Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  "Tis indeed peaceful here, my lady," Jocelyn said, recalling Isabella to the present. "No wonder Lord Hawkhurst sent ye here to rest and recover. Grasmere is like a balm that soothes the battered senses."

  Isabella turned and smiled at the maid by her side. Jocelyn was Maude's granddaughter, as difficult as it was to believe, for except for the sly mystery that tinged her dark sloe eyes, Jocelyn was nothing at all like her grandmother. She was tall and graceful, with slender curves and rich russet hair that hung freely to her waist. Her mother, dead now, had been Maude's daughter; her father's name, Jocelyn did not know, though it was said he had been a fine lord.

  "Aye, just one night, my ma lay with him," Jocelyn had told Isabella ruefully, "and nine months later, I was the result. Ah, what a handsome man she used to say he was, bold as brass, and the price of the tumble well worth it. She said I took after him. I suspect it must be true, for I've little enough resemblance to her—God rest her soul—and Gram. Gram said she reckoned the Thatcher blood was just getting too thin to hold its own, and I guess she was right, because Ma died young. She caught a chill and just faded like a winter rose, went so fast. Gram couldn't save her. I wish I'd known Ma longer; she was as gay as a lark in springtime. Even when she was lying there dying, she still had that same sunshine smile on her face. I'll wager that's why Pa took such a fancy to her that night. Anyway, 'twas she who taught me how to speak proper and read and write some. She kept house for the village priest a long time ago, and he gave her lessons now and then. At any rate, I'll work hard, my lady, and ye won't be sorry ye took me on, I promise ye!"

  Upon recovering, Isabella had summoned Maude to Rushden Castle and had offered the old harridan whatever reward she desired.

  "Ah, m'lady," the beldam had wheezed. "There be but one thing I ask of ye. I be getting on, ye know; even now, sometimes, late at night, I can hear that old Grim Reaper outside my cottage, a'knocking at my door. Well, I can't say as how I won't be glad to go, fer my bones be getting dry and brittle and my soul powerful weary; but I worry about my granddaughter. Except for me, Jocelyn ain't got any other folk, and she be a prideful wench besides; too good to marry the stonecutter's son, she were, though I boxed her ears for her disobedience, and the poor lad's heart were well nigh broke. If'n ye'd take her on, m'lady, I'd rest easier in my grave; I would."

  And so the girl had acquired Jocelyn, who now served as her maid and companion.

  "I don't know of any place on earth more beautiful than Gras-mere," Isabella responded, at last, to Jocelyn's earlier words. "I feel at home here, even more so than I do at Rushden. I guess that's because Rushden truly belongs to Giles, and Grasmere is mine, all mine."

  "La, it must be heaven to own a place like this, my lady," Jocelyn sighed. "Mayhap someday... nay—" she broke off with a little laugh and shook her head. "Nay, that's just wishful dreaming; I know. I'll never in my life own a house like this." Her voice was wistful.

  "But riches aren't what make a person happy, Jocelyn," Isabella said gendy. "'Tis the love and joy in your heart that do that."

  She bit her lip and thought of Caerllywel's words that day. Look to your heart, 'Sabelle, he had told her, for therein lies the answer.

  Well, she had looked, but even so, Isabella wasn't sure she knew the answer. That was why she had come to Grasmere— to find it.

  Lionel Valeureux studied speculatively the tall towers of Grasmere rising up in the distance before him. With the diamond-shaped, lead-glass panes of its windows reflecting the gleaming rays of the spring sun, the manor house appeared almost like some magical fairy castle shimmering there upon the crest of the windswept moors—the perfect setting for the silvery nymph it contained.

  Damn ye, 'Sabelle! Lionel swore silently to himself.

  For months, he had tried to put the girl from his mind, but he had been unable to forget her nevertheless. Despite all that had happened, he wanted her still; and his marriage to Lady Gilliane Beaumaris had only intensified his desire for Isabella.

