The Wolves of Brittany Collection: A Romance Bundle Books 1-3

by Victoria Vane

  “I was beginning to wonder if you would come,” she said.

  Roland stepped toward her slowly, as if she was a deer in his sights, and he did not want to frighten her away. He moved with remarkable grace for such a large man. He must have learned grace from swordplay and on horseback, because he had been clumsy and gangling when he had left her as a child.

  He stopped a foot away from her, but did not touch her. She could feel the warmth of his body on her own, warmer than the heat from the fire. She stepped toward him and looked into his eyes. “Why are we doing this?”

  He reached out and touched her cheek, the calluses on his palms that came from holding sword and reins rough against her skin.

  “Because I love you.”

  His hand moved up into her hair, and he drew her toward him until their bodies were touching. Mati felt her desire rise, even as her heart swelled with love for him, and her breath caught. Roland lowered his head slowly, watching her eyes as he bent toward her. “Don’t worry about tomorrow, Mati. I love you. I will care for you. You have to trust me.”

  “I trust you already.”

  His mouth seized hers and she thought he might devour her with his wanting. He pressed her against him so that his sword belt dug into her ribs.

  He slowed himself, his hands gentling on her body as his lips turned gentle on her mouth. His kiss skated over her cheek, and up to her temple, where he breathed in the scent of her hair. His touch had softened, but she could feel his hunger behind his restraint. He nibbled on her earlobe, breathing gently into her ear.

  “I love you, Roland. God help me.”

  He did not answer but lifted her and laid her on the feather mattress. They made love for the second time in her bed, and Mat was overwhelmed by pleasure and joy both.

  Roland took a deep breath of the scent of her hair that still smelled of honey and wildflowers. “I love you, Mati.”

  She kissed him, and held onto him as if she had been shipwrecked, and he was the only stable thing in the world.

  He pulled away from her, if only a little, and held himself back on one elbow, watching her face. She tried to stay awake, tried to keep her eyes on his. But the sweet warmth of sleep rose up and caught her in its hand, and she relaxed against him, cradled in his warmth.

  Roland left her early the next morning, before the servants started stirring. Mati rolled over and tried to hold him, but he untangled himself from her arms and kissed her. “We don’t want the servants talking,” he whispered to her as he dressed.

  “When will I see you?” Mati’s voice was thick with sleep, but sweet, and she touched his face with her fingertips.

  He kissed her fiercely. “Not until tonight. We go hunting boar today and won’t be back until late.”

  Mati wrapped her arms around him. “I don’t want you to go.”

  He laughed low and kissed her, almost losing himself in her again. He drew back and slung on his sword belt. “Good night, Mati.”

  She burrowed back under the covers and slept again almost immediately. He touched her hair where it fell thick over her pillow and sat watching her until he heard a servant stirring in the hall. Roland stood and left her then, making sure there was enough charcoal on the fire to keep it burning until well past sunrise.

  Chapter Seven

  Mati rose early the next morning and ate breakfast with her mother in the solar. Arabella was still in bed, having entertained her lover, Sinclair, the night before, so Mati and Margaret sat alone, sewing in silence.

  Margaret cleared her throat carefully before she spoke. “Mathilla.”

  Mati jumped at the use of her given name. No one had called her by that name since coming to Norman lands. Mati looked at her mother, laying her needle down. “Yes, Mama?”

  Margaret touched her cheek gently, a film of tears in her eyes. She spoke in Welsh. “I have often thought…” Margaret’s Welsh was halted from lack of use, but as she spoke, it came to her more easily, sliding in soft waves off her tongue. “I have often thought, Mathilla, that I made a mistake in bringing you here.”

  Mati opened her mouth to speak, but Margaret held up a hand for silence. “You have had a great deal to bear, along with the loss of your father.”

  “Mama….”

  Margaret looked down at her embroidery for a long moment, and then spoke again. “I know that I was weak to bring you with me. I have often been weak in my choices, such as they were.”

