But her father would not be happy with her mother once he discovered she had allowed this journey to Powwydd. Why had her mother acquiesced, and relatively quickly? Rhoni had expected more opposition.
She did not understand why she had wanted desperately to follow Ronan. He had been terribly disfigured by the abomination of his eye. He might be lame if his leg did not heal properly. He would bear forever the ignominious mark of the lash.
Yet, she had only to put her hand on his and rivers of fire flooded through her veins. Her breasts tightened at the thought of him. But, he was a man filled with the need for vengeance, a man who spat at the mere mention of Normans.
Rhoni was not so naive that she did not know hatred for Normans existed, but how insulated she had been from it, safe in the bosom of her family.
She suddenly felt alone, in enemy territory, though Rhodri would defend her to the death if necessary.
Coming here had been foolhardy, another example of her impulsiveness. Grief and pain had ground love out of Ronan. It was hopeless.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Mabelle de Montbryce was not looking forward to explaining why Rhoni had not come home. Ram greeted her in the bailey. He usually enfolded her in his cloak, but he stopped short and frowned when he noted Rhoni’s absence.
Best to get it over with.
“Rhoni stayed in Wales.”
Confused anger flickered in his blue eyes. Would he trust her judgment? Even she was not sure she had made the right decision. Relief stole over her when he wrapped his cloak around her and drew her close. She felt the evidence of his love pressed to her body.
“I suppose you will explain it to me. You must be tired after your journey. Come inside.”
She acknowledged Steward Bonhomme as he took her cloak. Her husband escorted her to their solar. Feeling the tension in his arm, she leaned her head against his shoulder. “You will need patience for the telling of the tale, Ram.”
He led her to a chair and she sank into it wearily. He stood with his back to the hearth, his legs braced. “Tell me.”
What she wanted to do was peel off his clothes and run her hands over his body, still hard and well muscled despite his age. The sight of him never failed to arouse her. She clenched her hands together in her lap.
Ram folded his arms across his chest. “Get on with it, Mabelle. Then I can take you to bed. I have missed you.”
He glanced at his groin. “You can plainly see the evidence of what I say.”
She swallowed hard, hoping he would still want to bed her after hearing the story. “The tale begins with the rescue of a man from the sea.”
Ram frowned. “A man?”
“An Irishman.”
Ram rolled his eyes.
This was not going well.
“He had been tortured.”
Ram unfolded his arms and clenched his jaw. “Go on.”
She took a deep breath. “Let me start at the beginning.”
She recounted the story of their arrival at Llansanfraid, the ceremony to install Myfanwy Mabelle, the rescue of Ronan and Conall as far as it had been told to her, and Rhonwen’s nursing of them. Ram paced back and forth, his hands locked behind his back, grunting whenever she mentioned Rhodri’s name.
She paused. He stopped pacing. “You have said little of Rhoni in this.”
Much as she loved Ram, she suddenly felt like a worm wriggling on the end of a fishing hook. There would be no escape. “When we were ready to leave Llansanfraid, Rhoni asked if she might stay with Rhodri’s family and accompany them to Powwydd.”
Ram towered over her, raking his hands through his hair. “You allowed my daughter to go to Powwydd? With Rhodri ap Owain?”
Mabelle came to her feet and took his hands. “Please do not be angry with me, Ram. I felt it was her destiny.”
He gripped her hands. “You have spent too much time with Celts.”
She shook her head. “That isn’t fair. You recognized thirty years ago it was your destiny to serve Duke William of Normandie, to help him invade this country and become the great Conqueror. Just as I knew you were my destiny when I first set eyes on you by the lake, but was too afraid to admit it.”
Ram inhaled deeply, easing her gently back into the chair. He sat in the one beside it, rubbing his knees. “Pacing is playing havoc with my rheumatism. I do not fully understand. What exactly is Rhoni’s destiny?”
“The Irishman.”
