Lord of Secrets

by Gillgannon, Mary

  Resolute, she gathered her things in her basket and left the cottage. As soon as she walked out of the forest, she saw him. Fitzhugh looked a bit pale, she thought, not quite his usual hearty, vigorous self. But clearly, he was well enough to have walked all the way there.

  His voice was crisp. “I know you have other patients to tend. I thought I would come here to make it easier to check my wound.”

  “You will have to come to my cottage.” He gazed at her questioningly. She added, “I can’t unwrap your bandage with you standing up.” She started for her dwelling. When they were inside, she motioned he should have a seat on the stool by the table. He did so, and then shrugged out of his tunic. As she drew near, she saw the sweat beading his forehead. He was in pain, and had clearly over-exerted himself.

  “You should not have come all this way. I would have treated you at the castle.”

  He grunted in response.

  She made her tone sharper. “If you don’t have a care for yourself and rest, the wound will not heal as quickly.”

  “Is it healing?”

  She continued to unwrap the bandage, holding her breath until she exposed the wounds on the front and back of his torso. They were both a bit red, but there was no sign of putrefaction. She pressed on the skin to make certain there was no poison deep inside. He made no sound as she did so. But when she looked at his face, his pallor had increased.

  She rewrapped the bandage and secured it. He started to rise, but she motioned for him to remain seated. “I’m going to make a brew to hearten you and help you heal.”

  “But I am healing.”

  “Aye. But you are still weak.”

  “I am not weak.”

  She gave him a skeptical look and went to prepare an herbal mixture that would aid him. She made the brew and he drank it down.

  “Mayhap you should rest for a time.”

  “Nonsense. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “You should rest.” She motioned to the loft. “’Twould be best if you lay down.”

  He frowned at her. “I have much to do this day. I can’t linger here.”

  “Do you wish to heal quickly? Then you must do as I suggest.”

  He remained seated. She shrugged, grabbed her basket and left the cottage.

  *

  William gazed around the cottage, inhaling all the scents. When he decided to come to the village to find Rhosyn so she could check his wound, he had not realized she would insist on bringing him to her cottage. The place evoked all sorts of memories. He tried to focus on the recollection of her attacking him. But even that memory reminded him of the feel of her slender wrists in his hands. The flecks of amber in her brown eyes and the sheen of her dark hair. Her fragrance, a mixture of the herbs she surrounded herself with and her own womanly perfume.

  That was when he had fallen under her spell. A spell that had naught to do with any potion or enchantment, but a sudden, blinding awareness that he desired this woman more than he had ever yearned for anything in his life.

  He rose from the stool and looked up at the loft. Although he did not intend to lie down there, he did wish to see the place where she slept.

  He climbed the ladder, grimacing each time he had to reach upwards to grab the next rung to steady himself. What he should have done is ask her for some willow bark. Some means of easing his pain so he could get on with the tasks ahead of him. He should never have agreed to stay here.

  Yet, here he was, in Rhosyn’s realm. She had touched all these things. Slept in this bed. He sat down on it. ’Twas narrow but had rope supports and a straw-filled mattress. And the finely-woven, pink-hued blanket covering it. He stroked the blanket, feeling how soft it was. The yarn must be of lambswool. He remembered his mother embroidering with thread of this same reddish-purple hue and her telling him it had been dyed with a plant called madder.

  He must have been very young then, perhaps three or four years old. So young that his world had not yet expanded much beyond the solar where his mother sewed while he played. He remembered his leather ball. The carved figures of animals and people he played with. Some of them were soapstone chess pieces from his father’s board, a king and queen, knights and some others called pawns. But there were also figures made of wood: horses, a dog, a fox and a tiny falcon. One of the castle workmen had made them. Ambrey was his name. He had worked in the stables.

