“I’m sure my father has it in hand already.”
Meeting her Montbryce cousins had filled Swan with apprehension, yet they seemed genuinely concerned for her. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for my freedom. I can assure you I have a long list of things I want to accomplish I thought I never would.”
She had hoped to bring a smile to his face now they had a chance to enjoy her freedom together, but he frowned. “It was none of my doing.”
Never one to keep her thoughts to herself, she was about to ask if he had spoken to his father when his sister entered the chamber.
“I heard a commotion,” Grace said, unable to take her eyes off the broad smile that lit Bronson’s face. He must have learned of King David’s death and realized its implications for his sister. The weight of his duty to deliver her to the convent had indeed been heavy if the frowning scowl she’d been used to was any indication.
His hair had come loose from its braid, probably during the ride. It was easily as long as her own. She itched to sift her fingers through the thick copper glory that cloaked his shoulders. His normally pursed lips were full, his green eyes wide.
She wished she hadn’t left her chamber clad only in her nightgown and bedrobe.
“Swan is free,” he exclaimed. “She can accompany me to Shelfhoc.”
She supposed this news must have lightened her brother’s heart too, yet he seemed unsure, unusual for the decisive Rodrick. Dragging her eyes away from Bronson, she embraced Swan. “I am relieved for you, cousin. I know what it is to live in a place you hate. Welcome back to your life.”
“Thank you, Grace,” Swan replied quietly.
Something was amiss. What had happened to her cousin’s exuberance?
Bronson swallowed the lump constricting his throat when Grace entered the chamber. Her auburn hair flowed over her shoulders. He wanted to bury his nose in it and inhale her scent. What was this alchemy she seemed to have over him?
Her face reddened when his gaze fell on her. Perhaps she felt something between them, or was she dismayed to have come upon two men while dressed in her night attire?
He didn’t welcome the insistent tug in his balls. He’d be glad to leave for Shelfhoc, forget her, and concentrate on settling into his new home.
He deliberately wiped his happiness for Swan from his face, thinking to turn his attention back to his sister, thus demonstrating his lack of interest. His resolve deserted him at the sight of Grace’s crestfallen face. “Perhaps you might want to accompany us when we depart.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Did you speak to your father?”
“I did.”
“And?”
Most men wouldn’t appreciate Swan’s forthright insistence, but Rodrick supposed years of tit for tat with his twin who never gave an inch in any argument had prepared him. He actually thought it endearing. Better a woman with spirit. A pleasant tingling in the nether regions followed this notion. “He foresees problems.”
“But he didn’t dismiss the idea out of hand?”
“Idea?” he teased.
Swan folded her arms. “You know what I mean.”
“No. He suggests I consult the priest.”
Swan blinked rapidly which did nothing to dissuade the interest of his couilles. “When can we go?”
“Not we. Papa and I will go.”
“He agreed to accompany you?”
“It was his suggestion.”
She pouted. He groaned inwardly at the prospect of those full lips on his shaft. He dragged his attention back to the matter at hand. “It’s late. Get some sleep. On the morrow we’ll discuss what happens next. The important thing is you don’t have to go to the convent.”
Bronson pecked a kiss on Swan’s cheek. “Until the morrow, sister, I must escort our cousin back to her chamber.” He sauntered out the door, Grace on his arm.
Rodrick was alone with Swan for the first time.
She stared at him provocatively, the corners of her mouth edging up. “Are you going to kiss me goodnight?”
He moved to stand in front of her, but left a space between them. “If I kiss you, Swan, I won’t want to stop there.”
She frowned slightly. “Are you certain this is what you want, Rodrick?”
He had to admire her. Women were expected to acquiesce to a man’s wishes and wait for him to take the lead. He put his hands on her waist. “If I pressed my body to yours you would see hard evidence this is what I want. You’ve bewitched me.”
She stood on tiptoe and brushed a kiss on his lips, teasing him with her tongue. He gasped when she thrust her hips forward, sending liquid fire flooding through his veins. He cupped her face, deepening the kiss, wanting to savor the warmth of her sweet mouth. Their tongues dueled, parry and thrust, parry and thrust, until it came to him their hips were imitating the movement and she was whimpering. Any more of this and—
He broke them apart.
“I see what you mean,” she said with a sly smile.
“You want me as much as I want you,” he rasped.
“Mayhap more,” she replied in a sultry voice that would echo in his head all night long.
Swan doubted she would get much sleep. Rodrick was gone, but her body still hummed with the pleasant tingling sensations he’d caused with his kisses.
Her mind buzzed too. Life now held promise. Despair had turned to hope for a future filled with love and laughter. She was relieved for Bronson too. She’d seen the anguish on his face when they met the Superior at Whitchurch. He seemed taken with Grace, and she with him. What a coincidence—two redheads! She hoped her cousin wouldn’t get too interested in Bronson. He would never marry again after the double tragedies he’d suffered. Her heart ached for her brother. He was a man who doted on children. It seemed unfair. Their brothers Symon and Ingram had both spawned large, boisterous families.
Perhaps Bronson was destined to be alone, like Edwin who had deeded Shelfhoc to him. Edwin had probably deduced their two older brothers would never leave Northumbria, but Bronson was a third son with no ties.