  Mati’s eyes were full of tears, and she had to blink to see her mother’s face.

  Margaret touched her daughter’s cheek with her fingertips. “In spite of my weakness, I have loved you.”

  Mati wept then, not wiping the tears away as they fell.

  Margaret spoke again. “I could not bear to part with you. And because I could not, you have had to grow to womanhood in a strange land under the rule of strange men. And I am sorry for it.”

  Mati did not know what to say. The years of loneliness had begun to fade from her heart since Roland had come home. His love had healed her of them, had made her feel joy for the first time since her father’s death. In spite of the danger of their love, she also felt some semblance of peace. Roland’s love had given her that, too.

  She wished she might tell her mother all of that, but she held her tongue. Margaret touched her cheek, drying her tears with her soft linen handkerchief.

  “You love that boy, don’t you?” Her mother’s voice was soft, pitched low, in case anyone might be nearby to hear them speak.

  Mati felt a sudden shock of surprise, and wondered if others knew as well, if even Sir John knew. But in the next moment, the world righted itself, and she took a calming breath. She could not lie to her mother, that day or ever. “I love him,” she said. “He is the light of my life.”

  Margaret took her hand, and pressed it. “And he loves you?” Even in their inner sanctum, her mother did not dare to speak his name.

  “Yes,” Mati said. “He does.”

  Margaret was silent for a long while, still holding her hand. Mati felt lighter for telling her secret, though she was still afraid. Her mother did not chastise her or cast judgments when she spoke. “I have seen the light in your face this last week. I felt the same when I fell in love with your father.”

  Mati felt tears rise in her eyes again, but she blinked them away before they could fall.

  “I will write to the Prince of Powys. I will ask if your marriage might be arranged.”

  “With Roland?” Mati whispered.

  Margaret smiled. “Yes. I am not sure it can be done. I do not know if the Prince will listen to the request of a mother.”

  “Why not ask Sir John himself?” Mati asked.

  “Because your dowry is not large enough to tempt him. To make the arrangement, the request will have to come from a man, from the Prince, delivered by your uncle, Unwynn. The Prince and your uncle will have to settle more land on you, more cattle and more barley. We must sweeten the deal so that Sir John will take the bait, and accept it.”

  “I can help keep the peace between Powys and the Normans, as you did.”

  Margaret smiled wryly. “You can try.”

  Mati felt the first true light of hope in her heart that all might yet be well. She felt giddy with it, and with her joy in Roland both.

  “But you must not see him again until this is arranged,” Margaret warned her. “If Sir John discovered your liaison before hearing of the offer of marriage from the Prince, he might send you back to Wales, or into a convent, away from me.”

  “I’m his ward. He can do whatever he likes with me under Norman law.”

  Margaret looked grim. “He can. You must be careful, sweetheart. For you, and for your young man.”

  Mati kissed her mother’s hand. She would defend her love for Roland, even from him. “I will, Mother. I swear it.”

  Margaret bowed her head over her embroidery, and in that moment, Mati saw for the first time a thread of silver gleaming in the golden light of her mother’s hai
r. She fell on her knees and wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs, burying her face in her lap. “I love you, Mama.”

  Margaret stroked her daughter’s cheek. “I have always known that, sweeting.”

  The sky was a bright blue and a fresh wind blew in from the western mountains. Mati went walking alone in the flowering orchard just beyond the keep. Birds flew there, seeking sanctuary, and she felt the call of the forest beyond, where she might walk among untamed trees, and feel free. But her mother waited for her in the solar, as she always did now, so before long Mati strolled back to the castle, over the drawbridge where the men at arms watched the sway of her hips as she walked by them.

  She slowed as she passed the chapel in the keep. The building was built of cool grey stone and its windows were chips of multicolored glass arranged in patterns that were supposed to resemble saints.