  Lionel's mouth tightened angrily when he thought of his wife, the timid brown mouse he had been forced to wed. Christ's son! Had there ever lived a more pathetic creature? Painfully shy and inadequate, she had been mortified by the boisterous, customary ritual of bedding on their wedding night and had actually burst into tears when her maids had disrobed her to show all present that her small thin body was without deformity or flaw. Her racking sobs had ruined everything for everyone. The drunken jests and ribald laughter that were normally such a good-natured

  part of the bedding had ceased as the guests had gradually, one by one, uncomfortably fallen still. Lionel had feh like a fool as the men had glanced at him covertly, amusement and pity mingled plainly on their faces. By God, the ignominy of it all! How dare Gilliane disgrace him, Lionel Valeureux, in such a fashion? Embarrassed and furious, he had taken her viciously to punish her for her idiotic behavior, then left her the following day.

  "You'd best accustom yourself to my lovemaking, ye stupid little slut!" he had snarled cruelly to his terrified bride, obtaining a mean delight from the way she had cringed in fear. "For when I return, ye shall have more of the same! Aye, every night 1 spend with ye shall be as last eve—or worse! You'd best pray I get a brat on ye—and quickly—if ye have no desire to suffer my future visits to your bed!"

  Lionel smiled wolfishly to himself as he remembered how poor Gilliane had wept and cowered before him, shuddering uncontrollably at the thought of his touching her as brutally as he had done on their wedding night. And he would, despite the fact that there would be little satisfaction in it. Oh, God. If only it had ' been 'Sabelle who'd lain beneath him!

  His loins stirred achingly at the thought. How Lionel wanted her. He must have her; he must!

  He paused for a moment, glancing back over his shoulder and cursing himself for not having come directly to Grasmere, going first to Rushden instead. But he'd had no way of knowing that Isabella was at the manor house, rather than her brother's keep.

  She had been ill, Lord Hawkhurst had told Lionel coldly when he'd asked for Rushden's mistress, and the Earl had sent her to Grasmere so she might recuperate in peace. Icily, Lionel had thanked Lord Hawkhurst for the information, not missing the spark of antagonism that had flared in the Earl's eyes toward him at the mention of Isabella's name, then continued on to the manor house.

  Briefly, a muscle quirked in Lionel's hard, determined jaw. No doubt Lord Hawkhurst was hot on his heels to Grasmere, for even if he did not want the girl, the Earl would not relinquish easily that which he considered his. Well, there was no help for it.

  Lionel dug his spurs into his stallion's sides and galloped on toward the manor house in the distance.

  "Why have ye come, Lionel?" Isabella asked again as they made their way across the moors, Lionel having insisted on the stroll

  in order to escape from the curious eyes and ears of the servants. And if Lord Hawkhurst had indeed pursued him, it would take the Earl a while after his arrival to discover Lionel's and Isabella's whereabouts and put an end to their tryst.

  "I wanted to see ye, of course," the heir of St. Saviour said.

  "But— but why? After that day at the well—"

  "I know, I know." He spoke impatiently, not giving the girl a chance to explain what had happened that afternoon. "I despised ye for that, but even so, I've not been able to get ye out of my mind. God knows, I have tried. But ye fill my thoughts every waking hour of the day, and at night, I dream of nothing save ye." Lionel suddenly stopped walking and forced Isabella to face him. "Tis as though ye have bewitched me, for I grow more obsessed with ye with every passing day. I tell ye, 'tis driving me mad! I want ye, 'Sabelle. Christ! How I want ye! I forgive ye for what happened that day at the well. Only say that Lord Hawkhurst means naught to ye, that ye are mine, now and for always!"

  Hurt that he trusted her so little and could believe she had encouraged Warrick, as well as him, yet still want her, she turned her head away so he could not read the expression on he
r countenance. What kind of love was that?

  "Did ye—did ye speak to Gloucester?"

  "Nay," Lionel admitted at last. "But I shall, 'Sabelle, I promise ye! 'Tis only that Richard has been much preoccupied of late with this battling of the Scots. There has been no time to approach him "

  "Then I am sorry, Lionel, sorry for both of us: for I made a vow to God, when I was ill, that if He would but spare my life, I wouldst marry Warrick and think no more of ye."

  "Nay, 'Sabelle! Ye cannot do this to me! Ye are mine. Mine! God's blood—" Lionel swore and, without warning, suddenly took her in his arms, raining searing kisses passionately upon her face, claiming her mouth possessively, demandingly, compelling her lips to yield to him, though she struggled against him.

  "Take your hands off my betrothed!"

