Swan suppressed a yawn.
Jolly bustled in with a large tureen of broth and a ladle, setting them down on a trestle table. The lads brought wooden bowls. The cook filled one and offered it to the Earl. “My lord, please take sustenance before you depart, and milady Swan, you must eat before you rest.”
“You’re leaving, Papa?” Rodrick asked.
“Oui,” his father replied, sipping the broth. “I must get back to Ellesmere for Christmas Day, or your mother will never forgive me.”
Swan sighed. “I had forgotten the morrow is Christmas Day with this upset.”
Swan and Grace’s carefully planned celebrations had been ruined, but Jolly came to the rescue. “This horrible day is nearly over, and God willing our Master is on the way to recovery, but on the morrow you will have your Christmas feast if the lads and I have to toil through the night to assure it.”
The grinning scullery boys nodded in unison like puppets on strings.
Grace came into the Hall. Rodrick was relieved to see a smile on her face. “How does Bronson fare?” he asked.
His sister embraced Swan. “Thanks to you, I believe he will recover. He’s hungry.”
“I am beyond relieved to see you safely returned, Grace. It was more thanks to Lucia that my brother is still alive, but I was confident your presence would work miracles,” Swan replied as the two women clung together.
Rodrick’s father came to his feet. “Delicious broth. I must be off before it gets dark.”
He embraced his daughter. “Mayhap Jolly’s suggestion of a Christmas celebration might help Bronson on the road to recovery.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Thank you, Papa. Give my love to Maman.”
The Earl next kissed Swan’s hand. “It seems I am to be blessed with another beautiful daughter. I will petition Archbishop Theobald.”
She blushed and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, my lord Earl.”
He patted her softly on the back, then released her and turned to Rodrick. “Take care of your nose, mon fils. It looks painful.”
“In truth, I’d forgotten it,” he replied, touching his nose gingerly.
Grace scooped a bowl of broth. “This is for Bronson, Papa. Come with me to say goodbye.”
When they were finally alone Rodrick cupped Swan’s face in his hands. “Now, Swan FitzRam, it’s my bed for you.”
Her eyes filled with uncertainty, and a hint of desire.
He laughed. “Don’t worry. You can sleep in my room upstairs. I’ll be honorable, much as I want to make you mine. I’ll bed down in the Hall with Tybaut and the lads.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Rodrick vaguely heard the scullery boys scurrying off to the kitchens in the early hours of the morning to wake Jolly who slumbered in her cot behind the brick chimney. Tybaut snored on not too far away.
He fell back to sleep and wasn’t sure how much time had passed before his nostrils twitched—roasting venison. It evoked a memory of happy Yuletides at Ellesmere. But he had a sense this was a day of new traditions for him and Swan.
He turned over onto his side on the uncomfortable stone floor.
The Earldom of Ellesmere was his birthright. When he and Swan were granted permission to marry, she would be his Countess. His father had promised to petition the Archbishop of Canterbury. Surely his support carried weight?
Could he forsake her if permission was denied? To marry without the blessing of the Church meant abdicating the Earldom to his brother William—not a comforting thought. What would his great grandfather Ram have thought of such circumstances?
But being the Earl would mean nothing without Swan at his side.
Thoughts of the woman he loved, who was sleeping upstairs in the same house caused his manhood to stir. He intended to honor Swan by granting her what every maiden desired—to surrender their virginity on their wedding night. It was a gift he wanted for himself.
But it would be a simple matter to sneak quietly up the stairs and bring her pleasure—a Christmas gift if you will.
Unless Grace had decided to leave Bronson’s side and share Swan’s bed.
Rubbing her full belly, replete after eating too much of Jolly’s cooking, Swan thought she understood why Rodrick seemed to be in an ill humor. Sleeping on the stone floor would make any nobleman irritable, especially with a broken nose. She’d tossed and turned all night with worry for him. The aroma of roasted venison drifting up from the kitchen meant the lads had left the Hall, and she’d been tempted to sneak down the stairs, to check on how he fared. But the wooden steps creaked—something must be done to solve the noise—and Tybaut might still be abed.
