Rose of rapture

by Brandewyne, Rebecca

  He looked at her with surprise.

  "Nay, of course not."

  "Then what is it ye wish of me, my lord?"

  He indicated,^ with a sweep of his hand, the massive canopy bed that dominated the chamber.

  "I know, from the grumbling of the maids, that mine is, as yet, the only new mattress in the keep. I thought ye wouldst like to share its comfort with me"—he spoke casually.

  At first, when she understood what he desired, Isabella's face grew pale; and the Earl's heart sank. It was as he had surmised. She no longer wanted him and intended to deny him. If he meant

  to have her, he would have to take her by force, and there would be no joy in the act for either of them. Then she blushed and turned away, trembling a little; and Warrick knew he was wrong. He watched her silently from beneath half-closed lids as awkwardly, with quivering fingers, she began to unlace her robe and shift. Why, she was frightened, as frightened as she had been the first time of their mating. Then the Earl realized that for her, this night was like that first one, for she did not know what to expect from him.

  Suddenly, it occurred to him how very strong and masculine he was, how very fragile and feminine Isabella was. For a moment, Warrick wondered how he would have felt, had he been in the girl's place; and he truly understood, for the first time, how very small and helpless a woman was against a man. Oh, a maid might struggle, even wield a dagger against him, but a powerful and determined man could easily overcome these obstacles to his desire. A man who was not the woman's husband might be punished for the deed—provided she had other powerful and determined men to defend her—but against her husband, shp had no recourse. She was his chattel, to do with as he pleased. No wonder so many maids went terrified to their wedding beds— as Isabella had come to Warrick's.

  Then, he had brushed aside her fears, dismissing them without a second thought. It was natural to be scared of the unknown; once he had taken her, she would no longer be afraid. Now, the Earl recognized it was more than just that. It was the surrender of her body and soul, her very life, into a man's hands that so frightened a woman.

  Yet, here was Isabella, bravely, if a trifle shyly, slipping from her nightclothes without protest, trusting him to use her kindly, though she knew he had wanted to slay her that day of the tourney, though she believed now that he despised her. He wondered, had he been in her place, if he would have been so valiant; and he was touched by her courage.

  '"Sabelle," he breathed, the word as soft as a caress.

  She turned, letting her garments float gently, like a whisper, to the floor.

  "Aye, my lord?"

  She made no effort to shield herself from his hungrily raking gaze, merely stood there, quietly, her eyes falling before his. In two long strides, he had reached her.

  "'Sabelle." Once more he spoke the endearing nickname she had not heard upon his lips since that awful day of the tourney.

  Curiously then, almost pleadingly, yet strangely defiant too, she looked up at him.

  "Aye, my lord?" she said again.

  But somehow, Warrick could not find the words he longed to say; for the first time in his life, he felt as confused and oddly lost as a person in a daze. He must go slowly, carefully, give her time. If he suddenly told her he loved her, she would not believe him, would think it was some sort of jest to hurt her further. He must wait and woo her if he wished to win her heart.

  "Naught. 'Twas naught," he told her.

  He cupped her face with his hands, entwining his fingers in her hair, his eyes darkening suddenly before his mouth closed over hers. He kissed her forever, it seemed, scarcely feeling her hands, which shook slightly against his chest, for they neither encouraged nor restrained him, just pressed there, clutching a little at his shirt, as though she might fall otherwise. But he could not mistake the vulnerable trembling of her lips beneath his own, and for an instant, he wished he knew whether they quivered still with fright—or now with passion. Slowly, he released her, his hands sliding down her shoulders to her breasts.

  How beautiful they are, he thought. So very pale, like marble, for I can see the blue of her life's blood within.

  He brushed her nipples with his thumbs, delighting in the manner in which the rosy crests stiffened, puckering with excitement at his touch. He laid his mouth upon that soft place at Isabella's nape, where it curved down so gracefully to her shoulder. Tingles of pleasure radiated from the spot as he kissed it, teased it with his tongue, and traced his way to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse was fluttering jerkily. His lips traveled up the slender white column, then down, found her breasts, first one, and then the other. He did not know how the rigid little buds could be so hard and yet so soft, and he marveled that it was so as his mouth closed over them, sucked them, teased them. His teeth grazed them lightly, caught hold of them as his tongue darted out to titillate the pink tips until they grew even firmer with excitement and passion.

