by Gail Link
"Well, what say you?"
"I do not know, my lord."
"Nor would you say if you did, eh?" he declared. "So be it, my lady." With that he turned on his booted heel and left her, the force of his harshly uttered words echoing in her ears.
Chapter 8
It was a room that could hold almost a hundred guests if the host so desired, and had done so many times. Tonight the Great Hall served as a setting for a smaller party. Instead of the huge trestle tables that would have flanked each other on the floor, a place was created for the musicians, who played softly as the main table, which rose higher on a dais, was prepared. A new coating of rushes had been laid behind and under the table. In place of ordinary methers, wooden drinking vessels, goblets of the finest silver, encrusted with gems of various sizes, were placed on a white tablecloth, made of the best Irish linen.
Covering the bare, cold stone floor, was something found in only the wealthiest of homes, a carpet. Large in size, it was several hundred years old, and in excellent condition. Rolf's grandfather had purchased the Saracen rug from a Frenchman, whose ancestor had returned from the Crusades with several fine examples of carpets for his home. Shades of red, gold, blue and cream were woven into an intricate pattern of delicate beauty.
Several oil lamps had been hung, along with hundreds of candles, which bathed the room in a golden glow.
Seated at the high table were Rolf, his brother, Auliffe, and his guestsCaptain Armand duBerre and two of his officers. On Rolf's instructions, all were dressed as if they were attending a court function instead of an informal supper.
"Mon ami, what is the reason for this elegant setting?" Armand asked. "Not that I mind, you understand, but 'twould appear you have gone to a lot of trouble for just my men and me." His dark brown eyes scanned the room quickly, taking note of the new tapestries that hung on the stone walls; the elegance of the plate put out for their use; the subtle perfume which invaded his nose as he inhaled deeply of the scented candles. What was this for? Or perhaps he should ask who this was for? Certainly not for him or his men. Over the years he had been made most welcome in the home of his friend, yet nothing had ever compared to the formality of this night. Whispers had reached his ears of a lovely captive that Rolf kept securely within the confines of his castle. That thought puzzled Armand. What need had Rolf for keeping a woman prisoner?
Rolf extended his arm, indicating to a waiting servant that he was ready for more wine. The servant hastened to do his bidding, refilling the other vessels at the table as well. "Mon cher Armand, you must be patient. I have a surprise for you," Rolf said mysteriously, adding, "I remember that you love surprises."
Armand shrugged. "Oui." He drank of the ruby liquid, savoring the taste. "Excellent."
Rolf inclined his head. "It should be, as 'tis what you brought on your last visit."
Armand grinned. "Ah, yes, the shipment meant for His Grace, the King of England. I do recall."
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Sybelle stood just ouside the Hall, listening, observing. A shiver of apprehension clouded her thoughts. Coldness stroked her spine like an icy finger. Within moments she would be face to face with the man she hated, the man whose very name inspired a loathing so fierce that she felt she would explode with the weight of her anger. It was that anger that she drew on now as she prepared to enter the room. She must remember that she was the victim. He might control the situation, but he did not control her. He might possess her body; her mind must remain her own.
Schooling her features into a bland mask of indifference, Sybelle entered the room.
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"Elle est manifique!" Armand exclaimed, drawing the focus of masculine eyes towards the entrance to the Hall.
Sybelle walked slowly towards the dais with Lugh beside her. Her proud carriage did not go unnoticed by the master of the castle, who sat silently observing the effect she was having on his guests.
Armand held out his hand to help her to her chair, placed between his and Rolf's. Sacrй mиre, but this woman was exquisite, Armand thought. He approved of her mode of dress, even though it was more the style of twenty years before. Instead of confining her hair with a wimple, she had let it flow freely, tumbling to her waist; a thin circlet of gold held it back from her face. He longed to reach out to see if it felt as soft as the fur trim that surrounded her neck and wrists.
