by Gail Link
"It shall be as you wish, belle-mere *," Clare whispered, embracing Duvessa.
"Thank you, daughter mine," Duvessa responded.
"Shall you tell my father?"
"Aye, this night I will give him the news that I hope will gladden his heart."
"Then I shall make sure that Audrey and I retire early this evening so that you and he can share this wondrous news by yourselves."
Duvessa touched her lips to Clare's cheek. "I would be most grateful."
"Consider it done," Clare assured her. Then, aware that she really shouldn't be asking but unable to help herself, she questioned, "What of the younger brother? He was with the Wolf when he captured my sister."
Duvessa studied Clare's face before replying. "Branduff is a man of gentler nature than Rolf. He was born with the touch of the poet." Duvessa's eyes were sharp. "Why do you seek to know about him?"
"No reason, for truth," Clare said, walking around the room, creating tasks for herself as she straightened the already made bed that she shared with Audrey.
A sly smile curved Duvessa's mouth. "He will inherit his own estates in Wales."
"Wales?" Clare asked, curious, then wishing she hadn't sounded quite so interested.
"Aye. The Lady Brianna, mother to Rolf and Bran, was a princess of that land. She knew full well that Rolf would one day be Killroone, and she wanted her younger son to have something of her own lands so that there would be a place for him should he decide to take it."
"So he will have a land of his own to control?"
"If one can be said to ever control any property amongst the Welsh. Both sons are princes there, though Rolf never intended to take any part of his lands there. All were for Bran. It is time for him to decide if he wishes to forsake Ireland."
Clare tried to make her voice sound unconcerned with her next question, though she did not fool Duvessa. "Where in Wales?"
"In the north, I believe."
"The north?" She paused. "I do recall that my father has an estate on the border with Wales."
"He has many estates, or so I am told."
"Aye," Clare said, "Derran has another in York also, granted him by Gloucester for services rendered."
"He seems to prefer this manor house."
"It stands on land that our family has owned since the time before the Conqueror came to these shores."
"Forsooth?"
"'Twas the property of a Saxon ancestor of ours. A man who married a woman from Normandy."
Duvessa, not knowing why that should sound so surprising, asked, "You say that as if 'twas some special occurrence?"
"'Twas an event." Clare grinned. "She was a lady of Matilda's court, much prized for her beauty, but unwed at a late age. Her temper was fierce, and 'twas thought that she was a scoldnot to mention that there were rumors that she was not a true maiden. The Lord Aidan wed her as a favor to his king, for unlike most Saxons, he was a supporter of Duke William, not Harold. He even look her name as his own. Thus we are Fitzgeralds instead of whatever Saxon name was his." Clare shrugged. "'Tis been lost in time."
"What an interesting story," Duvessa declared.
"I always thought it so." Clare shared her delight with Duvessa. "By all regards, they were happy, and had ten children."
"Then he found the key to taming the shrew," Duvessa chided.
"'Twas here that my father was born. It was then a huge keep. Later it was ordered destroyed by the forces of the former queen, wife of the usurper styled Henry VI."
Duvessa vowed to learn all that she could about her husband's ancestry, so that she could tell her own childher son, she amendedabout the mixed heritage he would share. "Will you tell me more, later, of your family?"
Clare was thrilled that Duvessa would show such an interest in her ancestors; she had always found them fascinating and had spent hours translating documents, particularly about the Saxon and the Norman woman he had taken to wife. "It shall be my pleasure, my lady mother."
"Good. Then you must allow me to share with you the tales of my own family, and Ireland." By doing that Duvessa was convinced she would forge a bond that would draw her and Clare closer together. It was a small thing to build upon, but coupled with their love for Hugh, it would work.
Chapter 26
Duvessa had ordered a hot bath to be waiting for Hugh when he returned. Tonight she would tell him about the babe. A meal was to be served in their room for privacy. The twins were to have their meal on their own, as she had outlined to Clare.
Nervously, she paced the capacious room, anxious for Hugh to put in an appearance. She ordered a fire laid in the hearth, as she could feel a slight chill in the evening air.
"Duvessa," came the quiet, strong tones of her husband's voice.
She turned at that sound and saw him standing in the entranceway to their bedchamber. He cast his eyes on the tub, saw the curls of steaming warmth rise. He would welcome relaxing into that.
"I have prepared your bath, my lord," she said, coming forward to relieve him of his short cloak.
Hugh allowed her hands to work on him, pulling off the clothes that he wore until he stood before her totally bare.
Duvessa shut her eyes to the rippling musculature of her husband's mature body. Her breath caught painfully in her throat as she longed to stroke her fingers along each and every rib, across the firm stomach, embrace the flat buttocks and slender thighs. How could he remain so calm whilst she was being torn up inside as she surreptitiously watched him slid into the deep recesses of the tub? She gripped the chair for support, taking a deep breath, then picked up a cloth and dipped it into the water. Producing a bar of fragrant soap, she lathered the cloth and proceeded to glide it around his supple back, up and over his shoulders, and around his chest.
