Rose of rapture (2 page)

"'Tis I who should be asking that question, my lord," Isabella replied, her eyes suddenly shadowed and far from the hill upon which they stood.

The Lord understood, as he always did, for he knew her every mood, her every thought, as well as he did his own.

"They are only ghosts, 'Sabelle," he reminded her gently. "Their images will fade with time."

"I know. Even now, they flicker and grow dim, my lord, like candles guttering in the darkness. I try so hard to hold on fast, but still, they are slipping from my grasp—"

"Then let them go, my love. 'Tis time. Ye have grieved a lifetime for them already. They would not have wanted that."

"I know." Suddenly, she clung to him tightly, crying out in anguish, "So many, my lord... if only there were not so many! And still, I wouldst not give one moment of my life with ye to lessen their number! Oh, I am wicked— wickedV

"Nay, 'Sabelle, only honest. Life is precious to us all and never more so than when we are in love." He took her hand. "Come—let me chase away those shadows in your eyes. Ye were not meant for sorrow,"

He led her away to a sheltered grove nestled in a hollow of the land and there pressed her down upon the wild summer grass. The hawk upon her shoulder ruffled its feathers irritably at being disturbed and flitted to a nearby tree, where it perched watchfully over its lady. It would kill for her if need be, but it knew the Lord meant Isabella no harm. The expression on his countenance was tender as he gazed down at her. So pale, so lovely, she was. Her eyes, like the still waters of a sea, seemed almost too large for the delicately boned oval of her face, for she had been ill for a long time. Though her body was now healed, there was still a certain sad wistfulness about her spirit that touched him deeply.

She will always be too sensitive, too vulnerable, he thought. That is the price of her fierce passions.

The Lord studied her hand, lying in his, marveling at how small and graceful it was, its wrist so very slender. Fragile. That was how he thought of Isabella: fragile and needing so to be protected, though ofttimes, in the past, she had defended herself as well as any man. He kissed her palm lingeringly, then pressed her hand to his cheek.

'"Sabelle," he whispered.

He did not have to say more. She was already loosing the lacings of her gown, slipping eagerly, if a trifle shyly, from her garments. Though he was her husband, there was still a part of Isabella that blushed becomingly at knowing he desired her: for though, in her quiet way, she was a strong woman, the Lord was stronger; and she never felt it more than when he took her in his arms, and she cried out her surrender. She was so vulnerable to him. It was as though she were helpless against him, wanting him so and finding the words so very difficult to say. In the past, she had been hurt so terribly that, even now, it was hard for her to believe the Lord loved her, and only her, with a deep, lasting passion that time would never dim.

The Lord cast away his clothes, then smiled gently and joined her again beneadi the shade of the old, gnarled oaks and spreading yews.

"'Sabelle, my love."

His words reassured her. She needed so to hear them. Then his lips found hers, kissing one quivering comer lightly, tracing, with his tongue, the outline of her mouth before claiming the whole of her lips softly, tentatively, at first, as though she were a young maiden, needing to be coaxed and wooed with gentleness and restraint. Tenderly, he kissed her mouth, then parted her lips to taste her. His tongue darted forth to explore the honey within,

making her shudder with sudden desire as an electric shock of anticipation jolted through her body, causing her loins to quicken sharply. Lx)w in her throat, Isabella moaned a little. She reached up to fasten her arms around the Lord's back, laid one hand against the nape of his neck, where his hair curled in thick rich waves. She pulled him closer, clung to him with her mouth, wanting him, needing him so desperately. It was from him she drew her strength. He was her guiding light, her port in every storm. There were no ghosts when he was with her.

Her tongue met his own, entwined about it with an intimacy that made her heart begin to thud wildly in her breast. Swirl for swirl, she followed where his tongue led, his lips sucked, his teeth nibbled, until she felt as though she were drowning in a molten sea—and she did not care. Feverishly, she kissed him back until they were both gasping for breath, and she could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her as his body half-covered her own, and his hands began to move upon her flesh. Blindly, he tore his mouth from hers, his lips burning their way across her smooth countenance, seeming to scorch her face like a brand. His kissed her eyes, where her incredibly long black lashes made dark, crescent smudges upon her cheeks. He murmured love words in her ear, his breath warm where he blew faintly, his tongue just brushing the small, curved shell, making her shiver with delight and wanting. He wrapped his fingers in her hair, buried his face in the long, silky strands, inhaling deeply the sweet rose fragrance of her. Roses. Always roses. White roses.