That shade of wine velvet made her skin look like cream, Rolf thought. Beneath the cloth of the table his fist clenched as though in pain. He wanted to slide his palm across the expanse of smooth flesh exposed by the low neckline of the bodice, feel the warmth, catch the pulse beat. He didn't need to see the eyes of the others to be aware that they were imagining what she would look like unconfined by fur and velvet, how like velvet and fur her flesh would feel. He felt an ache forming heavily in his body.
"Wine, Lady Sybelle?" Bran asked, wanting to offer her some token of reassurance, of friendship. It was a compulsion he gave in to, recalling another face illuminated by a single candle, eyes a different shade of blue, but no less defiant.
Sybelle turned her head and saw the younger, gentler version of the castle's lord. "Aye," she replied, waiting while he filled the vessel, all the while wondering. Being the cynosure of all these masculine eyes disconcerted her somewhat. Did they all know her purpose here? She was used to being the object of such attention. Hosting her father's dinners for the king or other lords since she was fourteen had prepared her for the scrutiny of those who inhabited her milieu. But this? Being the only woman at a formal table was a part she had never played before. Another lord's lady or daughter would normally have been present.
"Thank you," she said simply as Bran passed the goblet to Armand, who handed it to Sybelle, allowing his hand to brush hers ever so slightly. Her thoughts returned to Rolf. Did he seek to humiliate her? What was going on in that enigmatic mind?
"Perhaps you would care to present this lovely angel to us, mon ami?" Armand suggested with a wide grin.
Rolf, who was paying close attention to the contents of his own goblet, perforce had to perform the ceremony of introduction. He slanted a look towards his companion. Black lashes, which covered his eyes as he sat thinking, now opened, revealing eyes of the coolest green laced with misty gray.
"Lady Sybelle, Captain Armand Michel duBerre; his first officer, Jean-Marc DesMains, and the ship's doctor, Vicomte Henri Montblanc.
"Armand, Jean-Marc, Henri, may I present to you the Lady Sybelle Fitzgerald, daughter of the Earl of Derran."
Armand took Sybelle's hand in his, lightly saluting her with the warmth of his mouth on her flesh, the soft scrape of his moustache and beard tickling her. "Enchantй, my lady. It is even said in France that the roses of England are by far the most beautiful, and eagerly sought after, much prized by the man lucky enough to possess such a lovely flower."
Sybelle smiled at the Frenchman's gallantry. She countered with, "Though 'tis said that only the best can keep the rose in bloom, for the thorns, and the care required, are more than some will chance."
"Ah, my lady, what are thorns and a small amount of trouble if a man desires to have that which will bloom for him alone?"
Bran wondered if Armand knew that he was treading in dangerous waters. Armand was so captivated by the gentle beauty of Lady Sybelle that he was failing to note the look of displeasure that formed in Rolf's eyes. And, Brand speculated, he doubted if his brother was aware of just how much he was revealing of himself with his furtive glances at Sybelle. Bran had never seen his brother behave this way about a woman. The hunger that he saw in Rolf's green eyes revealed much more than a casual passion for the Lady Sybelle.
Tonight Rolf looked the part of the wolf, one whose ravenous gaze kept straying to the object of his desires. It wasn't the cold glance of the predator closing in for the kill; no, it was the stalking glance that promised no quarter, no retreat, warning others away from that which was hi
s own. Hot and intense, Rolf's eyes could have burned the rose to ashes.
Servants entered the Hall, Siobhan in the background supervising the process. They put before the head table a selection that would do justice to the walthiest households in England, France, or Ireland. They began with salmon freshly caught and prepared, poached in wine. Siobhan would not normally have served this, it being considered too ordinary for guests, but she knew that it was a favorite of the captain's. This was followed by a selection of chicken pies, with special designs on the crust, no two alike. Once that had been cleared away, the main course of roast venison and a second course, of pork, was brought in.
Sybelle chose a thick slice of each. Rolf and the other men also sampled everything, to the accompaniment of the musicians who played songs that came from Ireland's soulone minute happy, the next sad.
Soft conversation that had no real depth went with the meal. It was a way to pass the time; Armand made the most of his seat next to Sybelle. Rolf remained silent for the most part, observing. He noted that Bran was having a small success in his conversation with the Lady Sybelle, as was Armand.