  At last, he drew away, pushing Isabella gently toward the bed. She slipped into the massive, canopied four-poster, looking very small among all the pillows as she settled against them and drew up the sheet and ermine-furred coverlet to hide her nakedness.

  Her wide, fathomless eyes watched him in the candlelight as languidly he pulled his shirt over his head to reveal his broad chest with its mat of dark hair, then shed his hose. Without a

  word, he slid in beside her, encircling her in his embrace, kissing her deeply, lingeringly, again. Impatiently, one hand encroached upon the soft folds of her womanhood. Finding that secret place wet and warm, and unable to wait any longer—he had been so long without her—Warrick rolled atop her and spread her thighs. The tip of his maleness pressed against her, penetrated her, then suddenly thrust into her with a single swift, savage motion that left her breathless with desire as just as rapidly he withdrew, then entered her once more.

  Wantonly, Isabella locked her legs around his back and arched her hips to receive him, again and again, until her loins quickened, and suddenly, it felt as though the earth had dropped out from beneath her. The sensation burst through her like an explosion, shock waves rippling through her entire body, sending her reeling. Never had she reached her pinnacle so quickly. It was only dimly that she felt the long, sighing shudder that undulated through Warrick before he too was still.

  Yet, though sated, he made no move to leave her, remained a part of her still; and after a time, she could feel him growing hard inside of her once more. Her eyes, drowsy with his love-making, flew open in surprise to see him gazing down at her curiously, searchingly. A tiny hope that all was not yet lost flickered in her bosom, a little flame of yearning that he might yet forgive her, come to trust her once more, care for her a little, though he would never love her now; she was sure.

  How she longed to brush his hair back from his face, caress his cheek, cradle him against her breast, and tell him she loved him. But she did none of these things, knowing instinctively that it was too soon after that dreadful day of the tourney, that he would not believe her, that she must tread slowly and carefully if she were to win back that small, precious measure of caring he had had for her.

  The candles had long since guttered in their sockets, but the autumn moon sU"eamed in through the windows, casting a veil of shimmering silver over the chamber. Again, Isabella had the impression that Warrick was some dark pagan god from the past, some ancient demon of the night come to steal away her heart and soul. She could see his amber eyes glittering in the half-light, like two twin coals as they burned down into her own, blazing their way through the caverns of her mind, as though to ferret out her innermost secrets. She shivered slightly. In the past, her husband had called her a witch; and she thought if it were true, she was indeed a fit mate for him, for he was surely a devil.

  Twice, she could have sworn there had been magic in their lovemaking; and now, once more, she feh that same incantation of enchantment begin to take hold of her, haunt her, envelop her in its veil of sorcery. She couldn't tear her eyes away f
rom him. His rich tobacco-brown mane streaked with gold beckoned her fingers to entwine themselves among its silky strands. His yellow eyes hypnotized her with their passion-darkened depths. The curve of his carnal moutii held her spellbound as his lips possessed hers, devoured her mouth, so their breathing became as one.

  His palms cupped her breasts, squeezed them gently but firmly. His thumbs stimulated her nipples, making them grow hard and rigid, even as Warrick's manhood stiffened inside of her, filling the innermost depths of her.

  Isabella found she couldn't move, didn't want to move, as he drove strongly between her thighs, bewitching her, taking her to the heights of rapture with his wizardry.

  She moaned deep in her throat, a low, rippling noise like the purring of a cat that made him laugh softly in her ear before he bit her lobe gently and muttered fiercely,

  "Witch. Witch! I'll make ye forget him if I have to slay ye to do it!"

  The girl wanted to speak, to protest, to tell him she had never loved Lionel Valeureux, that she never would love him, for she had given her heart to her husband. But Warrick's mouth claimed hers once more, silencing that which she would have said. She didn't care. For some strange reason, the Earl had decided to fight for her, to win the love he would not believe was already his.

