by Gail Link
"Do you wish anything else, Lady Sybelle?"
"Only my freedom," was the reply. Siobhan gave no comment and walked out the door, carefully bolting it after her. She hated the sound of that bolt. Not for much longer would it be barred, she thought. My Lord Rolf will succumb, as will the lady. Then, all doors will be opened; no locks will be needed again, least of all on a heart.
Sybelle paced the room, giving vent to the indignation she was feeling. Her long sleep had refreshed her. She assumed Etain had put something into the spiced wine for, after drinking it, she had felt drowsy and lay down, quickly falling into Morpheus' arms. Upon awakening she had found out that one day had passed. The ache in her limbs had eased; the ache in her heart would take longer to heal.
She felt the cold muzzle of the dog pressing against her hand. Dropping to her knees, she hid her face against the dog's neck, allowing her tears to flow freely.
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"Will you keep her a prisoner of that room forever, Rolf?"
Lifting his eyes from the chess set, Rolf looked at his brother. Idly, he picked up a piece from the board, turning the carved figure around in his slim fingers, caressing the ivory queen slowly before returning it to the board. "She is free to leave it whenever she chooses."
"Does she know that?" Bran asked, making his next move on the board, carefully watching his brother. "Have you seen her since your return?"
Rolf absently fingered the healing scratch on his smooth cheek. "No, not since that night." Not in the flesh, he acknowledged, but in his thoughts Lady Sybelle was a constant companion. She has become part of me so quickly. Why? How? Ruthlessly, Roll shrugged aside such dangerous thoughts. She was merely a woman, an instrument with which to wreak his revenge. Only that. A bodysoft, warm, alluring, like others he had had before. If he continued to tell himself that, perhaps he would soon come to believe it. Danger lay in thinking otherwise.
"Shall you be returning her to the Earl of Derran soon?"
"No."
Branduff studied the implacable look on Rolf's face. "I thought you had accomplished the purpose for which you brought her here. Hasn't your need for vengeance been assuaged?"
"Not quite yet," Roll admitted, executing a move that defeated his brother. "Game to me, Bran."
A good-humored smile lit the younger man's face. He played for enjoyment, his brother played in earnest. For Bran it was pleasure; for Rolf it was a sharpening of his skills.
"You're playing for stakes higher than a game, Rolf," Bran observed. "Do you think Derran will ignore what you have done?"
"No," Roll answered in a dangerously quiet tone. "Yet what can he do?" Rolf picked up a knife, selected an apple from the silver bowl on the table, and proceeded to cut it with dexterous strokes. "His king will forbid him to mount a full-scale attempt to redeem his daughter. Edward knows it would be futile to launch a force of men against me. Against anyone in this part of Ireland. He will play it safe, demanding that Derran do so also. Remember his attempt to invade France?" Rolf raised an eyebrow, munching the sweet flesh of the apple, enjoying the tartness. ''Edward's lost his taste for war. A discreet inquiry as to the terms for releasing Derran's daughter will be made."
"And then shall you release her?"
A smile touched Rolf's mouth. "No. She will be my prisoner, my dormuine, for as long as it pleases me."
Concubine, Bran thought. His brother's plans had indeed changed. The English woman was to be more than Rolf's captive, she was to be his whore.
Roll tossed the apple core into the fireplace, sending up a flash of flames. "The immediate release of our cousin is my first concern. Then, when I have seen that the earl wishes to bargain, I will think about returning his child. Not before." Rolf's face again took on the hard, implacable set of stone. His words were bitter. "Imagine the humiliation he will suffer at Edward's court when 'tis learned that his oldest daughter is the leman for an Irishman. His pride will be trampled, his name besmirched. A small price to pay for robbing Duvessa of her honor."
"And what price will you pay, brother?" Bran asked, pouring himself another tankard of ale, golden eyes narrowed in concern.
Rolf threw a quizzical glance at his brother. Arrogantly, he replied, "Naught."
Bran mused on how well Rolf played the game of self-delusion. Sweet Jesu and all the saints. They would all pay a price. Just what, or when, he wasn't sure. Compassion for all the players in this tragedy had ripped a seam in his soul. What could he do? He loved his brother. He loved his cousin. Family honor was important to him, yet . . .