Rolf casually dismissed the threatening notion that he was jealous. Ridiculous! Hadn't he shared wenches with Armand when both were students? Hadn't he and his brother both enjoyed the charms of Etain's bed? He stabbed at a piece of venison with his two-pronged fork, chewing the meat slowly, concentrating on the flavor, instead of the woman beside him.
The musicians paused for a moment as an elderly man, his face radiating a quiet strength, sat on a chair specially provided for him. He was dressed all in white, the soft wool and linen of Ireland clothing him. His hair was long and still thick, falling well past his seemingly frail shoulders. Black eyebrows covered eyes as dark as ink.
He addressed a question to Rolf in Irish. Receiving the reply he wished for, he commenced his tales, his voice alluring and forceful. For the benefit of all there, he spoke in English, as commanded by his lord. All ceased their chatter. They listened intently to the old man as he recited tales of men and monsters, of dragons and queens, of kings and captives, of love and hate, greed and despair. One tale in particular brought a frown to Rolf's face. It was an ancient tale of a high-king who seized a faerie woman, intending to use her to his own will, who found himself under her spell, caught in the magic rather than controlling it.
"Cease, Tadgh," Rolf said tersely.
The storyteller acquiesced.
Sybelle directed her question to Bran. "Who is he?"
Bran swallowed the sweet confection he was eating, wiping his hands on the embroidered napkin. "Tadgh, my lady."
"What does it mean in my tongue?" she asked, trying the name.
"Timothy. Did his stories please you?"
"Aye. They reminded me of the French minstrel that my mother hired, who entertained us with his sagas of knights and ladies, of honor and courage."
"We call Tadgh a seanchai, a storyteller," Bran continued.
"Does he travel from castle to castle?"
"No" Bran began, only to be interrupted by Rolf's deep voice.
"He is an ollamh, a poet, member of the Aosdana."
Sybelle looked at Rolf willingly for the first time that night. "Which is . . . ?" she questioned in a voice soft and melodious.
"A member of the literary class, my lady. Second after our ancient high-kings. They are the recorders of our history, the people who make sure the children of Ireland never forget the heritage that is theirs. Tadgh serves as both the chief poet and teller of tales for our house. He is an important member of this household, for he also sees to the duanaire of this family."
Bran saw her puzzled look, interpreting the question she seemed reluctant to put to his brother.
"Each family has what would be called in your tongue, Lady Sybelle, a praise book, which is used to record family history. Your minstrels tell tales of others. The purpose of our story-tellers, and the book, is to make sure there is a personal record for the sons and daughters that come after us, so they will have the memories, and the joys, to share. It is a way to preserve that which was once alive, but will one day disappear. In that way you are never far from those who came before, whose lives allow us to see what we could hope for, mayhap learn from."
Sybelle reached out her hand, touching Bran's without hesitation. "As a gift to my father, the King's Grace, Edward, commissioned a history of the Fitzgeralds. 'Twas a beautiful book, much prized by my lord father." Her misty blue eyes reflected a certain sadness. She recalled evenings spent in the massive room that housed her father's accounts, and the precious store of books that were her mother's treasures, and later, hers. She remembered fondly the feel of the thick vellum pages, the artwork depicting the knights and ladies.
"Mayhap you would like to see what is contained in our collection of books, my lady?" Rolf offered, surprising himself with the gesture.
Sybelle was perplexed by the generous nature of his proposal. She decided not to question Rolf's motivations, so she said, her voice barely above a husky whisper, ''Aye, my lord." Her eyes sought his; the naked need she saw reflected in Rolf's sent a chill along her arms. With one hand he held out a gift, with the other she sensed he would as soon rip off the pretense of this being a civilized evening. Perhaps that was what she wanted toono pretense, no courtly gestures, no masks to hide behind.
But that wouldn't secure her freedom, she knew. For that, she would have to pretend, to join in the false masquerade of emotions, presenting a face of acceptance while she hid the face of purpose.