  The ember of hope in her breast blazed like wildfire at the thought. She would yet heal him; she would yet have his heart. She wrapped her arms about him tightly.

  "I have forgotten him," she whispered. "I have forgotten him, my love."

  With a savage snarl of triumph, Warrick arched her hips to meet his wicked thrusts, spiraling down into the hot moist core of her until she cried out her surrender and let the waves of volcanic lava engulf her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "DIO MIO!"

  With an evil hiss of anger. Lord Dante da Forenza, Conte di Montecatini, crushed viciously the scroll he held, then cruelly knocked the messenger, who had delivered the writ, in the head, sending the boy sprawling across the floor.

  "God damn that whoreson half-Welsh bastard!" the Count spat.

  The woman sitting anxiously by the fire raised one trembling hand to her throat, for there was nothing she feared more than the Italian's murderous temper. Sometimes, she wished she had never taken up with him.

  "What—what is it, my lord?" she asked nervously, her dark eyes filled with apprehension.

  "La vita e plena di guai. Life is full of troubles!" he translated for the woman's benefit. "I have been recalled to Rome—recalled in disgrace. Me! Montecatini! Reprimanded for a joust that was forced on me by that whoreson half-Welsh bastard! God damn Hawkhurst! He shall pay for this, I promise ye!"

  "But—but I thought.. .Ye said your family wouldst smooth things over," the woman stammered, distraught. Now, what would become of her? Where would she go? What would she do? "Ye

  said naught wouldst come of the matter," she whined accusingly, feeling very sorry for herself.

  Lord Montecatini gave her a look that withered the hard heart in her bosom.

  "Well, I was mistaken then, wasn't I?" he drawled with a sarcasm that pierced her like a sharp knife. "Sangue di Crista! To be called home, in disgrace, over a damned bout instigated through no fault of my own and in which / was the wounded party. Hawkhurst must stand even higher in King Edward's favor than I had realized. God damn that whoreson half-Welsh bastard! He shall pay for this!" the Count reiterated, gnashing his teeth with rage. "I shall make him pay if 'tis the last thing I ever do!"

  Once more, his gaze stabbed the woman by the fire. She cowered on her stool, more afraid and upset than ever. Tears filled her eyes. Perhaps he intended to beat her, as he had done in the past when displeased.

  "Well, what are ye waiting for?" the Italian inquired wrath-fully. "Che idiota! Si alzi! Get up! Do not sit there shrinking and blubbering like a fool. Go, and pack your things at once."

  "Do ye—do ye mean I am to go with ye, my lord?" the woman stuttered, some of her fright and agitation receding and hope rising in her breast.

  "Ye stupid slut!" Lord Montecatini growled. "Did I not just say as much? What a simpleton ye are! Truly, I do not know why I continue to allow ye to live. Dost really believe I wouldst leave ye here to meddle in my affairs during my absence— especially when ye have no more brain than a half-wit?"

  The woman stiffened slightly at this. After all, one must have some pride.

  "I will remind ye, my lord, that—" she began, then broke off abruptly as he suddenly leaped to his feet, towering over her.

  Silenzio!" the Count ordered. "Ye will remind me of nothing, do ye hear?" He shook his fist at her threateningly. "Ye played your hand and botched it! The game is mine now. Mi comprendi? And I will not be hindered in it by any of your idiotic schemes. Christ's son! When I think of your appalling lack of finesse, signora, I confess I am sore tempted to kill ye." The Italian gave a short, ugly laugh. "Non saresti davvero una grande perdita."

  The woman cringed again, for she had heard him say this often enough to understand what it meant. He had told her she really wouldn't be a very great loss.

  "Ferite di Dio!" he went on jeeringly. "Reivers, a mad dog,

  and a lion baiting!" he snorted with contempt. "Was that the best

  ye could do, signoraT

  "Tis more than ye have done, my lord," Lady Shrewton returned, trying indignantly to defend herself, despite her fear of him.

  After all, her plans had been good ones, no matter what he thought. Twas not her fault they had all failed.

