by Gail Link
Roll feigned sleep as she quit the bed, carefully watching her graceful movements as she strode across the room. In front of her she clutched a small fur from the bed, holding it around her nakedness as best she could.
''Where do you go, Sybelle?" he asked, pushing himself up against the carved panels of the headboard, brushing back the damp strands of hair from his face.
Startled, she stopped. She turned her head. "To the privy."
He crossed his powerful arms behind his head, making her more aware of the play of muscles in his chest. Her eyes widened perceptibly when she saw the red welts that crisscrossed his upper torso. Marks of nailsher nails. Crimson testimony to her unbridled loss of control. She could tell by the slight smile that touched his face that he was aware of her discomfort. Aware and enjoying it. Her spine stiffened. She was no meek mouse made only for this cat's pleasure. She had nibbled the bait; she saw the trap. Her guard would now be up.
"Fetch me a cup of wine," he ordered calmly. Rolf made mental note of her evident disdain. She wanted to fling the words back at him, he knew, along with a score of scathing comments. But would she dare? Her blue eyes reflected a battle raging within her. He could see the pressure she was exerting to force her lips to remain closed. Temper was evident in the slight widening of her small nostrils. Her slender hands curled into fists.
"Now," he said.
Sybelle walked to the small table upon which rested a flagon and a cup. How was she to manage this feat and still keep the fur around herself? It would be impossible. And he knew it. Ignorant beast, she silently fumed. How dare he relish my discomfiture?
Clenching the fur in one hand, she made use of the other to pour the wine. The cup was silver, studded with small jewels. It was made for lovers, wide and deep, for a man and a woman to share. She filled it almost to the rim, slicing the figure on the bed a quick look.
Turning, she walked back to the bed.
Rolf extended his arm, his gaze holding hers, not noticing the imperceptible movement of her hand, which tapped the cup, splashing the contents all over his bare chest and the bed linens.
"Your wine, my lord." Sybelle dropped the cup to the floor and spun on her heel.
Rolt was quick to react. Grabbing her hair, he tugged her backwards so that she landed atop him. She struggled briefly, but to no avail. "Lick it off," he said.
Sybelle's eyes widened in shock. "What?"
Rolf's green eyes glittered. "You heard me, my lady. Obey." When he saw that she wasn't moving, he forced her head to his chest. The soft black hairs tickled her nose. She could smell the mixture of man and wine. His fingers tightened just slightly. Not enough to ignore; only enough to make her aware. "Do it," he said with a groan.
Sybelle's tongue slid from between her lips, catching the tiny rivulets of wine drops, tasting the mixture of grape and salt. She could feel the increased tremors of his heartbeat as she circled the flat masculine nipple, flicking it with her tongue. It responded, forming a tight bud. Do all men react this way? she wondered. She then banished the thought from her brain as unworthy, beneath her.
She noted the look on his face as she slowly raised her head. His hand no longer kept her a prisoner. His eyes were darker, almost invisible under the hooded slits of his lashes.
"Enough," he muttered harshly.
She ceased, pushing herself up and away from him, her fur falling. When she made to grab it again, his fingers clasped her wrist. "No." She understood he was attempting to regain control, because, somehow, her ministrations threatened his own reserve.
Defiantly, she quit the bed without benefit of a cover to hide behind, walking straight to the door of the garderobe without looking back. Sybelle entered the main bedchamber several minutes later, expecting to see him there, waiting for her, ready to demand she again play the part of his mistress. Her gaze searched the room. He was gone. All that remained was the cup, still lying on the floor, and the bed linens, askew, stained red with wine. The bed looked as if a bacchanal had taken place there.
A sharp knock on the door proceeded Siobhan's entrance. She saw the look of consternation on Sybelle's pale face, and bent to hand the young woman her discarded gown from the floor. Her old eyes took in the condition of the bed; her nose recognized the lingering scents of love and wine. She opened the shutters, letting in the fresh, nippy air, scented with the salt of the ocean, the storm having ceased.