"I shall instruct Tadgh that whatever you wish to see shall be placed before you on the morrow. Perhaps 'twould do you good to see how much we Irish care for our heritage."
"As you please, my lord," she said demurely.
Rolf was surprised by her calm answer. He threw that last line out to her, fully expecting to have a fiery retort thrown back at him. When none came, he was puzzled.
"The hour is late," he said. "I suggest that we retire as we have business to attend to early on the morrow." He pushed back the sturdy, carved oak chair. "My lady?" he said, holding out his arm.
Sybelle rose slowly, placing her arm on his.
The others rose also, murmuring goodnights.
Sybelle felt the blush rise to her face again. She hadn't thought that Rolf himself would see her back to her chambers. Lugh, replete with the generous amount of table scraps that both Rolf and Sybelle tossed to him, trailed faithfully behind the couple as they trod the steps of the grand staircase. Eventually they came to the door of the master chamber. Sybelle's heartbeat quickened. Would he seek again to force his physical passions on her? She stood still, not knowing how to interpret the look on his face.
Rolf detected Sybelle's apprehension. His wide mouth curved into a semblance of a smile. Raising one hand, he stroked a long index finger along the curve of her cheek, across the fullness of her bottom lip, descending the slim length of her throat in a lazy swirl until he came to the flesh displayed by the neckline of her gown. Here his finger meandered even more slowly. It glided along the slopes of her breasts, up and down, touching the fur that surrounded her bosom, before sliding just barely into the gown, feeling the soft vibrations of her breathing.
Her gasp stilled his hand. Withdrawing it, Rolf said nothing, merely reaching past Sybelle to open the door; he waited for her to enter, then closed it securely behind her.
Sybelle leaned against the door, palms flat against the wood, to catch her breath.
What game was he playing? she wondered. She had expected another invasion, had readied herself to fight once again. He'd said not a word, permitting his hand to speak for him. But what had it said? Holy mother, she thought as she walked from the door, reaching behind her to untie the laces of her gown. He made her feel as though she were being ravished by just that touch. His mode of dress, the color he chose, only emphasized his power. The other men were dressed like peacocks, brightly shaded and plumbed. He wore black, with no accent colors.
> A sorcerer. He must be, she decided, stepping out of the velvet dress and tossing it onto a chair. Else why would she tremble at his touch? He was her enemy. My enemy. Sybelle repeated this litany over and over as she crawled into the bed.
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Her hair enveloped them as their bodies entwined. He wound his hands into the strands until he held her face still, forcing her lips to meet the hungry need of his. She surprised him by meeting him more than halfway in their erotic duel. Her tongue touched his seductively before she retreated, pushing herself away from him slightly. Her warm lips darted across his face, leaving their soft imprint on his cheeks, the hollows of his throat; her tongue mapped the indentations of his chin before returning for a quick foray into his hot mouth. Her hands skimmed across his chest, and held him lightly. He relaxed, letting her have her way.
Smiling the smile of an enchantress, she slipped her right hand across the black tangle of hair that lightly covered his chest. She followed the trail up and down his flat abdomen, returning to that which lay awaiting her ministrations. Her fingers caressed his masculine nipple deftly, catching the response, then circling it slowly. She watched his breath quicken.
Her tongue tasted where her finger had gone, causing him to drag in a deeper gulp of air. When he tried to grab her head, she moved swiftly to capture the strong, lean hand, bringing it to her lips, kissing the rough palm, covering it with tender salutes. Flicking her tongue out, she laved his thumb and each long finger with a bold, caressing stroke, before winding her honeyed tongue around each one, taking it deep into her mouth, generous with her attention.
"Sorceress," he said in a thickly muttered whisper.
She smiled again.
Adjusting herself slightly, she slid along the length of his lean torso until she was bending over his waist, her honey hair falling over his lower body like a silken curtain, holding him captive by invisible bonds. A slight shake of her head moved the waves until they were caressing the very heart of his strong masculinity. The proud thrust of his body rose as she moved her face closer. . . .