“Rodrick,” she murmured. “I’m sure this is wrong, but don’t stop.”
He raised his head, his lips slick with her juices. “You are warm and wet, and you taste wonderful. I can’t wait for us to be wed.”
She pushed away the cloud on the horizon of her bliss. They might never be given permission to marry, and here she was allowing him to touch her in places—
“Stop worrying,” he whispered.
Then he flicked his tongue over a certain spot—a magical spot—again and again until the low wail emanating from deep within grew into a loud scream when she tumbled off the precipice into an oblivion of pulsating bliss. He lunged forward to press his mouth to hers, stifling her scream as he slid his fingers inside her. She turned her face away, panting breathlessly. “Deeper, deeper,” she urged, thrusting her hips towards his hand.
“Not yet, my little bird, you have to be content with only a taste this time.”
Her sheath pulsed on his fingers as she returned his kiss, needing his breath to keep her lungs working.
After their mouths parted she clung to him for long minutes, listening to his breathing. Had he fallen asleep? “What happened?” she yawned. “I had to scream.”
He withdrew his fingers and smoothed her gown over her legs. “You’re supposed to scream.”
“I hope it wasn’t too loud,” she whispered, but exhaustion overwhelmed her before she heard his answer.
Nothing For It
Naked, Bronson sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the hard flesh between his legs. The night had been a comedy of errors. He’d gone to Grace’s chamber. Why, he wasn’t sure. Then he looked again at the persistent erection that he would have to be rid of if he wanted any sleep at all.
My cursed shaft knows why I went.
Frustrated they hadn’t been seated together at dinner, he’d tapped on her door.
She’d appeared, floating in a voluminous white bed-robe, her red hair like a blessed aura. For a moment he believed the smiling vision was an angel, seemingly happy at receiving a visitor after midnight.
He’d teetered on the threshold, hesitant to ask permission to enter when she didn’t invite him in. But that was a good thing. Respectable noblewomen didn’t invite men into their chamber in the dead of night. The flame of his candle had guttered in the draught, filling his nostrils with the acrid smell of smoke. She’d wrinkled her nose.
Confident in what he wanted to say when he’d left his own chamber, he now had no idea why he was there when he’d sworn off marriage. The words that came out of his mouth weren’t the ones he’d planned on saying.
Instead of I’m drawn to you, Grace, he’d cleared his throat and stammered, “I wanted to tell you I’m glad you’re accompanying my sister to Shelfhoc.”
He longed to say that her presence at Shelfhoc would be a beacon guiding him home. Into the silence, he spouted, “Swan will appreciate your company. I’m happy you’re becoming friends.”
He had no recollection of how many times he’d used the word glad, nor of any other inanities he’d uttered. He prayed fervently he’d said nothing on the subject of never marrying again. Whatever she had whispered in reply was lost to him, his gaze and his thoughts focused on her wide green eyes and her smile.
He did remember kissing her—an awkward, adolescent kiss aimed initially at her lips. It had gone off course, collided with her nose and ended up on her reddened cheek.
Godemite! Had he at least wished her goodnight when he’d fled?
What had happened to the polished, articulate Bronson who’d had no difficulty attracting two beautiful wives? He made the sign of his Savior across his body.
God Rest Their Souls.
It flitted into his confused mind that he shouldn’t be calling on the Lord while sitting naked staring at his own rigid manhood, but then he was probably already damned for lusting after his cousin.
Grace had cast a spell on him, turned him into a babbling idiot ruled by impulse, and his cock.
On his way back to his chamber, he thought he’d caught a glimpse of someone entering Swan’s chamber, but maybe he’d imagined it, rendered cross-eyed by his errant shaft that even now refused to obey.
Nothing for it but to take matters into his own hands. He rolled his eyes heavenward.
Forgive me, Lord.