Ram stared at her as if she had spoken in Greek. It seemed he might erupt like the mighty Mount Vesuvius he had described to her after his return from Constantinople. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the arms of his chair. He came slowly to his feet, his shoulders drooped. She had never seen him so despondent. She preferred his anger. “There is more to learn about Ronan MacLachlainn.”
He leaned his hands on the mantel of the hearth. “What is it?”
“He claims to be a farmer from an estate in Ireland that was overrun by brigands, but no one believed he was a farmer. Rhodri suspects he was the lord of the estate that was usurped and is burning for vengeance.”
Ram gazed into the flames. “Life is often brutal, as we can attest. While I am sorry he may have undergone such a trial, I cannot see this bodes well for Rhoni. You are telling me that after the numerous handsome, wealthy, titled Norman noblemen I have paraded before her, Rhoni has fallen in love with an exiled, impoverished, mutilated Irishman?”
Mabelle sniffled as a tear rolled unbidden down her cheek. “I doubt she is aware she has fallen in love, but his effect on her was obvious. He is a fine man, Ram, a noble and honourable man.”
She rose and went to him. She stretched her arms around his waist and leaned her head against his back. His spine was rigid. She felt his struggle for control. He unwound her arms from his body and turned to face her. “I had high hopes for my little girl.”
This angered her. “You condemn the man before you have met him.”
Ram arched one eyebrow, surprised at her vehement reply. He had a sinking feeling there was more to come. “It’s hardly likely I will ever meet him, is it?”
His wife hesitated, which worried him more. He and Mabelle had endured many trials together, and he was eternally grateful that she loved him passionately despite his failings. When they had first met, he had deemed her unsuitable for the role of Countess, yet she had turned out to be his biggest asset. Life without her at his side was inconceivable. He did not understand why she had allowed Rhoni to remain with the Irishman, but he had to trust her.
“She will bring him here.”
He had not been prepared for that. “She told you this?”
“Non. She did not know it at the time, but they will come. You will meet him.”
For a moment, Ram worried his wife’s advancing age was playing tricks with her wits, but he quickly dismissed the notion. “What can he offer her if his lands have been usurped?”
Now Mabelle did not hesitate. “Nothing, but we can offer Alensonne.”
While it was true Mabelle’s birthplace in Normandie remained a castle without a Master, he balked at the idea of handing it over to a complete stranger. There were memories attached to Alensonne he would sooner forget. “You jest?”
She fixed her gaze on him. “Robert will inherit Montbryce, Baudoin will be lord of this castle. What would be more fitting than to give Alensonne to Rhoni as her dowry?”
Ram again felt the urge to pace in spite of his painful knees. “We are getting ahead of ourselves, Mabelle. Let’s go to bed. I cannot think clearly when you look at me like that. Perhaps after I bury myself deep inside you again—”
She grinned. Thoughts of Rhoni fled as he took his wife’s hand and led her to their bedchamber.
Later, as they lay sated, entangled in the bed linens, Ram voiced the fear that had crept into his awareness as he awoke from a pleasant doze after their lovemaking. “He will come seeking my help.”
Mabelle sighed, her head nuzzled into his chest. “Oui.”
&
nbsp; He kissed the top of her head. “I am dimwitted. You already foresaw that.”
She traced a finger along the top of his shoulder. “I’ve had more time to ponder the matter and the advantage of having met Ronan.”
“I cannot aid him. Indeed why should I? If he is the man for Rhoni, why not set them up in Alensonne? Why risk his life in a quest to regain what he has lost?”
He knew the answer as the words left his mouth. Mabelle propped herself up on her elbows, her still glorious breasts pouting at him. “I told you he is a man of honour. His pride would never allow him to accept such an offer. If Ellesmere Castle were taken from you, you would move heaven and earth to regain it.”
Ram put a finger to her lips. “Do not speak of such a thing. You are right. I would be a man consumed by hatred and the need for vengeance, as I was when Rhodri kidnapped you with my child in your belly.”