  Did his mother still have the carved figures? If he had a son, he would hope the boy would be able to play with them as he had. An image filled his mind, of a dark-haired boy lining up the carved figures on a table. A boy who had Rhosyn’s coloring, but was tall and robust for his age, as he had been. For the first time in his life, William realized he wanted children. Not merely so he had an heir, but for deeper, more complex reasons. A boy to play with those toys of his childhood. A boy to whom he could teach all the things he had learned in his life.

  If he sired a girl, that would be different. But no less pleasant. A little girl like Rhosyn, with her delicate beauty.

  He shook his head, as if he could dislodge the silly fancies filling his mind. Although he had no memory of injuring his head when the arrow struck him, maybe he had done so. There was no other explanation for his witless behavior. Here he was, musing about children and children’s toys when they were surrounded by enemies who struck like phantoms.

  He had not had even a glimpse of the archer who shot him. Adam had pursued his attackers, but it was too late; they had disappeared.

  William wondered how soon he would feel well enough to go out on patrol. He thought he could sit a horse, but doubted he would last long. His side hurt and he grew very weary if he tried to do too much. Even now, Rhosyn’s bed drew him irresistibly.

  Of course, that was not entirely because his body was urging him to rest, but because the bed was Rhosyn’s. He sank down on it and inhaled the herbs perfuming the mattress. Everything about this woman intoxicated him. She was like fine wine or mead drunk too quickly. It swirled around him, both soothing and inflaming his senses.

  He heard someone climbing the ladder and quickly sat upright. Rhosyn appeared with her basket. “How are you feeling?”

  “I am well enough.” He gestured to the blanket he was sitting on. “This is a beautiful. Do you know anything about clothmaking?”

  She looked startled. “All girls are taught to spin and weave. At least where I am from. I suppose some English noblewomen may not have to learn such things. Although I know they are taught to sew and embroider.”

  William recalled Emma sewing baby clothes. Tiny, delicate garments intended for their son or daughter. He’d burned them after she died.

  “These days I mostly stitch up flesh.”

  He nodded. “A healer doesn’t need to be skilled at clothmaking. You save people’s lives.”

  “If you had insisted Adam pull out the arrow and then done naught else, you likely would still have lived. ’Tis difficult to say who will thrive and who will die when it comes to wounds. Sometimes, no matter what you do, the injured person dies. Like the miller.”

  He could see it bothered her to lose someone she had treated. She cared when people suffered and sought to ease their pain. “You are a fine healer, Rhosyn. Higham is fortunate to have you.”

  She finally met his eyes. He saw satisfaction. She understood he appreciated her knowledge and skills. Although what he felt for her went far beyond admiration.

  She reached into her basket and brought out a jar. “I brought some salve that will help your wound heal.”

  “Will you put some on?” He was doing exactly what he’d vowed not to—risking further intimacy with Rhosyn. But he could not seem to stop himself.

  She appeared unsettled by his request. He pulled off his tunic and after a few moments, she began to remove the bandages and smooth the salve over the stitches on his back and the open wound on his chest. He shivered at her delicate touch.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “Nay.” He grasped her hand and stroked
her fingers, still slippery from the salve.

  She pulled her hand away. “I must replace the bandage.”

  He closed his eyes as she did so, savoring the feel of her fingers moving against his skin. When she had tied the bandage to secure it, he seized her hand again, holding it tight against his chest. Then he kissed her.

  It was a little less awkward this time. They were seated on a bed, rather than fumbling on a pallet on the floor. And he knew her mouth now. How quickly he had memorized her lips and tongue. He had a sense of how she liked to kiss, and the fire between them had not dimmed, but grown fiercer and hotter.

  She touched his bare chest, tracing the whirls of hair. He sighed with pleasure and grasped her hand. “’Tis not fair. You are fully clothed. I can’t touch you as I wish.”

  She glanced at him, her soft brown eyes dazed. Like him, she had fallen under the spell that had swirled around them from the very beginning. Although he was determined not bed her, there were other things they could do.

  Chapter Fifteen

  This could not be her, Rhosyn thought as she loosened the laces of her bliaut and eased the garment over her head. Some madness afflicted her. But she retained some remnant of control. She would not take off her shift.