After she closed her door, Grace stood for a long while, inhaling deeply, trying to get her lungs to start working again. She touched her palm to the spot where Bronson had kissed her cheek, smiling at the memory. He was like a youth wooing his first girl.
But his nervousness charmed her. It was flattering to have a strikingly handsome nobleman stumbling over his tongue perhaps because she affected him, although he’d mumbled something about not marrying again.
It had been difficult to keep smiling when he’d said that. But his reddened face, his stammer, the bulge in his leggings, his kiss all belied his words. Why else had he come in the middle of the night if he wasn’t attracted to her? Mayhap she should have invited him in.
Non! He’d judge her a whore, a lonely widow lusting for a male companion.
Was she lonely? Marriage to Victor had been loneliness itself. After his death, she’d resolved to make the most of her freedom. Ellesmere was often filled with attractive men whose company she could enjoy without giving control over her life to them and, in any case, Bronson was her cousin. There was no future for their relationship. But she would be his friend, help prepare his new home so he had something to look forward to when he returned from Wallingford.
Swan drifted in and out of a magical world as she slept, floating on the vivid memory of the pleasures Rodrick had wrought with his touch. She’d often fantasized, as most young women do, about falling in love, but never imagined the bodily delights would be as awesome as the heart’s excitement.
She’d always been happy her married brothers had found wives they loved, but now a twinge of envy crept into her mind. Who would have suspected they’d been sharing such intimacy all these years?
She thanked God over and over for rescuing her from a religious life. Her mother was right—she was a woman born to please a man.
But she’d done nothing to please Rodrick before falling asleep in a haze of bliss. It was a selfish oversight she’d have to remedy…
Her euphoria faded. Rodrick was leaving for war the very next morning. She awoke dreading the departure of the man she suddenly craved.
Lying abed, Rodrick stared up into the rafters of his chamber. He had derived immense pleasure from bringing Swan to her first release. Her sweet taste lingered on his lips. He still felt the weight of her full breasts in his hands. Her perfume…
He sat up abruptly and groaned. He’d left Swan’s chamber with an erection that refused to abate and reliving the interlude wasn’t helping.
He didn’t blame her. What did an innocent know of a man’s needs?
But he needed sleep too. The journey to Wallingford would be long and hard.
Nothing for it but to take matters into his own hands.
Traveling
Two days later, Rodrick brought his horse level with his father’s when the narrow, hilly track widened. “Another hour we should make Fernhill Heath,” he observed.
His father shifted in the saddle. “We’ve made good progress. Not as far as yesterday, but acceptable, considering the lay of the land.”
After riding for several hours with no conversation, Rodrick needed to fill the silence. His armor chafed in uncomfortable places. He wasn’t looking forward to another night under canvas. “Strange how yesterday the men were full of vim and vigor, and today they’re quieter. The infantrymen kept up their ribald songs the whole way to Bridgnorth yesterday.”
His father grinned. “The more difficult terrain has a lot to do with it. However, on the first day of a march, men are usually fired by the excitement of the expedition and the prospect of the battle. On the second day, they’re thinking of the women and children left behind.”
> The wistful look on his sire’s face betrayed exactly where his thoughts lay. Rodrick sought to lighten the mood. “You’ve most of your children along on this campaign, so it must be Maman you’re thinking of.”
Gallien de Montbryce shifted his weight in the saddle. “I’ve left your mother many times to go off to fight, but it never gets any easier. In Flandres I carried a sachet of her potpourri next to my heart for months. Same for her. She’s strong, but she worries.”
Rodrick cast his mind to the future. He wanted with all his heart to wed with Swan and for her to be the one pining for his return. He wished he’d taken a token from her, a lock of hair perhaps. She’d wept when they’d said goodbye in the bailey. But what would happen if they never obtained permission to wed? If he married her without the Church’s blessing, he’d lose the earldom.
“A visit to the bishop of Shrewsbury will have to wait until our return. Unless we seek out a highly placed cleric in Westminster, once we succeed in lifting the siege of Wallingford.”
