Rose of Hope (13 page)

He stopped dead, held her gaze for several heartbeats, and then his eyes flickered leisurely over her, taking in her unbound hair, bare arms and the soft curves beneath her thin shift. His smile deepened. Within the dark depths of his gaze lay a wealth of male possession and desire, and a glint of something else she could name not.

Embarrassment, and a thrill of unnamed longing mingled with fear, flashed from her head to her toes. If ‘twere possible to explode in flame from the fire of a blush, she would have burned to a cinder in moments. Mortified at being caught watching, and worse, wearing naught but her cyrtel, she flung herself out of the embrasure and from his sight. Nigh tripping over the blanket swathing her lower limbs, she tore it loose and ran to the pitcher that stood on the small table beside her loom. She splashed cool water on her face, surprised it did not sizzle.

Closing her eyes, she stood waiting for her breath to calm. Who was he, this dark knight, that he dared look upon her so boldly, and why, oh why, did Domnall allow it? The marshal should have drawn his sword and run the knave through for his haughty presumption, yet Domnall had but grinned in male collusion! ’Twas madness!

Whirling, she headed for the door, intent on returning to her bower. She would dress and go to the hall to confront the blackguard, regardless of what her women would say.

She never made it.

The beaten iron latch lifted even as her fingertips touched it, the portal slowly opening. She knew who ’twas even ere she saw him. He must have run the whole way to reach her sitting room so quickly, yet her breathing was far more ragged than his.

The chamber seemed to come alive with his entrance, even the air seeming to spark, as if he brought with him the invisible energy of a storm. She backed away, the movement involuntary as he stepped into the bower, shutting the door to close them in—alone. She dashed for the blanket she had let fall to the floor, and wrapped it round herself like a shield ere turning back to face him.

Faith, but he was big! The top of her head would fall well short of his chin. He had to duck to miss hitting the lintel, and the chain mail covering his massive shoulders scraped the doorframe on either side. Solidly built, his weight would be at least twice that of hers. Beneath his black tunic and braies, there would be naught but hard muscle.

His forehead was high, his features cleanly sculptured. A firm, squared chin jutted. Even in this early hour of the nooning ’twas already darkened by the shadow of his beard. Above a straight nose, night dark eyes that carried a hint of deep blue regarded her steadily from beneath black hair. The back of his head must have been completely shaven at one time, for the hair on his pate and above his ears was much longer than the fuzz on the rest of his head. To her Saxon eyes, accustomed to men with facial hair and shoulder length locks, ’twas a strange sight, but not unattractive. It did, howbeit, increase the sense of covert menace and leashed power that clung to him as a cape.

He stared at her as she stared back. She was amazed to discover he did not truly frighten her. Most odd, that was, especially after Renouf, and besides, all lived in fear of the Normans. The stories of their arrogant, conquering ways were rampant, even in this distant corner of the kingdom. This mighty knight in particular should inspire terror in her heart. But she had survived Renouf’s worst, and she would not cower. She did as her father would expect and asked the first question that came to her mind. Then she wondered belatedly if her imperious attitude would anger him, for there was naught obsequious in her tone.

Foolishly, mayhap, she spoke as the Lady of Wulfsinraed, her words a brittle challenge. “This is
my
home. Who are you, and what do you here?”

No change came over his expression, though amusement glinted in his eyes. He answered her not, but padded slowly toward her. She stiffened, taut as the strings of her dulcimer. As he passed through the sunlight projected across the bower from the window embrasure, the beam struck glints of the same blue fire from his tousled hair that glowed in the depths of his eyes. Except for his skin, the hue of old oak, he seemed black from the short spikes on his head to his dusty leather boots. The word ‘predator’ flashed through her mind.

Unwilling to offer him excuse to touch her, she waited, still as a leaf on a windless day, as he circled her slowly, exuding raw, virile power. Her breath stuttered through scarcely parted lips, but her chin lifted as he halted directly in front of her, the fabric of his tunic bare inches from her nose. ’Twas disconcerting to discover how far back she had to bend her head to peer into his eyes.