Siobhan entered the small solar, announcing, "My lord Rolf, Auliffe awaits you in the bailey. The French merchant ship has landed."
"Thank you, Siobhan. Have arrangements been made for Captain duBerre and his officers to dine with us this evening?"
"Aye, my lord. Auliffe sent word when the ship was spotted. He assumed that you would wish that they join your table, as always. Rooms have been readied for their use."
"Excellent." Rolf arose from his chair, snapping his fingers for his dogs to follow. "Siobhan?"
"Aye, my lord?"
"Extend an invitation for the Lady Sybelle to attend us this night."
Bran laid a hand on his brother's arm, felt the muscles tense under the soft wool. "Do you think that is wise, Rolf?"
"A moment ago you thought the Lady Sybelle should be given the privilege of leaving her rooms." Rolf's green eyes locked with Bran's golden ones; the younger man released his hold on his brother. "It would please me if she joins us, Bran, starting tonight." With a turn of his head he directed to Siobhan, "See to it. Derran's daughter may leave her chambers when she wishes," Rolf said. "She is not to go beyond the confines of the keep.''
A nod of Siobhan's head indicated that she understood, and would obey.
"Come Bran, let us not keep them waiting."
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Sybelle heard the bolt as it slid back. She stroked the head of the wolfhound as he went stiff, head cocked, eyes alert. These past two days, the dog had been her only company; he helped her fill the lonely hours. For indeed they were lonely. The girl who brought her meals spoke not a word of either English or French. Etain had not returned since that first morning when she attended Sybelle. Even Siobhan had deserted her. Boredom Was eating at her, sharing space with frustration. Not only had the arrogant Irish raider made free with her, but he had stolen what little ability she had to put the hours to use. She was surrounded by luxury with nothing to donothing save listen to the sounds of the world beyond these walls, to relive certain events until she thought she would scream with anger, to pace back and forth with no purpose to her time.
If he meant to drive her slowly mad, he would succeed.
The door swung open. Siobhan entered, carrying a goblet of spiced wine.
Lugh relaxed.
Sybelle smiled.
Siobhan hadn't missed the look of surprise on Sybelle's face when she entered the room, nor the swift unguarded pleasure that shone in the slateblue eyes before the strong will Sybelle exerted over her emotions returned and the mask was once again in place. Siobhan judged that Sybelle would be eager for escape, anxious to leave the limitations of this room. In her own way she was as proud as the Lord Rolfand just as stubborn, Siobhan deemed.
"My Lady Sybelle, I am bid come invite you to share the evening meal with my Lord Rolf and his guests," Siobhan said as she handed the silver goblet to Sybelle.
"So he deigns to allow me out of this cage of splendor?"
"He wishes it, my lady."
Sybelle walked away from Siobhan, her hands bracing against the window, her eyes focusing on the rain-swept landscape. She breathed deeply of the scent. It smelled of freedom. He wishes it, my lady. A snap of his fingers, a whim of the moment, and I am free, Sybelle thoughtfor however long it pleases him.
One part of Sybelle desired to take Rolf's command, fling it back in his face, and tell him that the only way she would
leave would be with her father holding the key and Rolf in chains, begging for mercy and forgiveness. The other part longed to fly out the door and down the wide stairs, to be anywhere but this chamber of bitter recollections.
"How large a company of guests is there to be?"
Relief surged through Siobhan. She exhaled the breath that she had kept contained. "Only my lords Rolf and Branduff, the captain of a merchant ship, and several of his officers."
"Shall you attend?"
"No, my lady. 'Tis not my place to eat at the lord's table."
A cunning smile was Sybelle's silent response. Perhaps this captain would be able to help her. A promise of money would be sure to sway this merchant. What could the Earl of Killroone offer him that the Earl of Derran couldn't match, or excel? A fast profit for work that involved minimal risk. This man would be able to secure his own ship, or a fleet of vessels if he so desired. Any word from Derran could open up doors to any man lucky enough to secure his favor. A way must be found to obtain a few minutes of conversation with the man without the knowledge of the earl or his brother.
