Sinful Passions

by Anna Markland

  Rodrick grinned. “Leave them to me.”

  Swan’s constant chewing of her lower lip and sideways glances were getting on Grace’s nerves. Her cousin obviously had something she wanted to say.

  “Ouch!” Swan suddenly exclaimed, sticking a finger in her mouth. “I’ve stabbed myself again with this cursed needle. I hate sewing.”

  “No wonder,” Grace countered. “Your mind is elsewhere, certainly not on the stitches. Careful you don’t bleed on the linen.”

  Swan smiled. “You know me well. I was daydreaming of Rodrick.”

  And I of Bronson.

  “Bronson wants to spend Yuletide at Shelfhoc.”

  Grace’s heart did a somersault. Had Swan read her mind? Or perhaps Bronson had somehow divined her longing to go to Shelfhoc with him. She held her tongue, afraid she might babble like an infant.

  “He’s asked me to accompany him. I want to go, but not if it means being apart from Rodrick. I cannot go alone with two men.”

  Swan wanted her along as a chaperone. Or did she? One of the men was her brother—hardly a risky escort. She’d traveled from Northumbria with him as her only companion apart from the men-at-arms who’d accompanied them.

  She had to refuse. Celebrating Christ’s birth and welcoming the New Year with Bronson in the house she had worked hard to prepare had been her dearest wish and her worst nightmare. Better to be far away from him, enjoying the entertainers at Ellesmere. There would be no such distractions at Shelfhoc, though she guessed the servants would perform some mummery.

  “You want me to accompany you?”

  Dismayed by her lack of resolve, she poked at an ill-made stitch in her embroidery, intending to unpick it. She cursed under her breath when the needle punctured her flesh. A tiny blob of blood bubbled to the surface of her skin, and sat there like a raindrop on a leaf. She stared at it, close to tears.

  “Don’t worry,” Swan reassured her. “It will soon stop bleeding.”

  It’s not the wound that’s painful.

  “Will you come with us?”

  I cannot.

  “Yes. If Bronson allows it.”

  “Leave him to me,” Swan replied.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Despite the cold weather, Bronson savored the journey to Shelfhoc, his expectations high. A light dusting of snow shone white under the brilliant sunshine. He and Rodrick rode together at the rear, Swan and Grace in the midst of the column of men-at-arms, many of whom had accompanied him from Northumbria. It was reassuring there would be familiar faces among the brigade protecting Shelfhoc.

  Village folk they encountered seemed content and unafraid, despite the deep chill. It was a far cry from the journey from the north. Mayhap Advent, traditionally a time of cease-fire, gave folk a chance to get on with their lives again, or perhaps they sensed peace on the horizon at last.

  Grace and Swan bubbled with excitement as they crested the rise of the rampart ditch around his new home. He understood why. The house was impressive—smaller than Kirkthwaite, with more wood than stone in its construction, but far more imposing than anything they’d seen since leaving Ellesmere.

  Bronson dismounted, his eyes wandering over the façade of his domain. Pride surged through his veins. “Your namesake great grandmother must have married a Saxon with great wealth,” he said dryly to Swan.

  Swan smiled as a stable lad came to her aid. “Aye. And a good thing for us Thane Woolgar fell at Hastings, one of King Harold’s housecarls who fought to the death.”

  Rodrick tsked loudly as he took over from the stable boy, lifting her down from Cob. “Now, now, let’s not get into that can of worms.”

  The lad walked over to assist Grace.

  It didn’t feel right to Bronson. He quickly motioned the boy away and put his hands on Grace’s waist to help her dismount. “I’m lord of this manor now. It’s my duty to welcome you, all of you, to my domain.”

  Blushing, Grace put her hands on his shoulders, but then pouted, her body stiff, back rigid.

  Why is it I always say the wrong thing to this woman?

  He took his hands off her waist and stepped away.

  A man he supposed from his sister’s description must be Tybaut the Steward, hurried out of the house, accompanied by two dogs. Apparently Edwin had been very attached to these animals, but Bronson didn’t recognise the breed. Compared to his father’s mastiffs in Northumbria they were small. They bounded over to Bronson and sniffed him, tails wagging furiously.

  Rodrick arched his brows. “I’ve never received such a welcome from Edwin’s dogs. They normally bark their heads off.”

