Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  "Aye, my lord."

  "Warrick, please," Isabella pleaded, her voice low, one hand upon his arm. " 'Twas indeed my fault. The men didst try to warn me, but I would not listen; and when I heard the boar's cry of pain, I didst ride heedlessly from my escort, though they called for me to wait. Sir Beowulf and the others are not to blame. I alone am the one ye should punish."

  The Earl glanced down at her, noting her wide grey-green eyes filled with penitence—and something more—and her soft, vulnerable lips, now bruised and swollen from his stolen kisses. He remembered the feel of her curves pressed against him and the taste of her pink nipple in his mouth. Despite himself, he found the very nearness of her still intoxicating.

  What has she done to me? he wondered. 'Twas naught but a

  few kisses I took from her, and even now, I grow weak with lust at just the sight of her, would grant her every desire—the forest nymph, the water sprite! She has bewitched me as she has the others! How can I hold the knights to blame when even I cannot resist her charms?

  He shook his head, as though to clear it.

  "Very well, then, madam. Ye will be confined at Oakengates until we discover the traitor within its walls and the hiding place of the reivers; is that clear?"

  "Aye, my lord."

  "Sir Beowulf, ye and the rest of Lord Rushden's men will bury the bodies, and take the heads back to the keep to be displayed upon pikes along the road as a warning to others who may seek to poach upon the lands."

  "What about the boar, my lord? Sir Debolt will surely wish it for his table."

  The Earl saw Isabella's face blanch at the thought of eating the animal that had been the cause of her horror and Warrick's slaughter of the poachers.

  "The beast is to be divided among the crofters, for they have suffered the most from the thieves' attacks. If Sir John questions ye about it, ye may say it is upon my order that the creature finds its way into the cooking pots of the villeins rather than Sir John's."

  "Aye, my lord."

  "Ye will also fill in that pit. Sir John's men will set out to search for the Lady Isabella's steed. It must have run away during the melee. My men will accompany me and the lady Isabella back to the fortress. Report to me there once ye have finished."

  "Aye, my lord."

  Warrick turned, placing his hands around Isabella's waist to lift her onto his saddle. The contact was like an electric shock jolting through them both. Isabella gasped, and the Earl too inhaled sharply as her eyes fell before his own piercing ones. He noted the pulse beating rapidly at the hollow of her throat, and it was all he could do to keep from ravishing her right then and there.

  The ride back to Oakengates was sheer torture for them both, for it was necessary that Warrick keep one arm about Isabella to prevent her from falling off the destrier; and once, his fingers accidentally brushed her breast, causing her to blush with mortification as her nipple hardened at the brief touch.

  When they reached the castle, Isabella hurried away to her

  chamber as quickly as possible, not daring to glance at the Earl again and ignoring the cries of distress that rose from Sir John's womenfolk at her appearance. Once there, she bolted her door and sat down upon the bed, quivering all over and wanting to be alone with her confusion. Something had happened to her, and she did not understand it. Was her nature base? Was she a wanton that she trembled with wanting for her new warden when 'twas Lionel she loved? Oh, sweet Jesiil What was wrong with her? And how would she ever be able to face Warrick—or Lionel— again?

  Chapter Thirteen

  WARRICK TOO STRODE DIRECTLY TO HIS ROOM BUT for another purpose. His slaying of the three poachers had driven him to a blind frenzy of rage and passion, and his male instinct to protect a female he considered his had been highly aroused. In addition, die way in which Isabella had stood almost naked in his arms, pressed against him so enticingly, had reminded the Earl that he had gone without a woman for many weeks. His loins ached. He wanted Isabella, and he had every right to take her, but instinct warned him against her.

  She was as fey as her brother's knights had said, and though Warrick had thought himself on guard against her charms, somehow, he too had fallen under her spell. He must put her from his mind. The girl was a witch—like Brangwen. She would steal her way into his heart, with her grey-green eyes and yielding lips, and then she would destroy him. He glanced at the serving maid who had entered to attend him.

  "Come here, lass," Warrick said, and then, when she stood before him, waiting expectantly, he asked, "Are ye a virgin?"

  The girl smiled boldly, invitingly.