How had his father known he’d been contemplating such a possibility?
“Do you believe in love at first sight, Papa?” he asked with some trepidation. These were matters they had never discussed.
“That’s the easy part,” came the reply. “Yes, I do, but don’t be like me and deny you’re smitten.” He shook his head. “When I think of the time I wasted, and the hurt I inflicted on my wife.”
Rodrick had never cared enough for a woman to understand before what his father meant, but now he did. Given the difficulties they faced, and what they stood to lose, he might easily tell himself he didn’t love Swan. But he did. “I love Swan, Papa. I’m determined to fight for her.”
“Good. I hope you hold onto your determination, because I have a feeling it will be a long fight. However, I’ve had the good fortune to suffer from the curse of the Montbryces. I hope the same will happen for you. The love of a good woman makes life infinitely more pleasurable.”
Rodrick chuckled, enjoying the reference to the curse. Since the time of his great, great grandfather the Montbryces had been different from most noblemen in one very particular way—they loved their wives passionately.
As she and Grace approached Ruyton, Swan marveled out loud at the efficiency of Steward Bonhomme. “He’d seen off a huge expeditionary force only a day before yet managed to provision our escort to Shelfhoc.”
Grace concurred. “Indeed, our family has been blessed by the talents of the Bonhomme family, both here and in Normandie. They’ve served us faithfully for nigh on a hundred years.”
“He didn’t blink an eye when I told him we planned to leave the following day. I didn’t want to wait any longer to see Shelfhoc.”
“I agree. It was good to get underway. The August weather is fair, and we should be there soon. The men who came with you from Northumbria seemed relieved not to be bound for Wallingford and are only too glad to be traveling with us. Two of them have gone ahead to secure our passage past the guards on the rampart ditch. You’ll soon espy the little church within the boundaries of Shelfhoc.”
The tower appeared shortly thereafter. Swan’s head filled with the notion of being wed in the tiny church, though Rodrick would no doubt want to hold the ceremony at Ellesmere in the grander edifice built by Ram de Montbryce, symbolic for both of them. But she mustn’t dwell too long on those thoughts, just in case.
Her first impression of Shelfhoc as they entered the courtyard was of a house not dissimilar to Kirkthwaite Hall, but much older.
A short, balding man clad in the livery of a steward emerged to greet them. “Bienvenues, Mesdames, milady Grace and milady Suannoch.”
Stable lads ran forward to assist them as they dismounted. Swan was heartily glad to get off Cob after close to two hours riding side saddle.
“Tybaut is the fourth generation of stewards to serve Shelfhoc,” Grace explained.
Swan acknowledged his bow. “On behalf of my brother, I thank you for your service to my uncle Edwin.”
“A fine man indeed,” Tybaut murmured with obvious reverence. “I miss him. Milord Bronson has not accompanied you?”
“No,” Swan replied. “He’s gone with the earl to help lift the siege of Wallingford.”
Tybaut’s eyes widened as if this news surprised him, then clasped his joined hands to his chest, looking to the sky. “Dangerous times we live in. I thank God daily we have been spared the ravages plaguing other parts of England.”
He ushered them into the house.
“Shall I show you everything now,” Grace asked enthusiastically, “or do you want to rest first?”
“Time for rest when we retire,” Swan replied.
As her cousin led the way she savored every lime-washed panel, every stair, every chamber. “It’s a grand house,” she remarked to the steward.
“Two stories high, as you see,” he replied, his chest swelling with pride. “Built from split and planed timbers, fastened together with iron nails.”
The interior was elaborately decorated with ornamental wood turnings, the creaking wooden floor softened with wattle mats. The roof was well thatched. The sturdy outbuildings were framed with large timber uprights, filled with wattle and daub and chinked with moss to keep out the winter cold. The stone kitchen was set apart from the wooden house.