Only white roses for Isabella.

They had named her for them. The Rose of Rapture, the courtiers had called her and sought to claim her hand. A thousand white bouquets had strewn her path, had been flung at her feet in homage, but the Lord alone had won her in the end.

The triumph of that knowledge spurred him on. Hotly, his mouth traveled to the pulse beating rapidly at the hollow of her slender throat, that sensitive place upon the curve of her shoulder, and then her breasts, which swelled softly, round and full, at his touch. Possessively, he cupped them, fondled them, taunted them until they ached with passion. Their tiny pink buds flushed and hardened, begging to be touched, tasted, taken. His lips closed over first one, and then the other, sucking gently before his teeth nipped lightly the rosy little buttons, held them in place for the flicking of his tongue as it tormented them to even greater heights. Isabella inhaled sharply as she felt the heat of her flesh begin to

emanate from her body in waves of excitement. Once more, a broken moan escaped from her throat.

"My lord, my love," she breathed.

"'Sabelle," he muttered hoarsely in response.

The Lord lingered over her breasts, as always, for they enchanted him. He thought they were the most beautiful spheres he'd ever seen. They were so pale, he could see the barest shadows of the blue veins through which her life's blood flowed. They filled the palms of his hands as he caressed them; the hollow between them sloped like a gentle valley as his mouth crept down it tantalizingly, then enveloped her nipples once more. Again, his tongue titillated the small, rigid peaks, swirling around them deliciously in a way that sent sparks of fire radiating from them in all directions. Isabella felt the ripples of pleasure that coursed through her flesh, and she strained against him, hungry for more.

The Lord's lips began to sear their way down the length of her lithe body. TTiere was no part of her he did not already know but want to discover yet anew: the sides he often tickled mischievously in the mornings, the slender waist, the thighs that trembled and opened for him of their own accord, the backs of her knees and the swell of her calves... her ankles... her feet.

He raised one dainty foot to his mouth and kissed her instep. He sucked her toes, which tasted of the tall sweet grass and wildflowers upon which she had trodden earlier. For a moment, his gaze rested eagerly, intrusively, on her face. Her head was flung back; her eyes were closed; her mouth was parted slightly in exultation. For the barest instant, the Lord's heart stopped beating, then started to thump rapidly in his breast. The sight of her countenance, naked in its expression of desire, aroused him fiercely, possessively. That look was for his eyes alone. No other man would ever see it. The Lord would kill any man who even dared to try. Isabella belonged to him—and him alone.

She sensed his searching stare; her eyelids fluttered open. Their eyes met, locked. Time was caught, held suspended. Their breathing ceased, then continued raggedly as she turned away, made vulnerable again by his prying.

She is so shy, he thought. She would hide her innermost thoughts from me, but she cannot. Even the very essence of her being is mine

The Lord reveled in that victory as his hands swept up to part her flanks. Slowly, slowly, he trailed his fingers along the insides of her thighs, then, with a low groan, bent his head to the downy curls that twined between her legs. He pressed his lips to the

honeyed moisture of her womanhood, his tongue seeking, probing. Isabella gasped at the intimate contact. A burning ache seized her, where his tongue darted hotly, and began to build, spreading through her body like wildfire. The need to have him inside her was overwhelming, blinding her to everything but him.

Sensing her need, his fingers slipped inside her, easing her desire momentarily with their languid, fluttering motion. Again and again, he stroked her, filled her, tongued her until he could feel the tiny tremors that started deep within her, then burst forth uncontrollably as she suddenly arched against him, her hands wrapped in his hair to draw him even closer as she stiffened slightly, inhaling sharply once more, then gave a soft sweet whimper of ecstasy that held him spellbound until she relaxed beneath him. Then lingeringly, he kissed his way back up to her mouth and drew her near, breathless with expectation, as tentatively she began to explore his body as he had hers.