"My lord begs me invite you to attend him when you have broken your fast, my lady," Siobhan said softly, tidying up the room, and removing the stained sheets as three servants enteredone with a morning meal, the other two with buckets of hot water for her bath.
"For what purpose?" Sybelle questioned, biting into the thick, spicy meat pie.
"I do not know, my lady. He bade me only to say he wants you with him this morn."
Confused, Sybelle nodded, as she quaffed the tankdard of ale. What now?
Chapter 14
What now indeed, Sybelle thought as she made her way down the stairs to the Great Hall. Entering, she saw Rolf seated at a table with Armand and Bran, finishing their morning meal.
When they beheld her, they all stood. Rolf extended his hand. His green eyes narrowed as he ran his gaze over her slender body. She was clothed, modestly, in a dark blue wool. "Good morrow, my lady," he said, his deep voice a wellremembered caress.
"To you also, my lord," Sybelle responded, accepting his hand as he led her to a chair next to his, just vacated by Bran, who moved to another. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks as Rolf's eyes looked at her; they glowed with an arrogant seductiveness. Her skin tingled where he touched it. She shivered with the recalled emotion of the last few hours in her chamber. By no word did he bring the subject to the fore of his conversation with the others, yet somehow it was there, unspoken, between them. A tangible thing that she could feel simmering in the air.
"I regret that you must wish our dear friend Armand adieu," Rolf said, offering her a cup of spiced wine. His smile as he placed the silver cup into her hands brought another blush to her face, forced her to remember another cup of wine.
Branduff observed the swift color that stained Sybelle's flesh. He grasped that there was something deeper in the relationship between the two. He could tell by the tremulous actions of Sybelle's hands as she accepted the cup from his brother, and the trace of wickedness Rolf's eyes as he deliberately placed his wide palm over Sybelle's, lightly smoothing the flesh of her fingers.
Sybelle swiftly removed her hand. She clasped the cup to steady her nerves, already shaken by the contact with his flesh.
"Do you return to France?" she addressed the question to Armand in his native tongue. Armand nodded his head, his manner charming. 'Oui, my lady."
"With quite a bountiful cargo, eh, mon ami?" Rolf chided.
"Mais certainement, Rolf. We shall both make a tidy profit on this venture."
"The Lady Sybelle and I shall ride with you and watch your departure," Rolf stated.
Sybelle opened her eyes wide. She made as if to speak, then thought better of it. Damn him. He knew of her visit to Armand, she was sure. This was his devious way of letting her see the means of departure without taking part.
"I thank you, my lord." she began, "yet I feel that I must de"
"Decline?" Rolf finished for her. "Nonsense, my lady. The air will do you good."
Sybelle saw in his implacable eyes and the strong set of his face that there was no way that she would be allowed to forgo this event, so she bowed, momentarily, to the inevitable. "As you wish, my lord Killroone."
"Indeed," he murmured for her ears alone.
«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»
Sybelle watched as the ship became a mere speck on the Atlantic, drifting farther and farther away. She and Rolf were alone on the beach, Branduff having been dismissed, along with several other men who'd accompanied them.
The wind whipped back the top of the cloak she wore, revealing her hair. She brushed aside stray st
rands that threatened to escape from her coronet of braids.
He recalled her hair unloosed, in his hands, on his lips.
They remained in silence for many minutes. Sybelle continued to look out at the ocean, her eyes staring straight ahead at the horizon.
"You should not have tried."
She spun around, anger in her eyes. "He told you," she said.
Rolf's mouth curved in a semblance of a smile.
"No. Armand would never do that."
"Then how?" she asked.
"I saw you. And I know you, as I know myself."
That thought disturbed her; supposing that it were true? Could he read her character, her innermost thoughts? Nonsense, she chided herself. 'Twas only a pretext on his part, to confuse her.
"You should be proud of your friend. He doesn't take a worthy bribe."