  “They seem happy to meet you,” Grace murmured. “They are hovawarts, descendants of two dogs given to Edwin by his German brother-by-marriage, Dieter von Wolfenberg. They are known as guardians of their masters rather than watchdogs.”

  Bronson hunkered down, surprised when both dogs allowed him to pet them, then rolled over to have their bellies scratched.

  “Welcome back Mesdames, Milord Rodrick,” Tybaut said effusively, bowing low. Then he turned to Bronson. “Milord Bronson FitzRam, welcome to your new home. It appears Bendik and Becca have adopted their new master. It was my privilege to serve your uncle Edwin in the tradition of generations of my family, and it will be an honor to be your Steward. If I may say, I see a resemblance to your uncle, except for—”

  He touched a hand to his thinning hair, his eyes darting to Bronson’s face, obviously relieved when his new lord laughed as he stood up again. “I’m taller too.”

  Tybaut smiled broadly. “You are. Come in, come in.”

  “We had tiles put down in the Hall,” Swan gushed as they entered the main part of the lower story, the dogs hard on Bronson’s heels.

  He wondered who had paid for such a luxurious addition.

  “It was Grace’s idea,” his sister said.

  Grace blushed, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Don’t worry, Uncle Edwin left ample funds for such a project. And I did write to ask your permission.”

  Indeed she had, but at the time he hadn’t grasped the scope of the improvement. “I like it,” he said lamely.

  She pursed her lips, evidently expecting more. “I’m sorry, I thought you would love it.”

  It was a stunning floor, and he wanted to tell her, but all he managed was. “I do.”

  “And we’ll show you plans for the smoke vent in the roof to be replaced by a chimney,” Swan continued. “We didn’t have time to start that task.”

  He looked up. Most of the smoke from the hearty fire in the open hearth did indeed disappear through a hole in the thatched roof, though some of it lingered in the rafters.

  “A chimney would be an improvement,” he conceded, hoping to make amends to Grace.

  “It was my idea,” Swan crowed. “Like at Kirkthwaite.”

  Tybaut ushered them into a passageway. “On the right we have the pantry.”

  The Steward had to restrain the dogs from following Bronson inside while he inspected the provisions. Ducks, rabbits, pigeons, blackbirds and other game hung from the ceiling beams. Shelves groaned under wheels of cheese. He shivered, missing the warmth of the Hall.

  “But no swans,” Swan asserted. “I forbade it.”

  Rodrick laughed loudly and kissed her cheek. “Of course not.”

  Tybaut cleared his throat. “Yes, well, and here we have the Buttery.”

  Three barrels of ale and a cask of wine had been crammed into the confined space. “Quite a stock,” he observed.

  Beaming with pride, Tybaut tapped the side of his nose as if to say, You’ve seen nothing yet. He opened a stout doorway which led to a covered walkway. “Milord Edwin had this built to protect people walking back and forth to the kitchens from the elements.”

  Since it was unlikely Edwin had ever set foot in the kitchens, Bronson deemed this a kindness shown by his uncle to his household staff.

  The stone kitchen was large, the spit big enough to roast an ox. He noted the quality o
f the pewter utensils. Three scullery lads grinned at him and bowed and scraped as if he was the King himself. Tybaut brushed them away as if they were irritating flies, then introduced a rotund, red faced toothless woman named Jolly, the Cook, who was the personification of her name. She offered each of them a pastry, which he ate in two bites. “Delicious, Jolly. I was starving and I love savory pastries. You’re going to make me fat.”

  Her face reddened further as she giggled.

  Tybaut seemed impatient to usher them to another room built onto the side of the kitchen. “Milord Edwin had this brewhouse added where we produce the finest ale in all Salop. That’s what’s in the barrels.”

  Mayhap Edwin had ventured to the kitchens.

  “I look forward to tasting it.”

  “Tybaut is right,” Rodrick confirmed with a chuckle. “I can attest to its quality.”

  Returning to the kitchen, Tybaut directed them into another alcove with a large brick oven. “Milord Edwin loved fresh breads and pastries, and this bakehouse is the result.”

  Bronson had expected a fairly comfortable dwelling, but Shelfhoc’s amenities were a pleasant surprise.

