Rose of rapture (18 page)

"'Tis no use. We'll never catch her," Sir Beowulf observed with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the image of Lord Hawkhurst's cold hard face suddenly filled his mind. "God's wounds! The Earl will have our heads! Did ye see where she went?"

"Nay, did ye?"

"Aye. Ride back to the others. Tell them to spread out and to

listen sharp for the cry of a wounded beast. That is where the Lady will be. I shall go on, since I saw the place where she entered the forest."

"Agreed," Sir Thegn said as he too thought fearfully of Lord Hawkhurst's wrath if aught ill befell the King's ward.

Isabella, meanwhile, was galloping recklessly through the woods, heedless of the low branches that slapped at her face and tore at her clothing, scratching her chest and arms. She could hear the injured animal's squeals of agony even more clearly now, and her only thought was to reach the wounded creature as quickly as possible.

At last, she burst into a clearing and abruptly reined her mare to a halt at the sight that met her startled eyes. She was horrified, for never in her life had she seen such filthy men as the three who stood before her. They seemed old, for their grimy faces were unshaven; and the girl saw, as their shouts and laughter rang out, that their gums were foul and rotten, and many teeth were missing from their mouths. Their shoulders were stooped beneath their ragged garments, but they could not have been as aged as Isabella had, at first, thought, for they were possessed of a wiry strength that seldom belonged to the elderly common-folk. The men were crouched around a pit into which a boar had fallen and over which they hovered with an unnatural glee. The hole was not deep, but it was enough to contain the furious beast. The poachers (for Isabella was certain now that this was what they were and not the reivers, as she'd feared) were jabbing the creature unmercifully with spears that, although stout, had not yet proven sturdy enough to penetrate the animal's thick hide deeply enough to kill it.

"Stop that! Stop that at once, I say!" Isabella shouted, her face white with anger at their cruelty, for although the wounded boar was mean and ugly, it was still a beast of nature and thus, to her, something to be protected.

The men glanced up fearfully and half-rose, frightened by Isabella's sudden appearance and intending to take to their heels, but upon perceiving it was only a young girl who threatened them, they cackled loudly again instead, momentarily diverted from their harassment of the creature.

"Hey, Bo." one cried, "look there! 'Tis a better prize than this old pig, methinks," the man gloated, his eyes glittering oddly. "What say we ferget about the boar and grab us that maid instead?" He pointed toward Isabella. "I ain't had me a wench since that old hag we took off'n that blind beggar, and she weren't

much good anyways. But I'll warrant this one knows how to please a man. Aye." His eyes raked Isabella appreciatively. "I wouldn't mind getting betwixt them there pretty legs of hers at aU."

"How do ye know they's pretty, Wyatt?" the poacher called Bo croaked.

"Got to be—with a mug like that."

"I am Lady Isabella Ashley of Rushden," Isabella announced coldly but calmly, for surely, the men would not dare to harm her! Nevertheless, she backed Cendrillon away slightly before continuing. "And ye are trespassing on my vassal's land. I order ye to be gone from here at once or be hanged for your thievery."

The men only guffawed raucously at her statement.

"Ye going to take us prisoner all by yerself, little lady?" the third poacher asked, his lips twisted in an ugly sneer.

"My men-at-arms are on their way here now." Isabella forced herself to continue to speak composedly, though a little shiver of fright now ran up her spine. "They will see ye are properly punished for your crimes."

"Ha!" the man snorted, tilting a flask up to his lips. "That's a likely story, I'll wager! 'Pears to me like ye's all by yerself."

The girl watched, mesmerized, as the dark liquid ran down his dirty chin, and he wiped it off with the sleeve of his torn shirt. Why, they were drunk, all of them! Isabella knew then that she ought to get away at once, to ride back to her men for help; but still, the boar thrashed sickeningly in the pit, and she could not leave it.

"I'll warrant yer right about her being by herself, Fess," Bo said after glancing around uneasily for a moment. "I don't see nobody else, and I don't hear nobody else. Still, does seem peculiar though, a wench like that riding all alone in these here woods. Looks like she's gentlefolk to me. Mayhap we'd best get on out of here after all. I don't like it."

"And I'll wager she jest said that to scare us off," Wyatt jeered, "what with even a rabbit being able to tell ye's a'feared of yer own shadow! Ye can get on if'n ye want, but I'm fer seeing what's under them fine skirts of hers myself. What about ye, Fess?"