  Fitzhugh helped her lie down; he remained seated on the edge of the bed. She closed her eyes, her body trembling with anticipation. She felt him pull down the neck of her shift and cup one of her breasts. Then she felt his mouth on her nipple. Delicious streaks of pleasure radiated through her body. She moaned and squirmed as he switched to the other breast. Nothing she’d ever experienced before had felt so sublime. The tender skill of his mouth made need build inside her. The deep intimate core of her throbbed with urgent hunger.

  She felt him pull up her shift to move his attentions to her lower body. He was gentle, stroking her thighs with slow reverence. Instinctively, she spread them, the burst of yearning making her shameless. His caresses moved nearer and nearer to the feverish, aching center of her desire. She cried out as he touched her maidenhair. Then he dipped his fingers into the center of her being and she was lost.

  Wild sparks shot through her as he fondled her. She could feel the moisture seeping from inside her, wetting his fingers. His teasing, tantalizing, provoking fingers. She’d yearned to have him touch her this way. Even so, it was not enough. She wanted him to fill her. To soothe that unholy ache deep inside her.

  She opened her eyes, driven by her desperate need. He raised his head to look at her. She sat up and touched him through his braies, stroking the thick, hard shape of his shaft. It seemed to harden even more at her touch, until it became a rod of iron. But the skin over the rigid flesh felt soft. And the tip was ripe and tender as a damson plum. The size and shape of him sent another ripple of longing through her.

  Yet, as much as it pleased her to touch his shaft and as much as her body desired to have him thrust inside her and soothe that terrible craving, another part of her shrank with fear. He was so big. It seemed impossible they could couple without him tearing her asunder. The thought made her stroke him more intensely. Mayhaps he would peak and spill his seed and not see fit to penetrate her.

  He let out a harsh groan and pulled her hand away. “Nay. Nay.”

  Her body tensed with fear. This was it. He was going to pull down his braies and come inside her. She went rigid with dread, overwhelmed by the urge to cry out and push him away. Instead, she lay back and closed her eyes, prepared to endure.

  But when the onslaught came, it was not his big shaft thrusting into her, but the delicate play of his lips. Licking, kissing, sucking her intimate parts. She moaned and cried out as he moved his tongue to her cleft and found some perfect spot. Her body exploded, shimmering with ecstasy.

  Moments later, she came to herself, weak and spent, pleasure still keening through her. She glanced up at Fitzhugh. He looked so big and powerful. Formidable. Yet, he had loved her with such exquisite, gentle care.

  She wanted to satisfy him as he had her. But as she reached for him, he grasped her hand and shook his head, his blue eyes tortured. “I don’t wish it to be that way between us.”

  She felt disappointment, until he lay down beside her and drew her against him. As she lay nestled in the crook of his arm, she floated away, lost in the delight of being near him.

  How could it be that this man, her enemy, could make her feel like this, so safe and secure? She raised her head to look at him and admire his male beauty. His hard jaw and chiseled features, softened by his dazzling blue eyes.

  She touched his face, stroking his jaw and recalling the delicious sensation of the stubble around his mouth moving against her tender flesh. She traced the graceful shape of his lips and a tremor of remembered bliss moved through her. His mouth had shown her such delight, such thrilling pleasure.

  She was languid and relaxed, but she could sense tension in his body. While she might be well satisfied, he was not. She could not help wondering why he had he not coupled with her. What did his forbearance mean? Did he fear to hurt her? Although she had worried it would be painful, she was willing to risk discomfort. As wonderful as his loving had made her feel, they had not been joined. And she longed for that with a deep, primal ache. ’Twas the way it should be between a man and a woman.

  She wondered why he did not appear to seek the same deep connection. Did he hold back because she was not his lawful wife, and could never be?