She nestled back into his side. “Their fate is in their own hands. I may be wrong and he will not come. In some ways I hope he doesn’t.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ronan’s health took a turn for the worse. Rhonwen fussed and spluttered, annoyed that the progress he had made seemed to have been undone by the long journey to Powwydd.
A fever had taken hold and again he had to be nursed day and night. Rhoni suspected Ronan would not welcome her attentions, but she felt compelled to approach Rhonwen with an offer of aid. “You are spending long hours nursing Ronan. You have many other responsibilities here. Let me help. Tell me what to do. I want to learn healing skills.”
Rhonwen hesitated. “I have time during the day, but I admit it is difficult to stay awake at night watching him. I don’t want Carys to sit up with him either.”
“I can do that. Just keep watch.”
“Come this night then, after supper.”
It was impossible for Ronan to get comfortable. The scars on his back were healing, but were still too tender to lie on. If he lay on the side of his good eye, he saw nothing; on his blind side, his nose hurt. Either side his leg pained him.
Rhonwen had fussed and soothed all day, trying to get his fever down, urging him to keep covered each time he threw off the linens. He had done nothing, yet he was exhausted. He was dozing off, hoping this night he might get some sleep, when he heard the chamber door open.
Carys, no doubt, come to relieve her mother.
He licked his lips and turned over slowly onto his belly, gathering the linens to cover his arse and legs. His back had to remain uncovered. Carys was a young girl who in his opinion should not see a man naked in his bed, apprentice healer or no.
Rhonwen tucked the linens at his waist, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, wished him goodnight, gave muffled instructions, then left.
Ronan drifted in and out of sleep, the faint trace of Rhoni’s perfume in his nostrils making him think her chamber must be close by. What was it her scent reminded him of?
Her back pressed against the door, Rhoni stared transfixed at the livid scars on Ronan’s back. They had healed to a degree, but were still visible in the dim candlelight. She gagged, barely managing to keep the bile down. What must they have been like when first inflicted?
Conall lay curled up on a pallet in the far corner, asleep. Coming here was a mistake. She was trapped in the small chamber with a man and a boy who had naught but disdain for her. She turned, intending to call Rhonwen back.
Ronan snored lightly, bringing her attention back to him. She was relieved for him that he slept. She crept cautiously to the chair by his bedside and sat, leaning forward, clutching the arms.
She studied him. His shoulders were broad, his beleaguered back well muscled. His dark hair, tied in a queue with a leather thong, lay curled along the top of his backbone.
His blinded eye was hidden in the straw mattress, one corded arm crooked at the side of his head, the other at his side, palm up, fingers curled. The welts on his wrists had lost some of their anger, the blisters on his palms were healing well. The linens covered his lower body, but one leg was bent, the outline of the cast plain to see. It was evident he was naked beneath the coverings. Even lying helpless he had the power to hold her in his thrall.
Barely visible, his tapered waist fascinated her the most. She itched to put her thumbs on the small of his back and knead her fingers into his firm flesh. The candlelight flickered on the sheen of sweat glowing on his body.
Her gaze shifted back to his hand. It was so masculine, so different from hers. Yet his long tapering fingers lent it grace. She traced lazy circles on her own palm with her thumb, since she dared not touch him. It reminded her of the first day they had met when he had pressed his thumb into the flesh of her hand.
His body jerked, startling her. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a squeak. Conall stirred, but did not wake. Ronan reached for his back, as if to soothe renewed discomfort. She came to her feet quickly, unsure what to do. He might not be pleased to discover it was she who kept vigil. Flight again seemed the best option.
Catching sight of an alabaster jar of salve, she picked it up carefully and sniffed. Unable to identify the aroma, she scooped enough to coat one fingertip. Still holding the jar in one hand she hovered the anointed finger over one scar, summoning the courage to touch him.
His shoulder twitched again and he grunted. She held her breath, curled her tongue to her upper lip, and lightly traced her finger the length of the scar, smearing the salve.
He groaned, deep in his throat. A lead weight pressed on Rhoni’s chest. She held her breath. Sweat trickled between her breasts. Fear and elation battled in her heart and deep in her belly. She finally managed a ragged, shuddering breath, dipped two fingers into the jar, and salved another scar.