"Well"—he scratched his head, as though considering—"I wouldn't mind taking a peek. Hell, once we're done with her, we can throw her in the pit, and that old pig'11 take care of the rest."

Isabella gasped, shocked that the men would even consider such a thing.

"I warn ye: You'll pay for it with your lives if ye dare to touch me!" she threatened, edging Cendrillon even farther away as the poachers started to sidle slyly closer. "If ye wish to save yourselves, you'd best be off before my men-at-arms arrive," she went on, looking around and listening desperately for some sight or sound that would tell her that Sirs Thegn and Beowulf and the rest were somewhere near at hand.

The men only chortled. Then suddenly, without warning, they rushed toward her, grabbing at her legs and Cendrillon's bridle. Instinctively, Isabella raised the whip she always carried but never used, slashing at the poachers fiercely. Bo and Wyatt howled with pain, but Fess only grunted.

"Ye think yer going to beat us to death with that little stick?" he queried with a leer, snatching at Isabella's skirts and ripping the material.

The girl kicked out at him viciously, catching him a blow on the jaw that sent him staggering; then she urged Cendrillon forward, intending to gallop from the clearing. But Fess thwarted her plans, rolling to one side and springing to his feet with a rapidity that surprised her. He yanked her from the mare's back as she passed. Isabella screamed and struck him again with the crop, but finally, he managed to wrest the whip from her grasp. He broke the slender crop over his knee and flung the bits into the forest, then caught hold of her bodice, ripping it down to expose her shift beneath which her breasts heaved. Then he dealt her several sharp slaps.

Isabella gasped once more, then screamed hysterically, putting up her hands to try to ward off the painful blows as they rained upon her face. She thought of Lord Oadby, and tears streamed down her cheeks: for by now, all three poachers were pawing at her lustfully, and she could smell the ftimes of their breath hot and fetid upon her cheeks. Scarcely conscious of what she did, the girl jerked her dagger from her girdle and stabbed blindly, wildly, at the hands that assaulted her. She heard a shriek of pain and saw that Bo had fallen back before she plunged the blade into Wyatt's shoulder. She was only dimly aware that Fess had now succeeded in tearing her gown and girdle from her body, leaving her clad in just her thin white undergarment as she turned to face him like a cornered animal, knife poised with determination. Seeing the damage done to his friends, he stepped away warily and grinned, a horrible, lewd, hateful smile.

"Wicked little bitch, ain't ye?" Fess growled before moving toward her again—slowly, evilly.

Warrick paused to give his panting destrier a chance to catch its breath, then bade the snorting war horse be silent as the strangled cries of a terrified woman reached his ears. Isabella! The Earl's heart leaped to his throat with fear and anger. Though Warrick did not want her as his wife, Isabella was still his, by God, and no man would touch what belonged to the Earl. Besides, he was the girl's warden as well and responsible for her safety. With a savage snarl, he dug his spurs viciously into the stallion's sides.

Like an avenging demon, Warrick galloped into the clearing from the cover of the woods. He took in the situation at a glance. Blinding rage consumed him, and he did not hesitate. His broadsword caught Fess right across the throat, severing the poacher's head from his shoulders. Once more, Isabella screamed as blood spewed from the man's neck in a crimson gush that splashed her in dreadful, mind-numbing spurts. She gazed down at herself, stricken, her hands spread wide and dripping with the warm, sticky red liquid. To her utter horror, the poacher's trunk remained standing briefly before crumpling in a heap on the ground, where the blood now bubbled forth in a rivulet that ran over the earth to where Fess's head lay, brain still functioning, his eyes flickering momentarily with shock before mercifully, at last, they glazed over, sightless. Dear God! For just that one terrible, fleeting instant, the man's head had still been alive, and he had known what had happened to him! Isabella's knees buckled beneath her as she retched violently onto the grass, bracing herself against a tree for support. She dropped her knife, holding her shaking hands to her face to hide her eyes, then was sick again as she realized her fingers had smeared the poacher's blood across her cheeks and lips.

Bo and Wyatt turned to flee, but the Earl showed them no quarter, cutting them down in the same manner as he had their friend. Bo's head toppled from his shoulders, bouncing along the ground before it rolled to a stop some distance away from where Isabella huddled. Wyatt's head seemed to spring from his torso, flying high into the air before it landed with a thud upon the earth and tumbled to a halt.