  "Nay, my lord."

  "Then take off your clothes, and get into that bed."

  "Aye, my lord."

  The girl was dark and comely enough in a blowsy fashion, and she was, very definitely, not a virgin. The things she did to him with her hands and mouth eased his physical torment, but even so, Warrick found himself comparing the wench to Isabella. The maid's breasts were small and firm, her nipples, brown, so unlike Isabella's full ripe mounds and rosy crests. The girl was rawboned too and her body, generous, not at all like Isabella's delicate frame and slender build. The wench's hips were broad and met the Earl's own vigorously as he drove into her and pretended it was Isabella's slight, curved hips that arched so wantonly against him. He groaned, shuddered, and was still. After a moment, he rolled off the wench, gave her a few pieces of silver, and sent her on her way, his mind still on Isabella.

  Minutes later, Caerllywel knocked upon the chamber door and entered. His eyes took in Warrick's nakedness and the state of the bed at a glance. Caerllywel grinned.

  "Methinks slaking your lust upon another will not help what ails ye," he remarked, his voice a trifle too casual for his brother's liking.

  The Earl looked at him sourly.

  "And just what would ye know about what ails me?" Warrick snapped.

  "Like everyone else in the great hall, I saw the Lady Isabella when ye returned. The others may believe she still trembled with fear of the poachers, but they do not know ye as I do, brother; and 'twas your cloak that shielded her near-nakedness. What did pass between ye, I wonder, before the others arrived?" When the Earl made no response, Caerllywel raised one eyebrow and shrugged, his eyes glimmering faindy with speculation. "She is yours, ye know," he observed, "and ye want her. So why do ye tarry in carrying out the King's command? Why do ye not wed the girl, and have done?"

  "Because, though 'tis Edward's order, I've no wish for a bride, especially one who seeks to bewitch me as Brangwen did."

  "Brangwen, always Brangwen. Christ's son! I wish to hell you'd never met that bitch! Waerwic, when will ye learn that all women are not the same?"

  "Never, for they are the same, despite what ye say. The Lady Isabella is no different from the rest. I would as lief have had the serving wench; she pleased me just as well."

  "Did she? I wonder. Well, now that ye have eased the lust in

  your loins—if not your heart—do ye have time to attend to business?"

  "Aye, what is it?"

  "I have discovered the identity of the traitor at Oakengates. He is being held below, in the dungeons. Do ye wish to join me in the questioning of the boy?"

  "Aye."

  "Then I shall await ye in the great hall."

  Though the flickering torches of the men-at-arms lighted their way, the passage to the dungeons was still dark and eerie. The long, winding steps that led to the cells far below the castle were steep and covered with oozing green slime. Now and then could be heard the faint trickle of water where the moat seeped in through the stout stones of the keep, making the air damp and rank with foul-smelling moisture. Warrick's nostrils flared momentarily before accustoming themselves to the stench. Ruthlessly, he kicked at the mean, chattering rats that scurried away, tails slithering over the wet stones, at the men's intrusion.

  Sir John's face was stem in the wavering light as he selected a key from the huge ring he carried and turned it in the old, rusted l
ock of one of the cubicles. Slowly, the door groaned open.

  "The prisoner, my lord," he said, indicating the boy inside, who stood up defiantly as they entered. "His name is Ham. So far, he has refused speak."

  "Then how did ye discover he was the traitor?"

  "Sir Caerllywel, when he questioned the servants, thought the lad's manner strange. He accused Ham outright of being the reivers' accomplice, and the boy tried to flee. Naturally, he didn't get far."

  "Do what ye will to me! I'll tell ye nothing!" Ham suddenly cried boldly. "I be innocent, no matter what that stupid Welsh bastard says!"

  Warrick smiled at this reference to his brother, but it was a wicked smile, and Sir John shuddered as a shiver of fright chased up his spine.

  "Mind your tongue!" the vassal ordered. "This is Lord Hawk-hurst, brother to Sir Caerllywel and the new warden of Lord Rushden and the Lady Isabella."

  "So? I suppose ye mean to kill me. Well, I ain't afraid to

  die, so ye may as well hang me, and have done!" the lad spat.