But everyone should be joyful. It was Christmas Day after all!
Jolly had produced a mouth watering feast, filling platters with leeks, onions, carrots, winter chard and parsnips to accompany the venison. Swan wondered if there was anything left in the root cellar.
They’d been elated Bronson had been hale enough to be assisted to walk to the Hall by Rodrick and Tybaut. He’d relied heavily on their support, but it was a major step forward.
He looked exhausted now, sitting propped up by cushions in the master’s chair, dressed in a nightshirt and bedrobe, but he’d enjoyed himself and eaten heartily. She was glad Lucia had insisted on binding his wound. If he saw the stitches—
Grace had never stopped fussing over him, which Swan inwardly admitted made her jealous. It dismayed her.
“Did you not enjoy your meal?” she asked Rodrick seated beside her.
He shrugged, belching into his fist. “It was delicious. I ate too much.”
“Is your nose painful?”
“No.”
She squirmed in her seat, bothered by his sullen demeanor. “Do you wish you were at Ellesmere?”
He arched his brows, pressing his thigh against hers. “Why would you think that?”
She hated pouting. “You seem preoccupied.”
He exhaled deeply and took her hands in his. “The thoughts preoccupying me are to do with how much I love you and how desperately I want to make you mine. I’m sorry if I’ve been morose. Christmas is a special day for you.”
She giggled, feeling better. “It will be special for you too when I tell you what Tybaut has procured for dessert.”
His eyes widened. “Something I’m fond of?”
“Something you love.”
He nibbled her ear. “You?”
She shrugged her shoulder, pretending to be annoyed. “No. Marzipan and custard.”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “I do like marzipan, but I wouldn’t say—”
The secret burst forth. “With cobnuts!”
He frowned. “What?”
She feared perhaps Grace had got it wrong. “Cobnuts. Tybaut had them brought specially from Farnham in Surrey.”
An expression of pure delight crossed his features. “You mean hazelnuts.”
What a relief!
“Yes. In Northumbria we call them cobnuts.”
He came to his feet, tapping his goblet. Every eye turned to him. “Swan FitzRam,” he declared, “a man must declare his love when a woman procures hazelnuts for him.”
He bent to her ear. “Are they roasted?” he whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
She felt her face redden as his audience chuckled.
He picked up his goblet. “With your permission, Lord Bronson, I propose a toast to your sister.”
Bronson raised his goblet. “Only if we include your sister, Grace, who I suspect had much to do with fulfilling your desire for hazelnuts.”
Clearing his throat, Rodrick wiggled both eyebrows at Swan. “I drink to the health and long life of women who fulfill our desires. To Lady Swan and Lady Grace.”
Men-at-arms, tenant farmers, and servants raised their tankards and goblets and joined the toast.
Swan’s heart threatened to burst out of her chest.
Chin and nose in the air, shoulders squarely braced, Tybaut signaled for
the dessert to be served. Rodrick devoured the roasted hazelnuts before he touched the marzipan. To her surprise he suddenly came to his feet and hurried out of the Hall, returning a few moments later with one hand behind his back.
Instead of returning to his seat, he stood in the middle of the Hall, crooked his finger and beckoned Swan.
Curious and not a little nervous, she joined him.
He took her hand. “As everyone knows, one of my great grandfathers was a Welshman.”
Evidently some in the room hadn’t been aware of it if their murmurs of surprise were any indication. Rodrick ignored them. “I was named for Rhodri ap Owain who believed in many of the ancient Celtic traditions.
“I am a proud Norman, but cannot deny the Celtic blood flowing in my veins,” he continued, producing from behind his back a twig with green leaves and white berries which he held up for all to see.
Some laughed and cheered, apparently knowing what it was. From the glint in his eyes, Swan suspected she would soon learn the significance of the twig.