  Upon re-entering the house, Swan pushed him to the private solar on the other side of the Hall. “We had new fabric soaked in resin and tallow added to the latticework in the windows,” she explained. “But Grace and I are of the opinion you should replace them with glass, like the ones in the upstairs rooms.”

  “We have a glazier at the castle,” Grace whispered as they climbed the stairs. “And I hope you don’t mind that we brought some tapestries from Ellesmere’s storage rooms. A place seems warmer with hangings on the walls.”

  Bronson hated the sound of defeat in her voice. She had put time and effort into making his home comfortable, and he seemed unable to thank her appropriately. But if he softened his demeanor towards her, he was afraid he would babble out his obsession.

  Resolved to praise her efforts, his mouth fell open when Tybaut opened the door to the master’s chamber. A massive four poster bed dominated the space.

  Swan rushed forward and leapt onto the mattress, giggling. “Why do you suppose Uncle Edwin needed such a large bed?” She fluttered her eyelashes at Rodrick. “I slept here—but it will be the Master’s bed now. Rodrick can sleep in the smaller chamber at the other end of the landing, and Grace and I will get pallets arranged in the solar downstairs.”

  Grace blushed and Bronson felt his own face redden. Luxurious as the bed was, it would be a lonely place.

  Why not admit he was a man who needed a woman, not only for his physical needs, but as a friend, a companion, a helpmate? He needed Grace.

  “Feel the warmth up here too?” Swan asked. “We had the plaster on some parts of the outer wattle and daub renewed where it had deteriorated.”

  He sat on the edge of the overstuffed mattress. “You ladies have indeed worked hard to make my home comfortable, and it’s evident the estate has been well stewarded, Tybaut. I thank you all.”

  Swan stood directly in front of him, hands on hips. “Grace and I deserve a kiss and a hearty embrace.”

  His scheming sister was up to something. Coming to his feet, he glanced at Grace as he embraced Swan and kissed her on one cheek, then the other, delaying the moment of truth. Would his body betray him when he touched Grace? Of course it would. The tingling had already begun when he’d lifted her off the horse.

  Watching Edwin’s dogs delight in Bronson’s attention, Grace had been tempted to fall to the frozen ground and beg to be similarly stroked and petted. This man was turning her into a lunatic. As soon as she’d set foot in Shelfhoc again, the familiar warm feeling of homecoming had swept over her.

  But she must be rid of these thoughts. Shelfhoc belonged to Bronson, a man who didn’t love her. It was obvious from the smoldering look in his half-hooded eyes as he approached to claim his kiss that his thoughts were on carnal matters. How he would laugh if he discovered she was still a maiden. Bronson likely preferred experienced women who knew how to please a man. She’d been a dismal failure in that regard. Victor had never shown the slightest interest in her as a woman. There must be something in her men found repellent.

  He loomed over her. “Thank you, Grace. For everything. Merci.”

  She remembered the first time he’d kissed her. It had been awkward for them both, but exhilarating for her at least. Had he felt anything? Then there’d been the kiss in the bailey, which had left little doubt.

  He put his hands on her shoulders. She stifled an urge to moan as her knees threatened to buckle. Could he tell she was trembling? He bent to kiss one cheek, then the other. She opened her mouth to tell him he was welcome, but his lips descended on hers. Aware of the presence of her brother and Swan, not to mention Tybaut, she held her body rigid as his tongue explored inside her mouth. She tasted the aromatic spices of the pastry he’d eaten a short time before.

  Her heart bounced around inside her ribcage when his arms slid around her. He lifted his head. “Don’t worry, they’re gone.”

  Confused, she scanned the chamber. Only Bendik and Becca remained, sitting obediently, watching them. A languid heat stole over her. Mayhap the travelling back and forth had brought on an ague. His body offered strength and comfort. She relaxed against him, feeling the unmistakable hardness of male interest. Perhaps—

  The room tilted when he pulled away from her and rasped, “I am drawn to you, Grace, but I will never marry again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As Yuletide progressed Rodrick was enjoying the celebrations more than he ever had at Ellesmere. It had been incumbent upon his parents to sponsor lavish festivities, but there was something to be said for the more intimate surroundings of Shelfhoc.