Sybelle turned from her position at the window. "You may tell my Lord Killroone that I shall be pleased to attend, Siobhan. Most pleased, indeed."
"As you wish, my lady," Siobhan said, taking the silver chalice from Sybelle's outstretched hand. "I am further instructed to tell you that you may quit this chamber at your leisure," Siobhan saw the quick brightening of Sybelle's face, and added, "Although my lord wishes that you not leave the confines of the keep, as yet." The hope she saw in the younger woman's face disappeared. "Go mbeannai Dia dhuit."
A weary curiosity forced Sybelle to ask, "What does that mean?"
"May God bless you, my lady."
The woman's softly spoken words touched Sybelle more than she thought possible. Tears misted her eyes. She reached out her hand and took the older woman's, squeezing it gently in a gesture of friendship.
Siobhan slipped into a gesture of respect for Sybelle, a deep curtsy, her eyes downcast. "I will see to the preparations for your bath, my lady, and to your clothes. Will you allow me that honor?"
Sybelle nodded and Siobhan left.
Sybelle signalled to the dog, who trotted over to her. She ruffled the short fur before she went to the wardrobe, searching for something to throw about her shoulders. She would make for the wide stairs that lead to the battlements.
Freedom was now within her grasp. Sybelle stood in front of the door, hesitating, her hand extended before her.
Inhaling a deep breath, she grasped the handle and swung wide the door, her back straight, her smile formidable.
Chapter 7
She knew that she was being observed, but she didn't care. The strong blast of wind whipped her two braids behind her back like twin pennants. The moisture in the air was tangy, a welcome change from the dry confines of her chambers. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of unchained exhilaration, for Sybelle was exhilarated. It was a small victory in the scheme of things, yet a victory nonetheless. She was no longer a prisoner of that room. Here she could took out, view the restless waters of the Atlantic, see the rocky beaches, listen to the excited squawk of the birds as they flew about looking for scraps. She observed several of the earl's people going about tasks, fishing, or unloading cargo from a larger ship that rode at anchor some distance away. She couldn't see what was being unloaded, but it was keeping men in three smaller boats busy.
She leaned against the weathered stone, feeling the ravages of time in the smoothness of the surface. She looked down. It was a sheer drop to the ground below.
The thought crossed her mind that she could leap from the precipice before anyone could lay hands on her. Did not most of her class believe in death rather than dishonor? She braced her hands on the stone, leaning over.
She smiled. Such was not her way. It mattered little to her that her religion forbade the act; she would not allow herself to throw away that which she held dear, her own life. She was a Fitzgerald; in her veins ran the blood of kings, of a people who did not recognize surrender. She would not succumb to the temptation of the melancholy. Sybelle was stronger than that; besides, she wanted her own brand of vengeance against he who had taken away her innocence, her freedom.
He thought she was planning on leaping. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched her, frozen. She would be over the wall before he could reach her. He hadn't thought that she would be tempted to take her own life. No, by God. She didn't have the right!
Rolf ran the few paces up the outer steps to Sybelle's side, grabbing her wrist in his strong grasp, pulling her away from the edge.
"Release me," she said, her tone conveying the contempt that she felt for this man.
Rolf, feeling foolish that he had raced to her side, thinking that he was saving her, bit out the words, "You do not give the orders here, my lady." He dropped her wrist, noting the bruises that already marred the white flesh. Christ, was he responsible for them? Without conscious thought his hand reached for hers, and then just as abruptly he withdrew it. "'Twould not have been a painless death."
Sybelle glared up at him, mentally congratulating herself on the still red welt on his face. "Think you that I was going to take my own life?" Her chin lifted. "You are not worth it, my lord."
Rolf recognized the cold fury that shone in her eyes, evident in the words she flung contemptuously at him.
"When am I to leave this place?"
Rolf's mouth twisted in a smile. He folded his arms across his wide chest, leaning against the wall of stone. His left eyebrow raised mockingly as his eyes wandered slowly up and down her form. He saw the blush rise in her cheeks, the delicate color staining the wind-blown skin a darker pink. "Wolf's Den shall be your home for awhile longer, my lady."