If it wasn’t for her feelings for Rodrick, she would have happily been the lady of Shelfhoc, following in the footsteps of her great grandmother. She chided herself. There was no guarantee Rodrick would follow through on his professed sentiments. Perhaps if it became too difficult to secure permission to wed, he’d lose interest.
But the memory of his kisses had her praying fervently such a thing didn’t happen.
CHAPTER NINE
After the departure of their guests, Rodrick and his father strolled to the Church built by Ram de Montbryce. They paused for a few moments to watch men at work on the tower. They had sent word of their coming, alerting the priest to be prepared to see them. Brilliant afternoon sunshine warmed their faces. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. “The day augurs well,” he remarked.
His father turned to him. “I don’t want to sound pessimistic, but our priest is an old man, not renowned for his modern thinking. He’s lived a celibate life. Who knows if he’s ever had feelings for a woman? It’s unlikely he’ll be sympathetic.”
Rodrick clenched his fists. He had indeed been a babe in arms when Père Rigord had arrived at Ellesmere. “This is ridiculous. He will refuse to marry us because we share a great grandfather?”
His father squinted into the sun. “I agree. Years ago it was common for cousins to marry, particularly in noble families. But intermarriage resulted in problems, so the church went to the other extreme and demanded at least four generations of separation. Some still cling to the rigid rule.”
“If I have to crawl on my knees to the Pope, I will marry Swan.”
His father put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged. If you truly love this woman, I’ll not be the one to keep you apart. I spent too much time trying to deny my feelings for your mother. I admire your determination to marry the woman you want.”
Rodrick was aware of his father’s disastrous first marriage, but it was rare for
him to reveal such personal details.
“I don’t have much experience of love, Papa, except what you and Maman have shared openly, but part of me will cease to exist if I lose Swan.”
His father chuckled. “Then you’re definitely in love. Let’s waste no more time. If we don’t get satisfaction from Père Rigord, we’ll decide on our next course of action. My concern is that you are my heir. We don’t want things to come to a point where your right to inherit might be jeopardised. Much as I love William and Stephen, you’re the one who’ll make the better Earl.”
He had set out on this mission with high hopes. Now his heart was in his boots. He had never imagined pursuit of his happiness with Swan might put his inheritance in doubt.
Never one to sit and wait patiently, Swan paced back and forth in the gallery where she and Rodrick’s mother and sisters had gathered to wait.
“Would you care to attempt some embroidery?” the Countess asked. “It helps to pass the time when you’re waiting for news.”
Swan wanted to scream she hated embroidery—always had, always would—but Rodrick’s mother was letting her know she understood.
“No, thank you. I’m not much good at it,” she replied.
The Countess held out a hooped linen, complete with needle and threads. “I never was either. My sister, Fermentine, loved embroidery and she and I, well, let’s just say anything she liked, I didn’t. I’ve improved with practice. It’s taught me patience.”
Swan accepted the sampler as Rodrick and the Earl came into the gallery. Their faces betrayed that the interview hadn’t gone in their favor. She clutched the embroidery to her breast. “He said no.”
“I expected as much,” the Earl replied.
His apparent disappointment was heartening, and Rodrick looked positively stricken. She wanted to kiss the frown away from his brow, but touching him in front of his parents would be inappropriate. “I suppose I did too,” she replied.
To her relief, Rodrick took her hand and brushed a kiss on her knuckles.
“We’ll find a way,” he said with such conviction she almost believed it possible.
CHAPTER TEN
Rodrick was filled with an urge to kiss away the tears welling in Swan’s eyes, but simply taking her hand had caught his parents’ attention. “We will find a way,” he repeated, but her frown betrayed her uncertainty.
“Père Rigord is a local priest set in his ways. He is not the Church’s highest authority. We’ll go to the bishop.”
His mother threw her embroidery onto a nearby chair with a skeptical grunt he recognised well. Much as he loved her, he wished she hadn’t added to Swan’s consternation.
Minutes of silence dragged by.
The normally reticent Aurore came to the rescue. “There’s the Pope,” she offered.
Her father’s reply was interrupted when Steward Bonhomme appeared unexpectedly, accompanied by Robert of Leicester. Everyone came to their feet, surprised by the return of the Earl who had left Ellesmere only two hours before.
“Robert, welcome back,” the Countess said, proffering her hand.
Leicester brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Forgive my abrupt entry. I received a message that prompted my return.”
Rodrick’s heart plummeted to his boots. He sensed before Leicester revealed his mission it would be a call to arms.
“Stephen has laid siege to Wallingford.”
Everyone in the gallery knew Wallingford was loyal to Maud and Prince Henry.
“It’s location on the River Thames is apparently too close to Westminster for the king’s comfort,” Leicester went on. “Henry is marching to relieve the siege. If he succeeds in routing Stephen, an end to the civil war might be at hand.”
His father didn’t hesitate. “Rodrick, alert our men. Tell them to be ready to march at dawn. It will take at least four days to get there. Seek out William and Stephen—and Bronson. Bring them to the Chart Room.”