  She had not yet thanked God for her love for Roland. She looked into the dim church and did not find the priest inside. She stepped into the chapel’s dusky coolness, drawing her cloak more firmly around her. The wooden roof looked like a barn’s rafters, and before she knelt to pray, she craned her neck to look at the Norman workmanship as she never could on Sundays.

  A shadow fell across the doorway of the church, and Mati turned to find Roland standing there, his face in shadow.

  “How was the hunt?” she asked.

  “We did not go far enough to hunt a boar. Father was called back to the keep to read messages from the king.”

  “Not bad news, I hope.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Roland stepped into the church. Mati turned away from him and walked toward the altar, pretending to look over the triptych that rested on it. Roland came up behind her then, resting his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged his hands off, circling towards the confessional, putting distance between them.

  “What’s wrong, Mati?”

  “We have to be careful, Roland. Anyone might see us together, and tell your father.”

  “Did your mother tell you to break it off?” His voice was hard. Mati wanted to go to him and comfort him with her lips, with touch the touch of her hand on his arm, but she knew she was too weak to leave it at that.

  “She told me to be careful. She has written to the Prince of Powys to get a larger dowry for me, and to propose a marriage to your father.”

  “You went to your mother to ask for our marriage without consulting me?”

  Mati felt the sting of his rebuke, and it pricked at her heart. “I do not have any illusions about my power to make my own marriage, and I never have. I told her that I love you, and that you love me, but nothing more. She offered to help us.”

  Roland said nothing, but his jaw was tight, and Mati could feel his anger rolling off him in waves. Normans did not like women handling important matters, and she only now remembered that the man she loved was a Norman.

  “If you don’t want me, you need only refuse the match when it’s offered,” Mati said, trying to keep the pain she felt out of her voice, and failing. “If a match is offered. The Prince of Powys may not agree, and I may be sent away to marry someone else.”

  Roland’s face was hard and shuttered so that she could not read what he was thinking. “You’ll never marry anyone else.”

  Mati did not speak again, but stared blindly at the triptych on the altar. She wished the image of the Christ Child in His Mother’s arms might give her comfort, but her heart was too sore.

  “Where is the priest?” Roland asked, his voice hard with suppressed anger.

  “Out giving alms to the poor in the village, I think.”

  Mati turned to face him. A distance of ten feet was between them, and in the shadowy light, she could not see his face.

  Mati breathed deeply. Even with all that space between them, she could feel the pull of her own desire to touch him.

  Roland approached her slowly, as if she were a deer that might flee before he could get a shot off. “I will handle my father. And when the day comes, I will ask you to marry me.”

  “If Sir John finds out about us, he may put me in a convent, or cast me out entirely.”

  “I will never let that happen.”

  Mati backed away from him until she stood against the wall of the church. The rough cut edges of the stone dug into her back, giving her courage.

  She loved him, she wanted him, but she could not be with him again. Not yet. She repeated this litany to herself even as Roland stopped half a foot away from her. He was all she could see, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world. Her breath came short at the nearness of him.

  “Mati.” His voice was soft, and his breath was warm on her cheek as he leaned toward her. “Let me touch you.”

  “No.” She moved to slide past him, but his arm blocked her. She felt his lips in her hair. His hands were on her arms, drawing her inexorably into the shadowy alcove where the priest dressed himself in his fine robes. She followed him, watching the gold flecks in his eyes catch fire as he looked at her.

  “Roland.” She raised a hand to his chest to hold him back.

  His lips were on her hair, his hands sliding up her back, gentling her the way he would his horse if it became restless under him. Roland’s hands slid around her waist. She gasped, and tried to pull away. “Roland, let me go.”

  “No.” His lips trailed from her temple down to her cheek to her throat. He loosened the clasp that held her cloak, and it fell on the stone floor.

  “We can’t do this now. We have to think about what might happen later.” Mati heard that her own voice was weak, and she ran her hands down his back, feeling the hard muscles tense where she touched him.