Hugh thought that it was just as well that he was covered by the water lest his wife see the quick physical reaction her ministrations were having on him. How long had it been since he'd buried his aching, throbbing flesh in hers? He could feel the tightening of his manhood in reaction to her nearness. He had felt it earlier that day when he looked up at the window and saw her there, her long hair flowing around her shoulders like a proud banner. Was it his imagination, or was she lingering over his nipples? Was she slowing the touch of her hands and the abrasion of the cloth? He closed his eyes. Up and down he could feel the rhythm of her slender hands. God, he was acting like a stripling youth first enamored of a woman's charms. Lonely had been the hours since last they had lain together. He craved the comfort she provided, and more than the comfort, he needed the feel of her flowing and ebbing around his body like the very breath of life itself.
He raised one long leg against the copper rim of the tub. Duvessa massaged his calf with careful soothing gestures, rubbing the cloth softly, ministering to that part of his body. Her fingers manipulated the toes of his foot so that he gasped slightly. He was angry at himself and the reaction she produced in his body. He started at the strong touch of her hand as she captured his other leg, doing the same to it. He braced himself against the back rim and opened his blue eyes. She didn't seem to care that she was getting droplets of water on her gown. And what a lovely gown it was. Her white skin, skin that he loved to kiss, was exposed. He could see where the gathering of the bodice had pushed up her breasts so that they were half exposed. The mounds of flesh tempted him. Was it his imagination, or had they taken on a fuller, more mature look? He ran his tongue around his suddenly dry lips, waiting to see if she would proceed to that part of his body that lay hidden, but which was sorely in need of some attention.
He closed his eyes once again as he saw the smile curve her lips.
Suddenly, he found himself sputtering water. She had doused him with cold water.
"Sorry, my lord," she said, "I picked up the wrong bucket."
"'Tis of no consequence," he lied, pushing the wet curls of hair from his forehead.
"I only wanted to wet your hair so that I might clean it." She poured a small amount of precious oil
into her palms and rubbed them together. She slowly stroked her fingertips around his skull, across his forehead, around his neck. He sighed deeply, visibly relaxing and enjoying the comfort that she gave. She bent forward and rinsed the shampoo from the dark reddish-blond curls. The exposed nape of his neck was inviting, and without hesitation, Duvessa placed her mouth atop the wet skin for a brief kiss.
Hugh sucked in his breath, fighting for control. He forced himself to recall that Sybelle was the prisoner of a man who had surely taken his pleasure of her inexperienced flesh.
''Enough," he said in a tone that resembled a growl.
Duvessa dropped the cloth to the floor and handed him a long length of linen, turning her back as he stepped from the tub.
She walked to the door and left the room. Moments later, a burly servant entered and removed the tub, followed by another who picked up the buckets of water and discarded cloths.
Hugh pulled on a pair of blue hose and a white shirt, which he left loosely laced. He rubbed briskly at his thick hair with a piece of fine Irish linen.
Duvessa entered the room with Drucilla. Each was carrying a silver tray, upon which rested various dishes of food. She instructed the girl to place it on the small table which had been placed that afternoon before the hearth.
"Anything else, my lady?"
"You may leave us, Drucilla. Thank you for your help," Duvessa added quietly.
Drucilla winked at her, uncaring that she was being vulgar. It was simple to see what would take place in this room tonight. Man and woman, be they lord or servant, were all subject to the hunger that drew them to each other. She shut the door softly behind her.
"Wine, Hugh?"
Her voice, that softly lilting Irish voice, had the power to twist his insides. He glanced at her as she poured a goblet of wine, holding it out to him. "Thank you, my lady," he responded, making sure that their hands did not touch as he took the goblet from her fingers. Christ, he wanted to fling the damned wine to the floor, little caring what stains were left behind and take her there, on the wood, scattering the several beautiful rugs which kept out the cold, and appease the burning hunger, the raw, desperate feeling of passion she inspired.
And he missed, strangely enough, the sound of her laughter, the joyous sounds that gave him an opportunity to talk, to share. He hadn't done that with any other woman except his Sybelle. Not even his first wife had gotten that close. He felt bereft without the mirth, without the questions, without the concern. It was as if he were imprisoned in an invisible cell. He wanted to reach out, to seek the warmth; and he knew that he shouldn't . . . couldn't. He called on his reserves of strength and put thoughts of her warm and willing body out of his mind.
He doesn't even want me to touch him, she thought. Is that because he feels the need and shares it? That he cannot endure this separation of all that we have been to one another? Would he be shocked to learn that she could barely restrain herself from begging him to take her, here, now, or wherever and whenever he chose? He had opened the world of sensual pleasure to her, and she ached to feel him a part of her again. Worse, she needed to feel a part of his life. Not this pretense she was acting for the sake of appearances; no, Duvessa wanted the power of sharing Hugh with Hugh. That closeness of spirit that united them made him irresistible to her.
Now she must tell him that there was to be a child of this union, a blessing of the Holy Mother for which she would show her gratitude.
"Where are Audrey and Clare?"
His back to her hurt Duvessa. Hugh, Hugh, her mind silently pleaded, do not turn away from me. "They are taking their meal in their chambers. Each was tired and wished to sup alone."