“Before the birth of Our Lord that we celebrate today,” Rodrick droned on with mock seriousness, “pagan peoples regarded Mistiltan as a representation of divine male essence.”
He winked at her.
The men in the hall oohed loudly, some elbowing their neighbors.
Rodrick raised his hand for calm. “The Celts used it as a remedy for barrenness in animals and a cure for poison.”
Silence suddenly ensued, all eyes on the heir of Ellesmere.
Rodrick waited, plainly relishing his control over the assembly. Her heart fluttered proudly in her chest.
“More importantly, when you have male essence, you have fertility and vitality.”
Loud guffaws broke the silence, accompanied by banging of tankards on tables.
“But!”
Everyone quieted as he raised the twig over Swan’s head.
“It only works if you kiss a maiden beneath it.”
Without warning he bent his head and took possession of her mouth with his warm lips. She tasted the fruit of the hazel tree, and knew in her heart it would forever evoke this Christmas memory. He kissed deeply, twirling his tongue with hers, all the while holding the sprig over their heads.
The loud cheering came to an abrupt end when one goblet banged more loudly than any other. Her brother’s voice caused her to pull away, afraid their public display had angered or offended him.
“Fetch that twig over here,” Bronson demanded, his voice slurred, “and hold it over me and Grace. I’ve a mind to kiss my most excellent nurse.”
Rodrick did as he bade. Swan watched Bronson lean his head back and accept a blushing Grace’s kiss. Perhaps the mingling of dwale and wine hadn’t been such a good idea. Would he recall the kiss on the morrow?
CHAPTER THIRTY
Twelve days after the Christmas celebrations, Grace was in two minds about the burning of the Yule Wreath. This would be the finale of Yuletide, and her last chance to force Bronson into admitting he loved her.
The day after Christmas, he’d lain in a stupor, complaining of a pounding headache.
Grace had fumed. Obviously the kiss beneath the mistiltan had happened as a result of imbibing wine on top of dwale.
For a few wild moments during the feast she had been a tavern wench lured into a kiss by a lusty warrior. And a rousing kiss it had been, firing her blood. Yet he seemed to barely recall anything of the celebrations.
Her fuming turned to worry when he lapsed into another bout of fever that lasted over the New Year and resulted in a subdued marking of the dawning of the year of Our Lord One Thousand One Hundred and Fifty-four.
As Master, Bronson should have been the first to enter the household at midnight with bread, and wood for burning, symbols of warmth and plenty for the coming year. Rodrick had taken his place. Grace thought her brother a more suitable person because of his dark hair, but she kept it to herself.
During Bronson’s relapse Lucia had been able to remove the bandages to check on the stitches. Everyone dreaded Bronson’s reaction if he saw them. His constant complaints about the itching was their justification for keeping them bound.
Swan was proud of the large wreath she’d fashioned and heartened when Bronson rallied the previous day and expressed a wish to attend the ceremonial burning.
The weather had turned mild and Grace’s heart skipped a beat as she watched Bronson walk outside slowly but unassisted and take his place on the bench in front of the already burning bonfire. Tybaut had lectured the stable boys endlessly about making the pile of wood big enough, but not too big, and had supervised the lighting as soon as the sun went down.
Bronson stretched out his long legs and held his hands to the fire, then rubbed them together, his red hair aglow in the light of the flames. He put his arm around Swan. “That’s a marvelous wreath you’ve made, sister. It’s a pity we have to burn it.”
She laughed, fluttering her eyelashes at Rodrick. “No, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll go first.”
She plucked a branch from the wreath, then closed her eyes and tossed it into the flames. “I wish to be married to Rodrick de Montbryce.”
Grace’s brother laughed as he selected his own branch. “Well, that’s no surprise!” He threw his cedar frond into the fire. “I wish to be married to Suannoch FitzRam.”
Grace’s heart filled with joy for her brother and Swan as they held hands, gazing at the brief flicker as the fire carried their wishes heavenward. But nervous apprehension crept in closely behind. Bronson had said nothing, his facial expression blank as he too peered into the flames, stroking his beard.