  "Aye." The Earl nodded. "If ye are the traitor, as my brother claims, ye will most certainly hang—but not until ye have given us the information we desire."

  "I won't tell ye anything, I told ye! I be innocent!" Ham asserted.

  "Then why did ye attempt to run away when my brother accused ye of being the reivers' accomphce?"

  "I—I was afraid."

  "Oh?" Warrick raised one eyebrow as though amused, for he was sure the boy was lying. "But if ye are innocent, as ye say, ye had no cause for fear. Do ye still wish to remain silent?" The Earl paused, but Ham said nothing, and presently, Warrick went on. "Then I am sorry for ye, for your life will be most miserable until ye talk." The lad's eyes grew wary and slightly scared at this, but with false bravado, he thrust his jaw out stubbornly and continued to refuse to speak. "Caerllywel, bring the boot," the Earl ordered.

  At that, Ham began to struggle, fighting the men-at-arms desperately until finally they managed to manacle him to one wall and jam his foot into the iron boot. Almost casually. Warrick took the flask his brother held out to him and poured the oil from it into the boot. Then he recorked the vessel.

  "Tell me the names of your accomplices and where they are hiding, and ye need not suffer before your hanging," he told the boy, but still. Ham remained mute and rebellious. "Very well then." The Earl sighed, for he disliked torture, although he knew it was necessary. "Caerllywel, your torch."

  Warrick pressed the flaming torch against the boot. Soon, the iron grew hot, and the oil within began to bubble. The lad cried out with pain at the searing agony of his burning foot, and the Earl was glad that Isabella was far above in her room, where she would not hear Ham's outburst. Even Sir John and the men-at-arms blanched. Warrick removed the torch to allow the boot to cool.

  "Give me the names and the hiding place," he said grimly.

  "M'lord, please!" the boy begged. "I don't know! I be innocent!"

  Once more, the Earl held the torch to the boot, and Ham fainted. Caerllywel dashed the lad with a bucket of cold water to revive him. and the torture continued.

  For the past few days, the sounds of the ax and hammer at their work had thrummed in Isabella's ears. Now, all was silent, and, to her, the stillness was even more horrifying. She shivered as the reivers who had not been slain in the battle between them and the men-at-arms were marched forward, and what pitifully remained of the boy Ham was dragged forth. She was shocked as she recognized, at last, the strange serving lad who had filled her chalice that first evening at Oakengates. For a moment, the girl feared she would swoon as the stench of the burned and rotten stumps that had once been his feet reached her nostrils. Isabella pressed her scented handkerchief to her face, her body swaying slightly with dizziness and nausea. Warrick put one arm firmly around her waist in order to steady her.

  "Ye must not faint!" he hissed.

  "God's blood! What have ye done? What have ye done, ye monster? He—he's only a boy!"

  "He is a traitor to all of Oakengates and Rushden!"

  "But—but why?"

  "His family died of the sweating sickness, and he has blamed Sir John all these years for not being able to save them. 'Twas only recently the lad was given an opportunity for revenge."

  "But—but no one could have helped his people. Even my own parents' lives were taken."

  "Aye, but sometimes, things play strange tricks on a man's mind."

  Isabella knew her warden spoke the truth, but still, it did not lessen the horror she felt at the sight of the boy.

  "Ye are cruel, my lord," she said.

  The Earl gazed down at her coolly, his face closed and unreadable.

  "Dost truly think I arn without feeling, madam?" he asked. "Dost truly believe I enjoyed torturing a confused and half-mad lad? Before God, I gave the boy every opportunity to speak, to spare himself the agony that followed when he remained silent. Ye called me a monster, my lady, but was it not better for one to suffer than the hundreds who would have, had the reivers' attacks continued?"

  "Aye, ye are right, of course," Isabella answered quietly at last, ashamed. "But still, it seems so harsh "

  "That is life, madam," he told her. "And one must be strong to survive."

  "Aye, I suppose so, and yet, I would it were otherwise. I do

  not think I was meant for such a life. Warrick, must I—must I stay and watch? I have never witnessed a hanging before. I have no desire to do so now."