By the time she had tended all the wounds, Ronan purred like a sleeping cat. Rhoni was an exhausted, trembling wreck.
Carefully, she put down the jar, slumped into the chair, wiped her tear streaked face with the hem of her gown, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Conall woke before dawn and stretched. The candle had burned down. He squinted into the grey darkness. There was no movement from the bed where his master lay. Praise be to the saints the tormented soul had slept. He must be on the mend.
Someone was in the chair by the bed. A woman. Rhonwen and Carys usually watched over Tiarna MacLachlainn, but they had dark hair.
Críost, ‘tis the Norman woman!
Conall worried about Lady Rhoni de Montbryce, who had obviously set her sights on Lord Ronan. He saw through her excuses for wanting to travel to Powwydd and resolved to be wary. His master must not be distracted.
Conall had not previously been overly concerned, since Ronan had not shown any interest in her. In fact the opposite had been true. Perhaps there was no reason to worry. Lord Ronan would not be tempted to abandon his quest for vengeance.
But Conall had not expected her to be the one to keep vigil. He suspected his master would be none too pleased.
He remained on his pallet, feigning sleep.
Ronan was not sure what woke him. Perhaps it was the absence of pain in his back. He had slept soundly—the first time in a long while—and dreamt of gathering shells with his mother. He raised his head slightly. Conall seemed to be asleep, though the grey streaks of dawn were creeping beneath the door.
He yawned, thinking he might roll over onto his back and risk a stretch. He wiggled the toes of his mangled leg. So far, so good.
Slowly, he pressed his hand into the mattress and turned his hips, bending his arm to support his head. He had kept his body fit, ready for battle, and this weakness irked him. He managed to grasp the linens with his free hand, cursing as they threatened to slip from his body. He narrowed his good eye, making sure Carys still slept and had not seen his momentary nakedness.
His heart hammered in his chest. Rhoni de Montbryce slept in the chair by his bed, her head thrown back, her long neck exposed to his view. Her full lips were slightly open. He pressed the errant linens to his rock
hard arousal. Her long eyelashes fluttered at the sound of his groan. She came awake slowly, licking her lips, stretching her arms above her head, arching her back.
Ronan’s gaze fixed on her glorious breasts, the rigid nipples straining at the fabric of her rumpled gown. His mouth fell open. He had forgotten how to breathe. He wanted to lave his tongue over the taut buds and suck them into his mouth until she screamed out her pleasure. Were they pink? How would she taste?
He had suckled Mary, but knew she tolerated it for his sake. Would Rhoni enjoy having her tits sucked? Dia, he thirsted to find out.
She opened her eyes and instantly grabbed the arms of the chair, swallowing hard, her face red.
Conall coughed.
Ronan swivelled his head. He had not noticed the lad standing on his blind side. Rhoni looked up sharply at the naked boy, leapt to her feet and ran out of the chamber, her hands clasped to her mouth.
Conall snickered. “Good riddance, I’d say.”
“Aye,” Ronan whispered, inhaling the faint vestiges of Rhoni’s perfume. “Good riddance.”
Conall strutted back to his pallet. “As da used to say, ‘Never trust a Norman’.”
Ronan clenched his jaw, doubting Conall’s father had ever said any such thing. “You do not need to be reminding me of my first duty.”
Conall chuckled faintly, pointing to his manpart. “That one’s never seen a man’s cock afore this.”
Ronan scowled at him. “She hasn’t seen one yet. Better remember your place, boy, and watch your mouth.”
Conall hunched his shoulders, and slunk off to retrieve his clothes. Ronan sat up and folded one arm around his bent knees, poking a finger into the top of his cast in a futile attempt to assuage the infernal itching. He was thankful that the sudden appearance of his servant had put paid to his erection. But he had hurt the boy to whom he owed his life in defense of a woman who meant nothing to him.
Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight Page 5