It was now or never. “My turn,” she said as she pulled at a frond with trembling hands. It resisted until Rodrick came to her rescue. She held the cedar out towards the fire. “I wish—”
She risked a glance at Bronson who still gazed into the flames. “I wish to be Mistress of Shelfhoc,” came out in a rush as she threw the cedar, missing the fire completely.
Her brother kicked her offering into the flames. “Has to burn or your wish won’t come true,” he said, looking at Bronson.
Some creature gnawed at her innards as Swan held the remnants of the wreath in front of Bronson. “Your turn, Master of Shelfhoc.”
He accepted the garland and gripped it in both hands before throwing it to the center of the fire. “I wish to be rid of the ghosts of the past,” he declared.
No one spoke. At first the wreath threatened to smother the fire. Smoke filled the air. Then the cedar boughs crackled and hissed in protest as the flames again took hold. Bronson raised his head to look at Grace, fire dancing in his eyes. He scratched his chest. “And for this infernal itching to cease.”
Bronson was on fire. The flames heated his face. His chest prickled with the stings of a thousand barbed insects. He hated the itchy beard and moustache and longed for a shave. But it was his burning passion for Grace that would no longer be denied. He was grateful when Swan and Rodrick slipped away, leaving him alone with the woman he loved. “I told you once I will never marry again,” he said.
She kept her gaze fixed on the fire, hands clasped in her lap.
“You never asked me why.”
Her knuckles turned white. “I assumed you are still in love with your first wife.”
Had he loved either of his wives? Certainly he’d liked them, been comfortable with them, and enjoyed making love to their bodies. But he’d never been consumed with wanting as he was with Grace. “No, that’s not it.”
She glanced up at him, then looked back at the dying fire.
“I was married twice.”
Now she stared at him, open mouthed.
“Both died.”
Strangely, he was calm now when he spoke of their deaths. The next part would be difficult. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat, but Grace guessed his torment.
“They died in childbirth,” she murmured hoarsely.
He clamped his hands on his knees.
&
nbsp; “You lost both babes.”
Only glowing embers remained of the fire. If he stared hard enough mayhap the pain would go away. “I couldn’t bear it if the same thing happened to you, Grace.”
To his surprise, she leapt from the bench and came to stand between him and the fire, hands on hips.
The fire no longer warmed him, but he suddenly felt hotter when he looked up at her face.
“Foolish man. Every woman fears death in childbirth, but we accept the possibility because children bring joy, and love. No one would make a better father than you, Bronson. And I will be an excellent mother. Give me the chance. Don’t deny what we might have because you are afraid. I love you, and you love me.”
She moved to sit beside him on the bench. He turned to look at her, warmed by the love burning in her eyes. “I do love you, Grace, more than you can imagine. I’ve tried to deny it, fearful of facing the pain again. If I lost you—”
“—you would condemn us both to a lonely life of frustrated love.”
He looked back at the embers. Perhaps they did hold the answer. Grace’s words made sense. A leaden weight lifted from his heart. “I want to scoop you up in my arms and carry you to my bed, Grace de Montbryce, but—”
She leaned her head against his arm. “I know. You’d break open your stitches.”
He chuckled. “You mean the ones on my embroidered chest?”
She looked at him in alarm. “You knew?”
He arched his brows. “I’m good at feigning sleep.”
Tybaut appeared out of nowhere. “May I douse the fire now, my lord?”
Bronson came slowly to his feet. “Yes, faithful Steward. Thank you.” He proffered his elbow to Grace. “The future mistress of Shelfhoc will see me safely into the house.”
Tybaut grinned, beckoning to the shivering stable lads who appeared with buckets of water.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Rodrick rode away from Shelfhoc with a heavy heart and tired limbs. After the wreath ceremony he’d dozed all night in a chair in front of the hearth in the Hall, Swan on his lap. Sweet torture it had been!
Sinful Passions Page 14