  Roland pulled away from her long enough to look into her eyes. “I will hear no more of your plotting and planning with your mother behind my back. I will decide what will happen later.”

  Mati opened her mouth to protest, but his lips closed over hers, and he kissed her savagely until she opened her lips under his. He slid his tongue over hers, tasting her deeply, and she gave in, kissing him. He pushed her back against the wooden paneling of the alcove.

  “I love you, Roland.”

  They made love against the wall, and afterward, Roland held her close for a long time, until his breathing evened out. He let her down slowly, holding tight to her waist until he knew she could stand on her own. She reached up and touched his face. He turned and kissed her palm, his hot breath making her shiver. His anger was gone, a banked fire, but his desire was still in his eyes.

  “Let me come to you tonight.”

  Mati tried to suppress her fear, but it coiled around her heart like a serpent ready to strike. “All right. But…”

  He raised his hand and covered her mouth. “I won’t hear anymore of your protests. Let me worry about tomorrow.”

  She kissed his palm the way he had kissed hers, then flicked her tongue in its moist center. He kissed her fiercely one more time. “Tonight then.”

  “Yes.”

  Mati stooped and picked up her cloak from the floor. Roland draped it over her shoulders, kissing the side of her neck.

  “We had better leave separately,” Mati said.

  As she left through the chapel’s front door, she met the priest coming in, laden with an empty basket from his visit to the poor in the village. Father Philip looked at her, shocked to see her in the house of God on a week day.

  Then he looked behind her and saw the lord’s son. His eyes grew wide, but he stood listening to Roland’s hearty greeting as Mati walked swiftly toward the main house. The priest did not take his eyes off Roland, but his face flushed scarlet. He went to the lord as soon as Roland strode away.

  “Damnation!” Sir John Ellsrod’s voice boomed off the stone walls of the small anteroom.

  “Hellfire and damnation! Did I raise the boy to have no sense?” Sir John’s heavy fist cracked down on the oak table, and his flagon of mead leaped and almost overturned.

  “My lord…” Sinclair cleared his
throat and waited to see if Sir John’s outburst was over.

  His lord glowered at him. “You needn’t answer. The question now is, what’s to be done?”

  “Well, sir, I leave tomorrow on a trip to the continent to purchase a new stallion for your stables. The boy might come with me to inspect the horseflesh.”

  Sinclair’s voice was even and cool, his graying hair combed back off his head to reveal ferret-like eyes over his neatly combed beard.

  Sir John looked at him for a long moment and then nodded. “Yes. He might.” He started pacing the antechamber, and Sinclair held his tongue. The knight muttered almost to himself, “I’ll find a decent Welshman, and marry her off while he’s away.”

  “A betrothal would be wise, my lord.”

  “Yes, yes. We wouldn’t want to look over hasty. And we have to see if the girl is with child. Damn his eyes! Did I not teach him better than to interfere with the Welsh brat?”

  The lord turned his blazing eyes on Sinclair, who said nothing. “They were raised together, for the love of Christ!”

  “My lord.”

  Sinclair’s voice was soothing but not servile, and it had the desired effect. Sir John took a deep breath and stopped pacing.

  “Sir John, your son is young. In spite of his time with Sir Richard, he has seen little of the world. His toying with the Welsh girl is just a fancy of youth which will quickly pass.”

  “You’re damn right it will!”

  Sir John sat down heavily in a massive oak chair and rubbed his face with his hands. “That damned priest had better keep his mouth shut, or I’ll have his body hanging from the walls, Church or no Church.”

  “He will be discreet, my lord. He better than anyone perhaps, understands your position.”

  Sinclair gently reminded his lord of the peasant child in the village that looked uncannily like Father Philip, especially around the eyes.

  Sir John laughed loud and long at that, reaching for his tankard of mead. “Damn, Sinclair, but you see far.”