  "They were the plots of a bumbling sciocco," Lord Montecatini sneered, disgusted. "Ye left too much to chance, ye silly bitch, always the mark of an amateur. Now I, on the other hand, shall leave nothing to the Fates, for / am a professional!"

  "Ye forget, my lord, that ye are being forced to go home to Italy," Lady Shrewton pointed out, garnering a small mean satisfaction from the knowledge that he was not as clever as he thought.

  "E vero. Still, eventually, I shall return to England, I assure ye; and then I shall have my revenge. Do ye doubt me, signoraT

  "Nay. Nay, my lord," she answered at last.

  She did not doubt him in the least. She had come to know tl^e Italian Count far too well for that.

  "God damn him!"

  Lord Lionel Valeureux stared down at the scroll in his hands and swore yet again as he reread its contents.

  "God damn him!"

  The heir of St. Saviour was its heir no longer. His father was dead, accidentally drowned in a boating accident off the Isle of Wight. Lionel was now the Earl of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake. Bitterly, he wadded up the message telling him the news and tossed the crumpled parchment angrily into one comer of his tent. Just a few more months! If Lionel had been able to wait just a few more months, he need never have wed Gilliane Beaumaris. As the Earl of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake, he could have broken the marriage contracts himself. At the realization, he cursed his father even more vehemently. How dare Lord St. Saviour die after ruining his son's life? It just wasn't fair! It just wasn't fair at all!

  Well, there was no help for it. What was done, was done. Still, Lionel was certain of one thing: Sooner or later, some way, somehow, he was going to get rid of Gilliane and make Lady Isabella Tremayne, Countess of Hawkhurst, his if it killed him.

  Throwing on his cloak, he left his pavilion to seek out Richard,

  Duke of Gloucester Lionel must gain his liege's permission to return home at once.

  Far away, Lady Isabella Tremayne, Countess of Hawkhurst, sang softly to herself as she left the new cottage of one of her tenants,

  "My knight knelt and bowed his head, asked me to wed, I had but riddles four to guess, then happiness. Oh, listen all ye maidens fair; come—have a care, So ye may know the love I won when I was done,

  "What is paler than white milk, yet rose as silk? What is brighter than star clear, shines with a tear? What is sweeter than red wine, grapes on a vine? What is higher than a tree, deeper than the sea?

  "My skin so pale yet ro
sy when touched by thee. My eyes so bright with joyous tear when thou art near. My lips so sweet, like grapes' red wine, when kissed by thine. My love so high and deep, for e'er, 'twill keep,"

  There was joy in her heart, for slowly but surely, Warrick had set about to woo his wife, and she once more shared his bed. Sometimes, perceiving how cautiously he handled her, Isabella had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting out her love for her husband. How she wanted to tell him he need not court her— that he already held her heart—but she knew he would not believe her. So she kept silent and watched and waited to see what he would do next; and the seed of hope for her marriage that had withered in her breast that day of the King's tourney was bom again and began to flourish.

  The work at Hawkhurst was progressing well too. The inside of the castle was now complete, and the shoring up of the defenses was coming along nicely under Sir Sevan's watchful eye. The chapel had been restored, much to Father Francis's delight, and Mass was now said daily. By Christmas, all the villeins would have new huts and, come spring, vegetable patches as well, Warrick having given his permission for the planting of these. At first, Isabella had feared he might refuse to allow this, but upon her asking him about it, he had merely raised one eyebrow and smiled wryly.

  "This is your home now, 'Sabelle," he had told her. "Ye are free to do whatever ye please with regard to managing the estate. As ye are aware, I have paid scant attention to my keep. In fact, I am surprised ye even consulted me at all, knowing what a shambles I have made of my inheritance."

  "Ye have spent most of your time at Court and in battle, Warrick," the girl had said quickly, "and have had no wife to serve as chatelaine here at Hawkhurst. Ye are not to blame for that."

  "Aye, I am, and well I know it. Twas just that I became accustomed to a different way of life and scarcely thought of Hawkhurst as my home. I did not intend to marry, and so there seemed to be little point in pouring my hard-earned gold into the fortress."