  Lionel and Isabella jerked apart as though they had been shot at the sound of the frostily delivered command. Warrick stood before them, grimly slapping the side of one black leather boot with his riding crop. His dark visage was a distorted mask of anger, though he held himself in check.

  Godamercy! Isabella thought. What was he doing here, at Grasmere, and what must he be thinking?

  Jesu! What a fool he had been! Warrick was infuriated by the idea. Because of the dreadful guilt he had felt when Isabella had fallen sick, he had almost convinced himself of her sweet nature. Well, thank God, he had discovered his mistake in time! She was as wicked as Brangwen had ever thought about being— worse—for he had saved Isabella's life, and for that alone, she had owed him her loyalty. Well, that was gratitude for you, using her illness as an excuse to slip away and meet her lover! Only, somehow, the two had gotten their messages mixed up, and Lionel had gone to Rushden by mistake. No wonder the young fool had been in such a hurry to leave!

  "Well, well," the Earl drawled, his voice harsh and seething with rage. "Isn't this a pretty sight?"

  "Warrick, please, let me explain—" Isabella began, mortified that he should have discovered her with Lionel and in such a fashion.

  Oh, dear God. What must he be thinking? she wondered again. That she was a wicked, deceitful, ungrateful bitch who, though he had saved her life, had played him false at the first opportunity.* Nay, oh, nay! 'Twasn't true. 'Twasn't like that at all. If only he would give her a chance to explain—

  "Warrick—"

  "Be silent, witch!" he hissed, moving toward her threateningly, as though he meant to strike her, causing her to cringe from the wrath upon his face. "What a fool ye are, madam," he jeered hatefully, and her worst fears were realized. "Did your lover promise to wed ye and save ye from my bed? Is that why ye ran so eagerly to his arms?" Warrick snorted with contempt when the girl made no reply, understanding now that it was useless to try to explain, to attempt to reason with him. "Nay, I thought not," he sneered. "Do ye know why, madam?" he went on ruthlessly, wanting to hurt her, as she had hurt him. "Nay? Shall I tell ye then?" The Earl smiled mockingly, nastily, as he thought of the report his squire Rhys had delivered to him on Lord Lionel Valeureux. "Your lover cannot wed ye, because he is already married!"

  "Married!" Isabella cried involuntarily, stricken to the very core of her being.

  She turned and stared at Lionel with shock, as though she'd never really looked at him before. Her grey-green eyes begged him silently to deny the Earl's accusation. But Lionel did not.

  "Oh, aye, 'Sabelle," Warrick continued, hammering the words like nails into her heart. "He is wed to Lady Gilliane Beaumaris

  of Devizes, a plain brown wench, I'm told, nothing to compare to your silver beauty. But she is still your lover's wife all the same."

  Isabella's head spun dizzily until she thought she would swoon. She reeled slightly on her feet, her limbs trembling violently with agitation and the aftermath of her sickness.

  "Oh, Lionel," she breathed. "Lionel! Say 'tisn't true! Please," she pleaded desperately. "Say 'tisn't true!"

  But he could not.

  "I'm sorry, 'Sabelle." He confessed his duplicity at last.

  "Oh, God, oh, God!" she wailed miserably, her world crumbling down about her. She had loved him—loved him—and all the time, he had been deceiving her. "Ye bastard!" she spat bitterly; then, with all her small might, Isabella slapped the heir of St. Saviour hard across the face.

  He never flinched from the blow, just stood there staring at her with an anguish to match her own in his eyes. The girl's hand flew to her mouth in horror as she saw the red mark that her palm had made on his cheek.

  "Oh, God," she moaned again.

  In that moment, despite himself, Warrick's heart ached for her, for he knew the desperate hope, the torment, and the agony she was feeling. Had he not felt as much when Brangwen had laughed in his face?

  "'Sabelle," he said and held out one hand to her; but she ignored him and, picking up her skirts, ran blindly across the wild moors toward Grasmere.

  Woodenly, the two men watched her go, neither making any effort to detain her flight. Then slowly, Lionel turned back to the Earl.

  "Ye whoreson Welsh bastard." The heir of St. Saviour spoke lowly, his blue eyes glittering with hate. One hand went instinctively for his sword. "I shall slay ye for what ye have done."

  Warrick only laughed, and the sound was not pleasant.