Leicester clapped a hand on Gallien de Montbryce’s shoulder. “Good man. I’ve sent a message on to my troops. I’ll depart with you and meet up with them en route.”
The Earls left to discuss strategy. This call to action had fired Rodrick’s warrior blood. “At long last we may see an end to the anarchy gripping England.”
None of the females replied, but their faces betrayed their anxiety. He supposed that was the way of it for women whose men went off to war. He squeezed Swan’s hand, now gone alarmingly cold, and left to organise Ellesmere’s fighting men.
Swan’s blood had turned to ice. Had she stumbled upon a man who fired her body and her spirit only to lose him in battle? One moment life held promise, the next it was snatched away. And her brother would be expected to join the fray. She shivered, despite the Countess’s warm arm around her shoulders.
“This is the way of it, Swan. Every Englishwoman has felt your fear. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve sent Gallien off to fight, in large conflicts and small, and it never gets any easier.”
Swan’s palms were sweating. “I suppose I am being selfish. I’ve come to care for your son.”
“What of Bronson?” Grace suddenly blurted out.
Her mother eyed her curiously. “Of course Swan is worried for her dear brother too.”
Grace reddened. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s only, er, well, I had hoped perhaps to accompany the two of you to Shelfhoc.”
The reminder that Bronson’s claim to his inheritance would now be delayed saddened Swan. She didn’t want to wait idly at Ellesmere. Inactivity and endless hours of embroidery and sewing loomed large. An idea occurred to her. “You and I should go. To prepare the hall for Bronson’s return.”
Grace clapped her hands together. “What a good idea. You don’t mind, maman?”
The Countess smiled. “If Bronson agrees, I have no objection. I’ll instruct Bonhomme to gather a crew of servants to assist you.”
Grace had allowed her dismay at Bronson’s imminent departure to control her tongue. She must be more careful. There was no point revealing her feelings. Her body heated whenever she set eyes on him. Nay she had only to think of him for strange tinglings to pervade her veins.
It was evident Rodrick and Swan would have difficulty obtaining permission to marry.
Bronson hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her.
But ahead lay the promise of at least doing something to prepare his new home for his return. She was certain she and Swan were destined to be good friends.
If the worst happened and the men fell at Wallingford, they would both need a shoulder to weep on. She glanced at her mother. Peri de Montbryce risked the loss of her husband and three sons in the coming conflict, she and Aurore their father and brothers. It would be an intolerable loss, for their family and for the Earldom. But the sharpest ache in her heart was the possibility Bronson might die without knowing of her feelings for him.
“Let’s find my brother and explain our plan,” Swan urged, jolting Grace out of her reverie.
Bronson was on his way to the Chart Room, having met with Rodrick and William who had imparted the news of the march to Wallingford. Rodrick had been impressed when he’d had no hesitation in committing to the fight. His cousin’s apparent surprise was irksome. The FitzRams might be the illegitimate branch of the family, but Ram de Montbryce’s blood ran in their veins as hotly as in the Montbryces’.
He was disappointed his possession of Shelfhoc had to be delayed. Swan would be dismayed. She’d never been known for her patience. Waiting at Ellesmere for news from the battlefront would drive her out of her wits.
Why not suggest she go to Shelfhoc without him? Perhaps Grace could accompany her as they’d planned. He rather liked the notion of the auburn haired widow helping to prepare for his eventual homecoming. He’d never had a home of his own.
If he came home. There was the possibility of suffering mortal wounds in any battle. A mere scratch often putrefied. Only the other evening, Uncle Gallien had told the tale
of the Conqueror’s grandson, William Clito dying a painful death in Flandres when a seemingly harmless hand wound from a lance turned gangrenous. He had been there, had seen the infantryman thrust his lance into Clito’s hand.
A warrior acknowledged and accepted the dangers. But for some reason it bothered him that if he didn’t return from Wallingford he would never know if Grace cared for him or not.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rodrick paced in his chamber, still fully clothed though it was well past midnight. He’d spent an exhausting day supervising preparations for the morrow. Ellesmere’s armory was always stockpiled with sharpened swords, lances, arrows, daggers, its soldiers highly trained and battle ready. Damaged shields were either repaired or thrown out. Life in the Welsh Marches was precarious despite that four score and seven years had passed since the Norman Conquest, a reality many Welsh rebels still refused to accept.
Steward Bonhomme’s efficiency at ensuring the castle was well provisioned meant Rodrick didn’t have to worry about food for the troops on the four day march.
There were good quality tents and pavilions aplenty for the nobles and knights.
The Montbryces who had fought at Hastings were Norman cavalrymen whose lives often depended on their mounts. The stables at Montbryce holdings, from Alensonne, to Domfort, to Belisle, to Montbryce itself in Normandie, and from Ellesmere to the vast Sussex estates they controlled, all were renowned for the care they lavished on their horses.
The Ellesmere army would arrive at Wallingford well fed, well prepared, and immaculately turned out, their armor and surcoats clean and in good repair. Every Earl since Ram de Montbryce had taken pride in their fighting men. A military man who enjoyed the fruits of life fought harder to stay alive.
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