“This used to be the weaving shed,” Tybaut explained, as they entered a long, narrow building. “Perhaps you ladies might start up the use of it again? It wasn’t used during Milord Edwin’s residence here.”
He lifted the end of a heavy canvas covering. “I’ve kept the old looms covered.”
“Perhaps,” Grace replied. “I love to weave.”
Swan doubted she would ever set foot in the shed again, but as she touched a hand to the wooden loom beneath the canvas it was pleasing to imagine her namesake great grandmother creating woven goods in the place, and her grandmother after her. If Aidan FitzRam hadn’t inherited Kirkthwaite in Northumbria, he might have lived out his life here.
There was a modest Thane’s Hall where she conjured a vision of her grandfather conducting business, enacting justice and speaking judgments. Had Caedmon FitzRam sat in the massive thane’s chair on the dais, his wife Agneta by his side, and signed contracts, praised good deeds, eaten with his men? The hall was long and narrow and had two doors, one at each tapered end.
“The four windows have wooden shutters for defense and to keep out the cold,” Tybaut explained.
She thought of her ancestors here in the days after her grandfather’s return from the Crusades, watching the smoke make its lazy way up from the hearth in the middle, out through the hole in the roof.
Shelfhoc was where the FitzRam family had its beginnings on that fateful day so long ago when Ram and Ascha Woolgar met.
A sense of homecoming washed over her. “I love this place,” she whispered to Grace. “Bronson will love it too.”
Her cousin’s shoulders drooped. “How far do you think they’ve traveled?”
Swan took her hand, happy not to be the only one missing the men they cared for. “They hoped to reach Fernhill Heath by this evening and on to Chipping Norton on the morrow.”
Standing Stones
Bronson considered himself an excellent rider but was weary of being on a horse. It seemed he’d barely arrived at Ellesmere after a grueling and unhappy journey over the Pennines with Swan when the call had come to travel to Wallingford. Exhaustion didn’t bode well for his chances of staying alive if they engaged Stephen’s forces.
They’d been on the road three days, this last being the longest, and he was heartily relieved to see the motte at Chipping Norton loom out of the late afternoon fog. At least the journey had afforded him a chance to get to know his Montbryce cousins. William and Stephen were friendly and outgoing at first meeting, but he’d been uneasy with Rodrick. However, on the long march he had seen many good qualities in the man who professed to love his sister.
Rodrick would make a good husband for Swan. Bu
t the road ahead was murky, filled with ecclesiastical potholes. He and Grace faced the same problems if they—
A commotion ahead caught his attention. William was slowly riding back towards him, a pained expression on his face. “What ho, cousin?” he asked.
William rolled his eyes, “Seems we’re not welcome at milord FitzAlan’s demesne. His steward told our scouts he doesn’t want our men tramping around the area where he’s building his castle.”
Bronson groaned. “Where will we camp?”
“A place called Hrolla-landriht—Hrolla’s land. Don’t worry. They say it’s only another two miles or so. There’s a meadow where we can pitch our tents, and standing stones, apparently.”
Wearily, Bronson turned his horse north to follow the others, hoping or so meant less rather than more. William rode alongside him. Being a Northumbrian, Bronson had experience of standing stones and the superstitions they gave rise to. “Ancient monuments speak of fairies and the like. I hope they don’t keep us awake this night,” he jested.
William wiggled his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t mind bumping into a winsome fairy who might cast a spell to ease these tired bones.”
Bronson laughed, but in his heart he was thinking of a red-headed sprite he’d like to be abed with. He straightened his aching spine. It was time to be done with these fantasies that were bound to lead to unhappiness.
After half an hour, the weary army arrived at a meadow alongside a ring of about eighty standing stones—not as tall as some he’d seen, but impressive nonetheless.
“They look like worm eaten stumps,” William remarked with a shiver.
“Limestone, I think,” Bronson replied. “The fog’s lifted, but this place is eerie.”
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