  "Fool! Think ye I would sully my steel by engaging ye?" he asked. "A whip is good enough for the likes of ye"—the Earl indicated the riding crop he held in one hand—"and I shall be sore tempted to use it if ye do not leave Grasmere at once. Ye may be Gloucester's man," Warrick continued silkily when Lionel made no move to depart, "but I am the King's. Ye would be wise not to press me further," he warned.

  Briefly, Lionel's fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade, but he did not draw the weapon after all. Reason had begun to set

  in, cooling his rage slightly. To draw steel on one of Edward's favorites would indeed be the act of a fool. There would be another time, another place; and perhaps then, Lord Hawkhurst would not rank so high at Court. The King was notoriously fickle.

  "We shall meet again, my lord," Lionel promised the Earl vehemently, both men understanding the duel had only been postponed.

  "And on that day, I shall kill ye," Warrick vowed softly. "Till then, remember that the Lady Isabella is mine."

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE LAST OF THE SMALL, DRUNKEN WEDDING PARTY had gone, closing the chamber door firmly behind them. Isabella was alone at last—alone, with her husband. She lay quite still beside him in the massive canopy bed they occupied, clutching the fine, white linen sheet to her naked body desperately, as though it might offer some protection against him. Earlier, she had consumed a great deal of wine to give herself courage for this night; but though the liquor had been warm, she still felt cold inside. She tried to tell herself there was naught to fear, that surely; the man who had married her would not abuse her now that he had her at his utter mercy; but still, she was afraid. As much as she had attempted to overcome the feeling, she could not bear for him to touch her, even though she owed him her very existence. Her reluctance to give what was legally his seemed poor payment indeed for the saving of her life, but Isabella could not help it. If he touched her, took her, she would belong to him for all time, be bound to him forever by more than just the vows they had spoken. And yet, how could she refuse him? Surely, her body was little enough to offer in exchange for her life. Nevertheless, she trembled a little, tears glistening on her cheeks, as she awaited the assault that was her husband's right.

  Slowly, Warrick rolled over on his side, propping himself up on one elbow to study his bride. She was so hauntingly beautiful in the candlelight that it almost took his breath away. Her wide grey-green eyes were like seas before a storm, with their mysterious depths. Her long black lashes made dark, crescent smudges upon her cheeks when she closed the orbs to avoid his gaze. The Earl longed to trace the line of her straight, finely chiseled nose, to follow it down to her full pink lips, which quivered slightly, soft and inviting, yielding, exciting. He could alm
ost taste them now, feel the tiny pulse beating at the hollow of her throat, kiss the pale breasts that swelled above the sheet she held so tightly to her chest. God, how he wanted her. But Isabella did not want him, Warrick knew.

  She married me in a daze, he thought, because she was bitter and hurt and didn't care what happened to her. It is only now, in my bed, that the shock of Lord Lionel's perfidy has receded in her mind, and the full import of what it means to be wed to me has dawned on her. Now, she cares what becomes of her. She doesn't want me to touch her. Though I saved her life, she hates me: for I am also the man who exposed her lover for what he really was, breaking her heart with the knowledge. I am the man who is now her husband, not he.

  The Earl stretched out one hand and caught the girl's jaw, gently turning her face toward him. Blindly, through the blur of her tears, she stared up at him, her eyes dark and shadowed with pain. For a moment, her fear stirred him to pity. She had borne so much. He could wait a few days before making her his. Then he recalled the sight of her nakedness when her maids had disrobed her, and his loins quickened once more. Isabella was his wife, by God. She had no right to say him nay, and Warrick would not let her deny him in any event. He would take her by force if necessary, for sooner or later, he intended to have her. Aye, 'twould be better if he took her now, despite her fright. To wait would only prolong her agonized suspense.

  '"Sabelle."

  She stiffened at the word and attempted to turn away, but he compelled her to go on looking at him.

  "'Sabelle..." He bent to kiss her.

  She inhaled raggedly.

  "Warrick, don't. Please. Please don't touch me."

  "I saved your life," he reminded her sharply, drawing back a little, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And ye are my wife besides."

  "Well, I wish ye had not. I wish I were not."

  "Do ye? Dost truly think ye wouldst be better off dead? Dost truly believe he would have loved ye any better?" The Earl's amber eyes flashed with anger as he thought of Lord Lionel Valeureux.