  "The traitor and the reivers must be duly punished for their crimes. Sir John has given the order, and as mistress of Rushden, ye must uphold it or undermine your vassal's authority here. Do ye understand?"

  Slowly, Isabella nodded in assent.

  As the castle looked on, the outlaws were led to the gibbets that had been built, and nooses were placed firmly around the thieves' necks. One or two of the robbers struggled, but the men-at-arms soon subdued them. Each reiver was given a chance to confess and repent his crimes, then was blessed by the priest. After that. Sir John nodded to the executioners. With a few strangled cries and several loud cracks, the condemned men were hanged. Isabella gasped sharply and turned away, knees buckling at the awful sight; but the Earl's arm about her waist tightened, forcing her to remain standing. Her heart thudded at her new warden's nearness. Briefly, that strange electric shock sparked between them, and Warrick swore softly under his breath. Then silentiy, without touching, they walked back to the keep, Isabella taking care not to glance again at the lifeless forms on the gibbets, where the bodies would hang until they rotted.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ISABELLA COULD BEAR NO MORE. SHE TOLD HERSELF it was the incidents with the poachers and the reivers that had overwhelmed her, but in her heart, she knew this v/as not the truth. It was the strange attraction to her new warden that had been a part of her ever since he'd kissed her that drove her away, away to Grasmere, a manor house that had been willed to her by her maternal grandmother.

  As the spring turned to summer, the girl, like a fawn seeking refuge, left Rushden Castle to journey to Grasmere. There, she awaited her brother, Giles, and her beloved, Lionel—especially Lionel. She was convinced that if she could but see him again, this confusing desire that burned in her for Warrick would fade.

  For the first time in her life, Isabella did not understand herself, could not explain the feelings that drew her to the Earl, in spite of her love for Lionel. It was wicked and wrong of her. She knew that. She could not have felt worse if she had betrayed her own dear brother, and in a way, she supposed she had; and that too weighed heavily upon her conscience.

  Eagerly, the girl fled to Grasmere, but it was not so much because she longed for the manor house, although, in the past, she had spent many a happy hour there, but because she wished to escape from Rushden Castle, her home, and the man who now

  ruled there. Isabella was afraid to stay, afraid that Warrick would somehow succeed in his mocking assault upon her defenses. She had no wish to become his wife, but she
was bound to him by the King's command; and though the Earl might not desire her for his bride, he wanted her still—wanted her in a carnal fashion that had aroused her on some ancient, primitive level she did not understand and could not control. He had but to look at her, his amber eyes gleaming speculatively, hungrily, and she caught fire inside, her bones melting like molten ore, her body trembling hotly, frightening her with the heat of its passion.

  And so she ran away and hoped her new warden would not pursue her.

  The ride to Grasmere passed without incident, for which the girl was very grateful. She had had enough of killing and death. It was too much for her gentle nature, which so joyed in life and the living. Though she knew the slaying of the poachers and the hanging of the reivers had been necessary and justified, she could not help but feel pity for them all the same. She was sharply aware of the fact that once, each had come to a fork in the road of his life—and had chosen the wrong path to follow. Why? Isabella wondered. What had gone amiss to lead their footsteps toward the sorry ends they had reached? She knew the answer was nothing more than a simple decision to choose one road over another; and the girl shivered, knowing even the best of men might select unwisely and be brought to folly for their foolish mistakes.

  How hard life was; its decisions were never easy. Isabella prayed that when the fork in the road of her life came, she would choose the right path. She did not know then that she had overlooked one important fact: Sometimes, one has no choice in the matter.

  At last, Isabella spied Grasmere looming ahead in the distance, and she urged Cendrillon to a quicker pace. The manor house was her special place, and she had not seen it since before her parents had died.

  To see Grasmere at its best was to see it standing tall and proud against a summer sky, as it did now. No walls enclosed it, marring its beauty, for it was only a simple manor house and had not been built for defense. It stood on a gentle crest upon the land, the vividly green grass sloping down and away from the house like the flowing skirts of a woman seated upon a stool. At the edge of the vast lawn, a riotous cascade of flowers nestled at the bases of the saplings, which rose up to give way in mm