  He’d never paid much mind before to the preparations, but now he savored the delight Swan and his sister took in their handiwork.

  They decorated the Hall with ivy, holly, and boughs of evergreens. Tybaut had procured ribbons in Shrewsbury and the women used them to embellish the garlands and wreaths and the Yule Tree.

  Swan fashioned a large Yule Wreath from cedar boughs, the scent of the aromatic wood filling the air. Everyone would make a wish on it when they celebrated Epiphany gathered around a bonfire outside the house, then it would be burned. She’d asked him to hold the boughs as she fastened them together.

  “Guess what I plan to wish for,” he teased.

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him, igniting sparks that lit a fire in his couilles. “A horse?” she asked innocently.

  He smiled indulgently. “No. Guess again.”

  “Mmmm. Lots of vegetables with your venison on Christmas Day?”

  He grimaced, leaning forward to nibble her earlobe. “No!”

  She blushed, but didn’t shy away. “You’re distracting me, Rodrick.”

  “I have achieved my goal, then,” he replied with a grin.

  “You seem to be enjoying yourself here at Shelfhoc.”

  “I am,” he admitted. “But I’d enjoy being anywhere with you.”

  She pouted. “I only wish we had mummers to look forward to. Tybaut has made enquiries in Shrewsbury, but we are late in asking. At home we had Morris dancers, mummers and sword dancers come from the surrounding communities to perform for us.”

  “Sword dancers? Sounds like a tale my father told me about Izzy de Montbryce, a distant cousin in Normandie.”

  “Yes, Izzy married Farah who had learned to perform the sword dance during her captivity in Jerusalem.”

  Rodrick shook his head. “I keep forgetting you and I are related. You know as much of the folklore of this family as I do.”

  “Probably. We may be FitzRams but we are still part of the Montbryce clan. Anyway, I don’t enjoy the sword dances. For Izzy it was a dance of love, but I cover my eyes when the dancers leap over the sharp weapons and twirl intricate patterns in the air with them. The dance inevitably ends with a mock death, but the victim is revived by the physician who does the same for the dead hero in t
he Mummer plays.”

  He feigned a grimace. “Good. We don’t want any dead heroes.”

  Christmas Eve dawned clear and bitterly cold. Tybaut entered the Hall as everyone was enjoying fresh baked black bread with the bacon and leek soup Jolly had prepared. “Your pardon, milord Bronson,” he said breathlessly, his face flushed, nose red. “A Christmas miracle! I was out looking for the dogs when I was summoned to the gatehouse. A wandering troupe of Morris Dancers has happened by on the way to Shrewsbury. They were promised a night’s lodging in Oswestry, but apparently a heavy snowfall has blocked the route. They asked if they can stay in the stables in exchange for a performance this night.”

  Swan clapped her hands. Her prayers had been answered. “Yes, yes, please say yes, Bronson. It will be more like home if we at least have Morris dancing.”

  Bronson hesitated. “Oswestry isn’t far, is it? Strange no snow fell here.”

  “True, milord,” Tybaut replied, rubbing his red hands together. “However, Oswestry is closer to the Welsh mountains. I took the liberty of allowing them into the stables.”

  “I suppose I should interview them.”

  Rodrick came to his feet. “I’ll accompany you. The women can remain indoors where it’s warm.”

  Bronson waved him back to his seat. “Everyone stay here. Tybaut you look frozen to the bone. Go to the kitchen and get some of this delicious soup. It will take but a few moments to ensure they know what they are doing.” He smiled at his sister. “I don’t want Swan to be disappointed.”

  Wrapped in his warm woolen cloak Bronson stepped out into the chill of the morning. The cold never bothered him. Winters in Northumbria were far more severe. He surveyed the courtyard, then lifted his gaze to the stables and thence to the fields beyond his domain, inhaling deeply, relishing the sight of his breath on the frigid air. He wondered idly where the ever-present dogs had gotten to. Probably chasing rabbits.

  Swan was right. He loved Shelfhoc already, felt at home here, but Yuletide in the FitzRam household had been memorable, an important family time. Morris Dancers would make it more like home. He closed his eyes, conjuring an image of his father and mother, no doubt celebrating Swan’s reprieve from the nunnery. But they’d be missing two of their offspring.