His voice a basso rumble, he said, in perfect, if accented English, “It pleases me to find you well.”

He reached to caress her cheek but she was not yet ready for the touch of a man’s hand, and despite herself, flinched away. While he alarmed her not as she had feared Renouf, the sheer, towering bulk of him intimidated. A dark brow lifted a fraction, but he allowed his hand to drop.

She swallowed, grateful the predator seemed more intrigued than hungry.

Does he know how breathtakingly handsome he is? The ancient heathen god Adonis would slink away in shame beside this Norman.

She mentally shook her head at the irrelevant thought. Gathering her courage, she straightened her spine and glared at him. “I asked a question. Will you answer, my lord?”

***

Fallard, for his part, perused the lovely planes of Ysane’s face, his gaze lingering on clear green eyes grown wide with uncertainty ere it fastened on full, sweetly curved lips. Adorable—and enticing—she was, with her sun-kissed hair curling about her beautiful face, defying him in little more than a blanket. He badly wanted to kiss her.

But he was unwilling to rush her. She faced him with the courage of an ancient warrior-maiden, but looked as if even his gentlest touch might splinter her as a hammer shattered ice. Aye, the good father was right. She was still fragile. Too well, he remembered the discolorations and scars of misuse that flawed the lissome curves of her body during her immersion in the ice water bath. Still, it pleased him mightily she cowered not from him, though she waited, taut as the strings of the dulcimer nigh the door. She was such a tiny thing, his white rose. He could easily lift her—or break her, did he so choose—with one hand. He had half expected to find her weeping in a corner after what she had endured with that whoreson Renouf. In truth, he would have blamed her not.

He gave her one last, intent look from the corners of his eyes ere he turned away. She blinked rapidly and swallowed, as a quiver seemed to start at her crown and shiver all the way to her bare feet. He sensed the slackening of tautly held muscles. He moved with silent tread around the chamber, his curiosity high. Upon being informed by Ethelmar this chamber was a haven for her because Renouf had disliked it and rarely intruded, he had chosen to wait to explore it until she was present.

’Twas a comfortable space. A half-finished tapestry on the loom awaited the return of its lady’s fingers, an oak skein winder with multiple arms resting on the floor beside it. On the wall behind the loom, wooden pegs held brilliantly colored skeins of yarn. Below the skeins was propped the spindle. Piles of clothing and bedding needing mending lay on the table against the far wall. Unfinished embroidery in hoops draped off the stools where their owners had left them. Beside the dulcimer was a bench upon which lay a vellum manuscript. He bent to scan it and chuckled beneath his breath. ’Twas a humorous tune concerning a very confused unicorn.

He stopped at a small table. Before him lay a prize of great worth, a rare and magnificent copy of the
Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum
, penned by Bede. He recognized both the book and its value, and reverently fingered the edges.

He heard Ysane’s breath catch. The glance he threw over his shoulder revealed alarm on her face. He understood why, but decided to allow her to fret for a time. She must learn to trust him, and now was a good time to begin. At his look, her expression blanked. Considering what he knew of Renouf of Sebfeld, that, too, made sense.

He bent to study the open pages, admiring the rich silver of the beautifully illumined first letters, then turned his head again to peek at his soon-to-be bride. She nibbled her lower lip, but looked disinterestedly around the room.

“From where came this treasure?”

She started. Her eyes jerked to his, then darted away again. “That dusty old tome? It belonged to my father.”

Nonchalance dripped from every syllable.

“‘Dusty old tome’, you say? Then, the book has no importance to you?”

“Oh, well, I…I said not that, exactly.”

“No indeed, and I am quite certain you meant it not,
exactly
. Never lie to me, Ysane. Learn that now, and we will do well together.” He perused the book again. “You are aware of what you have here, are you not?”

“Aye.”

“Then tell me of it.” He carefully turned a page.

She huffed a little sigh. “’Tis a copy, a gift to my father from Stigand, who was then Archbishop of Cantware Burh. Father counted it his greatest prize.”

“’Tis a very fine copy. I wish to read it.”