"Why?" she flung at him. "Have you not had that which you wanted? What else remains?"
"To regain my cousin." He smiled again. "You must hope that your lord father will want you."
"Of that I have no doubt," she said stubbornly.
"Why are you not wed?" he asked, surprising both himself and the lady with his abrupt change of subject.
"'Tis no concern of yours."
"But 'tis a curiosity, my lady. You are the daughter of a powerful man, a favorite of the English king." He added as an afterthought, "Not unpleasant to look at. Why?"
'I repeat, Irishman, 'tis no concern of yours." She made to walk past him, dragging her cloak aside as if the touch of him against the material was repugnant to her.
That gesture angered Rolf. He grabbed her wrist again, this time trying not to put much pressure in his hold as he saw her wince. "I have not dismissed you, Sybelle. Perhaps you need a reminder of just what your place is here." He saw the color drain from her face, the only betrayal of what she was feeling, for she stood her ground, refusing to give an inch. Sweet Jesu, but she reminded him of a goddess, challenging a mere mortal to dare to approach her. Her arrogance amused him; her defiance gave rise to a tide of lust sweeping across his loins. He could take her again, as many times as it pleased him, for who here would gainsay his wishes?
Only he. Some force he couldn't understand, or name, held him still. "Until the time comes that you are returned to Derran, you have only those rights that I grant you in this place. Try and remember that. You are my cumal, my personal slave."
She gasped at the word. "Slave?" Her eyes widened in shock.
"Aye, slave."
Sybelle bowed her head, her shoulders slumping momentarily. Bend or break, bend or break, a voice repeated in her brain. Aye, she answered herself, she must bend else she could not break him. She lifted her face, her eyes direct, emotionless.
"Will Siobhan show me to my new quarters?" she asked in a flat tone.
"There are to be no new quarters," he said, noting the swift look of surprise that crossed her face.
"I thought . . . "
"You have no need to think, Sybelle. Hear my words. You are mine now, and only mine. To all in
this place you will retain the status of your birth, save that should I command a thing to be done by you, you will obey, whatever the task." He released her wrist, placing his hand under her chin, holding it gently. "Do you understand?" His green eyes captured hers in a merciless stare.
Oh yes, barbarian, I understand! her mind screamed. 'Tis another role that I must undertake in this hellish drama of your making. I will play my part and bide my time. "Aye, I understand fully, my lord," she said, her voice low and sweet. She sank to a stiff curtsey. "May I be excused now, my Lord Killroone? Or will you be wanting anything else?"
"Naught, save for your company tonight, at supper."
"As you wish, my lord," she said as she turned and started slowly down the stairs, the wolfhound at her heels.
A noise from the bailey below made her pause. She saw a rider being admitted into the keep, his horse well lathered, its sides heaving in exhaustion. Lugh barked, and Sybelle reached out her hand to place it on the dog. She looked at Rolf, saw the recognition on his face. Was this man bringing news of her father?
The man mounted the outer stairs and came rapidly up until he approached Rolf. Sybelle could see now that he was a mere youth, only fifteen or sixteen at most. He whispered something to Rolf, who nodded his black head, his features freezing, the skin tightening in response to the lad's words.
When the boy finished his report he turned and made his way back down the same stairs. Rolf, who was about to go the same way, halted, changed his mind, and came to where Sybelle was poised on the inner stairs.
''My men still haven't found the Lady Duvessa. Declan has ridden to inform me that your father has most assuredly left this country." His voice was harder when next he spoke. "Where in England would Derran go? To which of his estates? Tell me," he demanded.
"I know not where my father is, my Lord Killroone. The choices are vast."
"Perhaps you had better think on it, my lady. The sooner I find out where Derran is, the sooner we can begin negotiations."
His words made sense to Sybelle, but would she be betraying her father, putting him at risk if she gave Roll an answer? If Hugh Fitzgerald hadn't gone to London, then chances were he would have made for his favorite estate, his manor house in Dorset.