but Isabel arched away from him and turned her head. His lips sank to the warmth of her neck. Despite having no willing part in his mauling of her, warmth spread throughout her body, followed by a low escaping moan. It seemed only to whet his appetite for more. Rohan pulled her tighter against him.

  “Yield to me, damsel,” he hoarsely demanded against her throat.

  “Nay, I cannot.” As the words left her mouth, he cupped her breast, and Isabel squeaked in surprise, but her body pressed hotly into his palm.

  His thumb rubbed across a taut nipple. Isabel shook from the shock of the sensation. “You play yourself false, Isabel.”

  She struggled against him, his words biting her pride hard. She opened her mouth to deny his words but stopped when he pressed his mouth to the same nipple he had just taunted. Isabel stiffened, the sensation so intense and so foreign to her she did not know how to react. His mouth clamped firmly onto her through the layers of fabric. Her body shuddered, and she felt a warmth spread between her legs. If he felt so good this way, how would he feel if they were skin to skin? The image shocked her.

  “You say nay with your words, but your bo
dy begs the opposite.”

  Shame infiltrated her reason. She was Isabel of Alethorpe, Lady of Rossmoor. Her blood was among the best in Saxony. And here she hung like a spineless ninny in the hands of an invading Norman. And a bastard Norman at that!

  Her ardor cooled quickly. “Leave me, Norman! Leave me my dignity!” When he did not move a muscle, Isabel chose another line of defense. “You repay my attention to your man with your dalliance here while he burns with fever?”

  Rohan pulled away from her. The air that whooshed between their bodies cooled them both. For that, too, she was grateful. His bright eyes looked deeply into hers. “Your dignity is your responsibility, damsel. Not mine. Mark my word, as it is my oath, I will see our agreement met. Make no mistake of it.” He stood back. “Now, tend my man.”

  He turned and walked away. Isabel stood for a long time, fighting her anger at the man and her fear of his carnal power over her.

  Rohan stripped to his braies, washed his face and hands, and flopped onto the feather-stuffed mattress. Its comfort was the best he had had the good fortune to find. The linens were clean and smelled of fresh herbs, and the pillows were soft. Yet he could find no comfort on it. He was used to sleeping on the hard, uncompromising ground or a pallet in a lord’s hall. He had his own cutout at William’s castle in Rouen, but he spent most of his time with his men, either warring or practicing the art of war.

  He rolled onto his back, folded his arms under his head, and stared at the embroidered design in the canopy. A hawk surrounded by smaller birds. The hearth burned bright, casting weird shadows on the fabric, warming the room. But it was the heat in his loins that burned hottest. His cock stirred as he thought of the wench below.

  Ha! More like a witch!

  Her audacity shocked him. In all of his travels, he had never stumbled upon a woman with so much to lose acting as if she had all the world to gain. Did she not know whom she dealt with? He’d slain men for lesser deeds than her impertinence.