“You are
lettered?”
He slanted her another look. Her astonishment was a reaction to which he was accustomed, for in truth, ’twas a most unusual accomplishment, but he had found it a useful, and pleasurable, skill.

“Aye. I can read, and write, in four languages.”

“Four! Why, even the monks at Bedhalh Abbey are not lettered in so many.” Her eyes narrowed. “Do you jest with me?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Nay.” He gestured to the book. “Shall I read a portion of this to you?”

“I read it some twelvemonths ago.”

Now he was the one startled. He looked full at her. “Who taught you?”

“My Ieldramodor and my father. Oh, and Father Gregory, who taught me Latin.”

“I am impressed, my lady. I know of only two other females who have the skill to read, or to speak any language other than their own.”

“In my family, only Ieldramodor, myself and my sister, Gemma, are learned in this way, and Father was, of course. Methinks it amused him we wished to learn. I also speak and read somewhat of your language, as does Gemma, for her husband is Norman.”

“I must remember that.” Aye, he would have to take care with his words if she was nigh when he conversed with his men. “Tell me more of this book.”

“As I said, it belonged to my father. It had been—put away—for a while, and I was examining it for signs of damage. You answered not my questions.”

“Put away where?”

“In a safe place. One leaves not an item of value lying around for anyone to steal.”

“A safe place where?”

“’Tis of no importance now.”

“Ysane, I play not with words. You have a hidden coffer to hold items of great value. I would know where it is.”

She glared at him, but he did not even blink. She glanced away. “There is a secret niche in the burnstów wall.”

“You will show it to me on the morrow. You are not, at the present moment, involved in reading this book?”

She swallowed. “Nay.”

“That is well. Then you will mind not if I take it? It has been my desire for many twelvemonths to study this volume.”

***

Ysane fidgeted. If she let him take the book, would she ever see it again, or would he steal it away for himself as all Normans were said to do with valuable objects? But how could she keep a man so big and powerful from taking what he wanted…and what had he meant by that comment they would do well together?

When she answered him not, he looked straight at her. She dropped her lashes. She wished him not to see the sheen of tears in her eyes.

“Fear not, my lady,” he said, surprising her with the gentleness of his tone as he straightened to his full height. “I know well the value of this book, both to you, and of itself. I will take with it the greatest care, and when I am finished, I will return it. Is that acceptable to you?”

She nodded. “’Tis acceptable.”

She could hide not the relief she felt as she swallowed her tears. She believed him, though she knew not why. She understood not any of the feelings he engendered, except mayhap confusion. The man would drive any woman to question her sanity.

With care, he closed the book and picked it up. Turning toward the door, he spoke over his shoulder.

“Since you seem well enough, I expect you to join me in the hall for sup. We have guests.”

“My lord!”

He paused, but turned not around.

“My lord…what of Ruald?”

“Ruald is gone, Ysane. You need never fear him again.”

With that, he was out the door ere she remembered he had
still
not answered her questions.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Two hours later, with Roana fussing over an imaginary wrinkle in her syrce and Lynnet working overlong to dress her hair, Ysane was nigh to pitching both her cousin and her maidservant out the window. Her self-control was sorely tried, for though her women clearly knew more than she of some happening to come in the hall, none would tell her aught. It concerned that man, of this, she was certain. But she had learned the hard way to hide from Renouf any sign of her own displeasure, so the smooth mask she habitually wore, as befitted a lady of her station, remained firmly in place.

She inhaled and asked yet again to be told what was going on, trying to keep her tone stern but low in pitch. “This is foolishness, Roana. I am mistress of Wulfsinraed. ’Tis my right to know what is happening.”

A sudden thought had her whirling on her seat so abruptly Lynnet, in the process of securing one final section of braid with a pin, dropped it and perforce had to drop to her knees to search for it.

Panic surged. She fought for control, and gained it. “Tell me not this knight, this Norman warrior, means to take me to wife.”

Roana, who had behaved most strangely since Ysane’s recovery—Ysane would have sworn she was a woman in love had she not known better—sighed, and then appeared to take pity. Refusing to meet Ysane’s eyes, she said, “Cousin. Dear cousin. You know I would answer any question you asked, were I allowed.”