  The thought reminded her of how foolish she was being. He had so much power already. He could order her put to death if he wished. And now, by letting him pleasure her, she had given him even more hold over her. She had given him the means to hurt her heart, to make her ache with sadness instead of rapture. She had allowed him close and let him cause her feel like this: Soft and weak. Vulnerable.

  Suddenly she wished they could undo everything and go back to the way it had once been between them. They had been enemies. She had feared him. Fought him. Longed to put space between them. Now she yearned for the opposite.

  She wondered if there was a way to stop these tender feelings welling inside her. A reverse lovespell. A charm not of binding, but of tearing asunder. She thought of her mother’s grimoire, safely buried in a stone cairn near the cottage. Maybe she should dig it up and peruse the ancient pages, seeking out an invocation that could end this thing between them. Banish her yearning and make her hate him once again.

  Even as she had the thought, he touched her cheek, his fingers soothing. She sat up. He sat up also, moving so she could get out of the bed. She retrieved her bliaut and drew it over her head, tightening the laces while he watched her. Speaking briskly, she said. “You may rest here as long as you wish. I must go about my tasks.”

  She had to get away from him. And away from the temptation to allow him to touch her more. To make her even weaker and more helpless.

  As she moved past the bed to the ladder, he grasped her hand. “You mentioned willow bark can soothe the pain. Will you give me some?”

  It occurred to her he might not have wanted to couple because his wound still hurt him. Although his discomfort had not been enough to interfere with his arousal. Or what he had done to her.

  “Come down from the loft and I will fetch you some willow bark.” She climbed down the ladder and went to fetch the brew steeping by the hearth. She took it to her stillroom and poured some in a jar. When she returned to the main room of the cottage, he was seated on the stool, his clothing back in place. She felt a wave of relief as she took him the willow bark. Mayhap they could forget what had happened in the loft and return to the way things had once been between them. She was simply a healer, treating a wounded man.

  He took a swallow of the brew. Made a face. “God’s teeth, you weren’t jesting. ’Tis bitter.”

  “If I had mead to mix with it, ’twould not be so bad.”

  He raised his gaze to her, blue eyes keen. “Will taking this medicine be worth it? Will it aid me enough to make enduring the bitterness worthwhile?”
r />   She shrugged. “Only you can decide that.”

  *

  Outside the stables, William gritted his teeth and heaved himself into the saddle. Trueheart sidled, as if he knew all was not well with his rider. William patted the stallion’s neck. “Tis all right.”

  “Mayhaps you should wait a couple more days,” Gavin said, standing at the horse’s head.

  “Nonsense. I’m well enough to ride.”

  “If you’re certain, milord.” Gavin handed him the reins.

  William clicked his tongue and Trueheart headed towards the gate. Baldwin, Stephen and Ralf, already mounted, followed.

  As they rode through the portcullis, William felt a sense of relief. He had to get away from the castle and the village. Away from Rhosyn. No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, he kept reliving the delights they’d shared. The scent and taste and feel of her. The satisfaction of bringing her to her peak. Of making her moan and sigh and tremble.

  Yet, afterwards, he’d realized how risky it would be to continue to share intimacies with her. Eventually, his will, his control, would break and he would end up making love to her. He’d managed to keep his distance for two days, but he could feel himself weakening. Perhaps if he got away and focused entirely on other things, his fierce desire for her would ease a bit.

  When they reached the bottom of the hill, William slowed. Baldwin pulled up next to him. “Are you certain you should do this?”

  William glared at the knight. “Not you, too. I’m not some sickly invalid!”

  “I don’t mean your wound. I mean riding out. Exposing yourself to danger. You were obviously the raiders’ target. It seems foolish to put yourself at risk again.”

  “This time I won’t do anything witless like taking off my mail and clothing.” A moment later William asked, “What do you mean, I was obviously their target.”

  “Robert and I began to wonder about it after Henry was killed. We both felt the enemy had singled out Henry. Then, when you were attacked, it made us think that perhaps they’d killed Henry by mistake. He did look a bit like you, very tall and fair-haired.”