His dark visage grim with fiiry, Warrick wheeled his destrier, yanked the war horse up fiercely, then dismounted to hurry to Isabella's side. The Earl too was covered with blood, and the liquid ran slowly down the blade he still held in one hand, dripping upon the grass in droplets of red, to make a tiny puddle upon the ground.

The girl stared at him, her eyes still wide with horror, before she turned away and buried her face against the trunk of the tree that still supported her. The muffled sobs choked in her throat as she gasped raggedly for breath, trying to force the awful, unreal scene from her mind.

Warrick laid one hand upon her shoulder, his touch curiously gentle.

"Art hurt?" he inquired, his voice raw with concern, for he saw that her gown had been ripped from her body, and he feared she had been raped.

Isabella shook her head negatively in reply, continuing to weep as the Earl stood there silently until the boar squealed once more and thrashed sickeningly in the pit that contained it. At the sound, the girl moved slowly, dazedly, toward the hole, peering over its edge at the wounded creature. There, Warrick joined her.

The animal lay on its side, heaving with pain, legs flailing wildly, spears protuding from its body. Blood thickened and congealed around the many punctures, where already flies had begun to settle, adding to the beast's terrible agony.

The Earl's immediate instinct was to kill the creature at once in order to put it out of its misery, but oddly enough, he found himself instead saying to Isabella, "Can ye save it?"

"Nay," she answered, her voice quivering. "Be merciful, and slay it quickly."

Warrick was no! insensitive to the ache in her tone.

"Turn aside," he commanded softly.

She did as he told her and heard the boar shriek once. Then, moments later, all was still, and the Earl was leading her away from the pit, shielding her eyes from the dreadful carnage of the bloody, decapitated poachers lying scattered on the earth. He called to his stallion, Gwalchmai. After the steed had approached, Warrick took a flask from his saddle, wet his handkerchief with the ale, and began to sponge the blood from Isabella's body. She bore his ministrations without protest, standing mute before him, and he realized she was still in a state of shock. When he turned her lovely countenance up to his, he saw the purplish-blue marks that had begun to show upon her cheeks.

"What happened to your face?" he asked.

"One of the poachers struck—struck me," Isabella explained, her voice hurt and confused.

"Then I am glad I killed him," the Earl said, forgetting he himself had sought Isabella out with the express purpose of dealing her a few sharp slaps.

Now, to his surprise, the idea of someone hitting her filled him with wrath and indignation. She was too small and fragile to be used so. Warrick found he could not even scold her for riding beyond sight of the castle walls, for her punishment had been more than even he would have wished. When he had finished cleansing the blood from her trembling body, he held her close, sensing she needed physical contact to be comforted, stroking her hair and whispering to her soothingly as her tears began anew, and she wept against his chest.

The Earl did not know how long they remained thus before, at last, he became aware of Isabella's near-nakedness in a different manner, of the soft curves of her flesh pressed against him enticingly, of the heady scent of her perfume bewitchingly pervading his flaring nostrils. Roses, it was—white roses; he was sure. The fragrance reminded him faintly of his mother. He stirred and swore, attempting gently to disentangle himself from the girl's arms: for the bloodlust of his having killed the three men was upon him still, and he knew of but one other way to ease it. The thought that it was his right to have Isabella occurred to him, but instantly, Warrick shoved it from his mind, it would be tantamount to rape in the girl's present condition, and God knew, she had suffered enough horror this day. Besides, he sensed instinctively that to take her by force would be to turn her against him for all time, and oddly enough, the Earl found the thought of that disturbed him. Once more, he tried to push the girl from him, but Isabella gave a tiny, constricted cry, clutched him, clung to him, and again buried her face against his chest, finding solace in his nearness.

Warrick saw that one strap of her shift had fallen from her shoulder, exposing a generous amount of her full ripe breasts, which he could see plainly anyway beneath the thin cloth. Somehow, the undergarment had ridden up too, displaying a flash of long leg and thigh. The Earl groaned and swore once more as he felt his loins quicken and his manhood harden. Again, he tried to thrust Isabella away, but once more, she resisted, snuggling against him, her face turned up to his as she looked at him, hurt, puzzled, and inquiring.