Isabella worshiped the Lord, as he had her, for he had suffered too in the past. Aye, once, they had been halves, searching blindly for that which would make them whole. They had found it in their love, and they cherished it more deeply for that, taking their time with each other, giving as much as they received—and more.

Caressingly, half-marveling, her hands moved slowly over her husband. She was filled with wonder and awe that this handsome man belonged to her and her alone. Her palms brushed lightly across the mat of hair that covered his sun-bronzed chest. She loved the feel of it, soft and silky as it rippled through her fingers, in sharp contrast to the hardness of his firm flat belly, scored here and there with battle scars that shone whitely against his flesh. Deliberately, tauntingly, her hands slipped lower still, to his thick, muscular thighs and his manhood. The Lord shivered with pleasure as Isabella teased him tormentingly, her fingers trailing up and down his flanks before, at last, she grasped his shaft and began the motion slowly. After an eternity, it seemed, her lips closed over him, and her deliciously swirling tongue made him gasp aloud with joy. And then there was nothing for him but her and the things she was doing to him.

Finally, he could bear no more. He caught her tangled mass of tresses, and as she lifted her head to look at him, he moaned,

"My love..."

She smiled at the words as he drew her up, rolled her over on her back, and parted her thighs. Urgently, his maleness probed between her legs, found her, entered her, penetrating her slowly,

plunging down into the warm, inviting pool of her with a sudden assault that made her catch her breath, then cry out with delight. Just as languidly, he withdrew, then spiraled down into her once more. Then, without warning, the Lord grabbed great bunches of Isabella's cascading satin mane, twisting her mouth up to meet his own. Forcefully, demandingly, ravishing her now, he drove into her. The violence of his passion exhilarated her. Isabella thrust her hips upward to receive him again and again, faster and faster, until his hands caught hold of her buttocks, lifting her, crushing her against him as he took her savagely, bringing her rapidly to climax. His own release followed swiftly. He shuddered and was still.

Their bodies throbbed against each other, gliding slowly back to earth as their rasps for breath mingled and filled the air. The Lord brushed a strand of hair from Isabella's face, then kissed her.

"'Sabelle, my love," he said.

It was enough. She sighed with happiness, snuggling within the cradle of his arms and laying her head upon his shoulder as he moved from her. The ghosts that had haunted her earlier were gone. There was only the Lord, her husband, now.

She nestled quietly in his embrace, listening to the gentle sounds of his breathing as he slept, one arm about her to hold her close. The intimacy of the moment filled Isabella with as much contentment as the Lord's lovemaking had done. There was something so warm and comforting about lying next to him while he lay sleeping, vulnerable to her now as she had been to him earlier.

Gently, Isabella kissed the Lord's mouth, then rose quietly so as not to disturb him. As she looked down tenderly at his sleeping figure, she smiled softly to herself How she loved him. He was her fate, her destiny for all time. She had known it from the very first moment she had ever looked into his eyes. Her mind drifted back... back to the beginning. How many years had come and gone since then? she wondered. How many years had passed since that day the Lord had come riding up to Rushden, and she had first beheld his handsome face?

The sky was growing grey, as though it would soon rain; but Isabella paid no heed as she made her way to the moors that once more beckoned to her. The breeze soughed plaintively, rippling across the tall grass and rustling the leaves of the old oaks and yews; but Isabella did not hear the wind's faint whisper. She was

lost in thought, far from the heaths upon which she walked, remembering.

In her mind, it was springtime at her brother's keep, and she was just five years old—

Chapter Two

Rushden Castle, England, 1470

THE TWO SMALL OCCUPANTS OF RUSHDEN CASTLE, which had been the home of the powerful Ashley family for centuries, huddled anxiously upon high stools and peered intently through the peep that looked out over the great hall of the fortress. The younger of the children, Isabella, had her tiny hand tucked securely within her brother Giles's for comfort, the only measure of solace she was brave enough to seek. She longed to cling closely to him to lessen the apprehension she felt this day, but she dared not risk crushing the stiff brocade folds of her newly pressed gown. She had been strictly warned of the consequences that would follow the wrinkling of her attire, and she had no wish to discover whether or not Alice, her nanna, had meant the dire threats uttered so tartly earlier that mom.