"Perhaps I should tell you something about Armand's background." He lead her to a stone outcropping. Rolf remained standing as Sybelle sank to the rock seat. "You would have tried in vain, no matter what the sum. Armand is the third son of le Marquis D'Antarre. His family is quite old and respected, quite wealthy. Without need of your beneficence." He saw the color fade from her face as the realization of what he had said sank in.
He was one step ahead of her. She felt like a pawn in play on a chessboard. She stood, her back ramrod-straight. "My compliments, my lord," she said. He had carefully withheld the information that would have stopped her from making a fool of herself. He was manipulating her so skillfully, controlling the actions of the game. He was a skilled battle commander, and as the daughter of one of England's foremost soldiers, she could admire that. The thought struck her as comical. Power. He was a master, she conceded. Aye, a man used to being in command, in control.
She couldn't stop the laugh that escaped her lips.
"What do you find so humorous, my lady?"
She turned to face him, her slate-blue eyes alight with a mood he couldn't grasp. "How very much you remind me of my lord father."
Rolf's features hardened. "'Tis not a compliment, Lady Sybelle."
"Oh, but my lord, it is. Your skill as a strategist is almost the equal of my father's. When you two finally meet, 'twill be a rare match."
Her attitude baffled him. He could tell her that he knew her as well as he knew himself, and then she would do something alien to throw him off balance. Because of this, she must never see, never guess, that she had the uncanny ability to disturb him.
Her continued laughter irritated him. He grasped her shoulders, pulling her into his embrace. His mouth touched hers with raw power, driving in its intensity. He yanked her hair from its confinement, freeing it, winding his hands through the strands, anchoring her to him as he sought to brand her with his lips.
Sybelle felt his passion, shared it. Telling herself that she was committing folly to allow it to continue, she pushed aside her qualms and gave herself to the wondrous moment in his strong arms, returning his kisses. The blood pounded in her body, keeping time to the excited beats of her heart. She felt on the threshold of something new and beautifuluntil he abruptly pulled her clinging arms from around his neck.
He gulped in a deep breath of air, fighting the almost overwhelming need to reach for her again, push her to the sand, and shove aside her skirts, mounting her there and then, riding till the sensation passed him. What was it about this woman that so inflamed his loins that he was pressed to throw caution aside?
"There is no escape, my lady. You do well to remember that. You are mine now."
She smoothed her hair back into order, arching her chin high. "I am Sybelle Fitzgerald, my lord, and you do well to remember that," she said proudly.
He cupped her stubborn chin. "You belong to the wolf and are so marked, my lady." He released her chin to caress each side of her face, his fingers and knuckles stroking fire. "You are mine. For now. Forever."
Chapter 15
A heavy rain pelted the Dorset countryside.
At the wide window overlooking the gardens, Duvessa stood, waiting. A rider had come only a short time ago to bring the news that Hugh's daughters were but a few miles away. Hugh was visiting several of his neighbors in an attempt to settle a dispute over some property lines. Duvessa had sent a groom to fetch him.
The tempo of the rain changed. Now it was softer, calmer, much more like the misty Irish rains she was accustomed to. Almost an hour passed since she bade the groom find him before she saw Hugh arrive, his horse lathered. She watched him dismount, secure in the knowledge that from her vantage point she could observe without being seen. Duvessa longed to run to his side, to fling her arms about Hugh and beg him to end this estrangement. Pride held her back. That, and the certainty that such a move would win no favor from Hugh.
She wiped a solitary tear from her cheek. Her gaze never left him as he snapped out instructions to his servants. Soon, he was fast approaching the house.
Earlier she'd summoned a servant with instructions to prepare something hot for him to eat and drink on his return. Duvessa worried about the state of his health as Hugh worked ceaselessly preparing a strategy for the re-taking of his child. He didn't seek their bed until quite late each night, and rose early. What sleep he had was fitful, as was hers.