"Then let us do the same, madame," he said, folding his tall body into the chair. He sank his teeth into the succulent joint of venison and commenced the meal in silence.
This went on for several minutes before Duvessa could stand it no longer. "Hugh, I have some things that I wish to share with you."
Hugh picked up his glass, carefully refilling it. His blue eyes narrowed, his mouth drew taut. He placed the goblet on the table, idly fingering the design, closing in and pulling away.
A shaft of pure desire threatened to destroy the hard-fought-for composure Duvessa tried to maintain. She could contain her words no longer. "Hugh, I am with child."
Abruptly his hand fell away from the glass. He looked at her, saw the wetness of tears fill her huge eyes. His child. His beloved wife carried his babe. The last time a woman had been with his child, she and the babe had died. Could he bear that happening to his Duvessa? The deed was accomplished, yet pride warred with concern.
Please say something, Hugh, Duvessa silently screamed. Do not leave me in agony whilst you sit there.
He stood up, pushing back his chair and came around to her side of the table. He knelt on the floor with one leg. He placed one large hand across her slim stomach. All he could feel was the soft texture of the white velvet that she wore. Her words told him that inside her she carried a child, his child, possibly a son. "'Tis a certainty?"
She dared not place her hand in his as she longed to do. That Hugh had made the first step was pleasure enough. "Aye, 'tis certain I am of it. The babe will be born in the New Year."
"Undress." He said it so simply.
She blinked, wondering what he wanted.
Hugh stood up, holding out his hand and taking hers in it, pulling her to her feet. "Undress," he repeated, his voice commanding her with a dark power.
She undid the laces that held the dress at the sides. Sliding it down over her body, she stepped out of it. She removed the other garments that she wore as quickly, scattering them to the floor. She stood before him, naked, with only her hair as covering. He knelt before her again, pushing aside the thick curtain of hair. Hugh placed, once more, his palm against the satiny feel of her flesh.
Duvessa looked down. She could feel the quivering of her stomach as he replaced his hands with his mouth. She almost fainted from the touch. "Hugh," she said, her voice straining, pleading.
And then he was gone, vanished from the room with the rapidness of a soldier in retreat from a dangerous situation. Her legs buckled and she sank to the pile of abandoned clothes, weeping.
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A full bottle of fine French brandy lay within his reach, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it. Instead, he kept his face towards the flames that glittered brightly. He had tried to purge his thoughts of what his wife had told him. He had selected a volume on military campaigns from the time of Caesar. He could still see where it lay, open, tilted at an abnormal angle against the wall where he'd thrown it in his sense of frustration.
He gripped his hands into fists. How very hard it had been to leave her when she told him her news. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed, assuring her that he found her more desirable than ever, that he yearned for her with all that was within him, that he could think of no greater gift that she could give him. He wanted to shout, "I love you!"
Yet the darkness of this room as the fire died down reflected the darkness of his mood. While he could rejoice that he was to be a father again, did there exist the possibility that somehow, some way, God was playing a trick on him? Giving him the opportunity to again welcome flesh of his flesh into the world while removing his eldest child from it?
Hours passed slowly as he continued to sit, watching. For what? he asked himself. A sign? A revelation from God? None would come.
Clare found him, slumped in his chair, a morose look on his face, the next morning. He looks exhausted, she thought, surprised to find him there. She thought that he had spent the night in his own chambers, with his wife, celebrating the happy news. She picked up the leather volume and replaced it on the shelf, taking note of the damaged vellum pages.
"Father," she said softly, shaking him gently.
He awoke quickly, his hand automatically going towards his side for a weapon. Old habits were hard to br
eak, he thought as he opened his eyes and saw Clare standing over him.
"Good morrow, daughter," he said, standing and stretching out the cramped muscles that bent his body.
"Good morrow to you, father. Sir John is newly arrived from Ireland. He awaits you in the Hall. I thought it best to give him some food first."
"See that we are not disturbed." Hugh made for the door, then turned. "Has he said anything about Sybelle?" He knew that had his eldest child returned, she would have come straightaway to him without ceremony.
"No, my sister is not with him. He said that he wished to speak to you alone." Clare could not hide the fear that was in her eyes. "Think you that the news is bad?"
"No," he said thickly.
Dismissing Clare, Hugh entered the Hall and saw his chief man-at-arms making steady work on a large portion of ham, a loaf of bread, and a small fowl. Sir John rose when he saw Hugh enter the room, and Huge bade him resume his seat. He poured a tankard of fresh ale for Sir John and one for himself.
"What have you learnt?"
"That the Earl of Killroone holds your daughter and has yet to return her. He sends you this message." Sir John pushed the sealed parchment bearing the wolf's head emblem towards Hugh. "In it, I am led to understand, he will take another month to give you his decision regarding the freeing of your daughter." Sir John took a mouthful of ale before continuing. "It seems that he is in no hurry. And my man checked the defenses of the building while he was inside. There is no way in or out except by Killroone's leave."
"'Tis as I expected. Making an assault on his stronghold is beyond contemplation."