The slammed entrance door was her indication that her husband had entered the house. She went to the hall, where she saw Hugh pulling off a cloak of wool and beaver fur, tossing it to a waiting manservant.
Duvessa noted the way the rain clung to his thick hair, curling it even more tightly around his skull. His hair would be soft to the touch; how she longed to feel her fingers winding through the silky reddish-gold curls, damp and wonderful, as it was when they made love. That image conjured up memories of incredible beauty, of a time meant for them alone, a sharing of their hearts and bodies.
Hugh turned around. The first thing his eyes beheld was his wife's face. Christ, but he needed her softness right now. All he had to do was reach out, place his hand on her white skin. . . .
But he couldn't.
Duvessa spoke first, breaking the awkward silence that hung over them. ''My lord, please come. I have had a meal prepared for you."
It was on his tongue to refuse; he thought better of it.
"As you will, madam," he said tersely, following her into the dining chamber.
The food was waiting on the table, set for one. Hugh sat down, as Duvessa served him. When she was done, she sat next to him, pouring herself a glass of wine. She watched her husband closely as she sipped the wine, forcing herself not to reach out her hand and clasp his. This was as close as she dared come at the present time. Sadness filled her heart. The lines of strain were even deeper ingrained on Hugh's face.
He ate in silence, keeping his own counsel. He wanted to share the burden of the guilt he felt, yet he couldn't bear to heap any further pain onto Duvessa's shoulders. This was his problem. He would handle it.
What was taking Edward so long in responding to his request ? He should have heard from his king by now. His thoughts turned angrier and he slammed his fist onto the table, startling Duvessa.
"Hugh?"
"Sorry," he said in a low tone, his face muscles freezing in an effort to contain the bitter fury he felt.
A loud knock made them both turn as a man entered the room. He was soaked to the skin, his clothes covered in dirt. He dripped water and mud onto the expensive carpet as he knelt to deliver his message.
"My lord Derran," he said, gulping in air, "Sir John bids me tell you that your daughters are arrived. They shall be here within moments." He stopped to take in another deer drag of air "All is safe with them."
Hugh stood up, dropping his napkin to the silver plate.
The man stood up also, and saw the stains he had left on the carpet. He shifted nervously, sure that his master would be mightily vexed for the damage he'd caused.
Hugh walked right past him without regard to the carpet.
"My lady, I am heartily sorry for the damage done," h
e apologized, expecting her to take him to task.
"'Tis of no consequence. Cleaning will set it to rights. You bring my lord husband and me tidings of great happiness. Go you now and refresh yourself. 'Tis no doubt you've had a long journey."
He bowed his way out of the room, considering himself very fortunate that the lord and lady had so much on their minds, for he couldn't fathom their forgiving his error in judgment and manner otherwise. He worshipped Hugh Fitzgerald, wishing only to be as like him as possible, with a wife as calm and gentle as the Lady Audrey. But that was too much to hope for.
Duvessa waited in the hall with her husband, beside the open door. They watched in silence, listening for the sound of horses or wagons, not sure which mode of transport Sir John would use to get the twins there.
Finally, they heard the sounds of horses approaching, saw the party heading for the stables. Hugh descended the small steps of the house, little caring for the persistent rain.
Clare was in the lead, as usual, with Audrey following at a more sedate pace. Not waiting for anyone to help her dismount, her skirts flying, Clare launched herself from her horse, running to her father's arms, which circled tightly about her. Here she felt safe and secure. Audrey joined her but a moment later.
Duvessa watched the touching scene, noting the tears that betrayed her husband's generally well-hidden emotions. How much he loved his children was in evidence, and he didn't care who saw. There was a quiet gentleness in the way he embraced the girls that spoke volumes about the inner strength of the man.
Clare lifted her head and saw the woman in the doorway. She recognized the Lady Duvessa O'Neill, and wondered what she was doing at her father's house.
"Father, why is the Lady Duvessa here at your manor, instead of her own castle in Ireland?"
"Because this is now her home," he stated, his arms around both of his daughters.