Rose of rapture (26 page)

But even now, far across England at Devizes Castle, unbeknown to Isabella's tortured mind. Lord Lionel Valeureux was repeating the vows that would bind him till death to his betrothed. Lady GUliane Beaumaris.

Chapter Eighteen

Grasmere, England, 1480

ISABELLA ASHLEY PERCHED SILENTLY UPON THE stone coping of Grasmere's widow's walk, gazing out over the vast sweep of the moors below. The terrain seemed to stretch out endlessly before her, like a distant sea, its tall grass rippling like waves when touched by the cool fingers of the spring breeze. Lightly, the wind caressed her still-wan face and tangled the silken strands of her silver-blond hair. Gently, she brushed the billowing tresses from her wide, fathomless grey-green eyes, then stared down with wonder at her trembling hands. Her heart swelled in her breast with joy and awe. She was alive! She could not believe it; miraculously, she was alive. How strange that it should be so and that it was Warrick who had saved her, for Caerllywel had told her how the Earl alone had restrained her wild thrashing to force the bitter brew down her throat, had changed the dressing on her leg two or three times a day to draw out the madness that had possessed her. Now, only the slight, occasional quivering of her limbs remained to remind her she had nearly died. The girl drew her shawl more closely about her, shuddering a little as she pushed the unpleasant thought from her mind.

"Tis indeed peaceful here, my lady," Jocelyn said, recalling Isabella to the present. "No wonder Lord Hawkhurst sent ye here to rest and recover. Grasmere is like a balm that soothes the battered senses."

Isabella turned and smiled at the maid by her side. Jocelyn was Maude's granddaughter, as difficult as it was to believe, for except for the sly mystery that tinged her dark sloe eyes, Jocelyn was nothing at all like her grandmother. She was tall and graceful, with slender curves and rich russet hair that hung freely to her waist. Her mother, dead now, had been Maude's daughter; her father's name, Jocelyn did not know, though it was said he had been a fine lord.

"Aye, just one night, my ma lay with him," Jocelyn had told Isabella ruefully, "and nine months later, I was the result. Ah, what a handsome man she used to say he was, bold as brass, and the price of the tumble well worth it. She said I took after him. I suspect it must be true, for I've little enough resemblance to her—God rest her soul—and Gram. Gram said she reckoned the Thatcher blood was just getting too thin to hold its own, and I guess she was right, because Ma died young. She caught a chill and just faded like a winter rose, went so fast. Gram couldn't save her. I wish I'd known Ma longer; she was as gay as a lark in springtime. Even when she was lying there dying, she still had that same sunshine smile on her face. I'll wager that's why Pa took such a fancy to her that night. Anyway, 'twas she who taught me how to speak proper and read and write some. She kept house for the village priest a long time ago, and he gave her lessons now and then. At any rate, I'll work hard, my lady, and ye won't be sorry ye took me on, I promise ye!"

Upon recovering, Isabella had summoned Maude to Rushden Castle and had offered the old harridan whatever reward she desired.

"Ah, m'lady," the beldam had wheezed. "There be but one thing I ask of ye. I be getting on, ye know; even now, sometimes, late at night, I can hear that old Grim Reaper outside my cottage, a'knocking at my door. Well, I can't say as how I won't be glad to go, fer my bones be getting dry and brittle and my soul powerful weary; but I worry about my granddaughter. Except for me, Jocelyn ain't got any other folk, and she be a prideful wench besides; too good to marry the stonecutter's son, she were, though I boxed her ears for her disobedience, and the poor lad's heart were well nigh broke. If'n ye'd take her on, m'lady, I'd rest easier in my grave; I would."

And so the girl had acquired Jocelyn, who now served as her maid and companion.

"I don't know of any place on earth more beautiful than Gras-mere," Isabella responded, at last, to Jocelyn's earlier words. "I feel at home here, even more so than I do at Rushden. I guess that's because Rushden truly belongs to Giles, and Grasmere is mine, all mine."

"La, it must be heaven to own a place like this, my lady," Jocelyn sighed. "Mayhap someday... nay—" she broke off with a little laugh and shook her head. "Nay, that's just wishful dreaming; I know. I'll never in my life own a house like this." Her voice was wistful.

"But riches aren't what make a person happy, Jocelyn," Isabella said gendy. "'Tis the love and joy in your heart that do that."

She bit her lip and thought of Caerllywel's words that day. Look to your heart, 'Sabelle, he had told her, for therein lies the answer.

Well, she had looked, but even so, Isabella wasn't sure she knew the answer. That was why she had come to Grasmere— to find it.

Lionel Valeureux studied speculatively the tall towers of Grasmere rising up in the distance before him. With the diamond-shaped, lead-glass panes of its windows reflecting the gleaming rays of the spring sun, the manor house appeared almost like some magical fairy castle shimmering there upon the crest of the windswept moors—the perfect setting for the silvery nymph it contained.

Damn ye, 'Sabelle! Lionel swore silently to himself.

For months, he had tried to put the girl from his mind, but he had been unable to forget her nevertheless. Despite all that had happened, he wanted her still; and his marriage to Lady Gilliane Beaumaris had only intensified his desire for Isabella.

Lionel's mouth tightened angrily when he thought of his wife, the timid brown mouse he had been forced to wed. Christ's son! Had there ever lived a more pathetic creature? Painfully shy and inadequate, she had been mortified by the boisterous, customary ritual of bedding on their wedding night and had actually burst into tears when her maids had disrobed her to show all present that her small thin body was without deformity or flaw. Her racking sobs had ruined everything for everyone. The drunken jests and ribald laughter that were normally such a good-natured

part of the bedding had ceased as the guests had gradually, one by one, uncomfortably fallen still. Lionel had feh like a fool as the men had glanced at him covertly, amusement and pity mingled plainly on their faces. By God, the ignominy of it all! How dare Gilliane disgrace him, Lionel Valeureux, in such a fashion? Embarrassed and furious, he had taken her viciously to punish her for her idiotic behavior, then left her the following day.

"You'd best accustom yourself to my lovemaking, ye stupid little slut!" he had snarled cruelly to his terrified bride, obtaining a mean delight from the way she had cringed in fear. "For when I return, ye shall have more of the same! Aye, every night 1 spend with ye shall be as last eve—or worse! You'd best pray I get a brat on ye—and quickly—if ye have no desire to suffer my future visits to your bed!"

Lionel smiled wolfishly to himself as he remembered how poor Gilliane had wept and cowered before him, shuddering uncontrollably at the thought of his touching her as brutally as he had done on their wedding night. And he would, despite the fact that there would be little satisfaction in it. Oh, God. If only it had ' been 'Sabelle who'd lain beneath him!

His loins stirred achingly at the thought. How Lionel wanted her. He must have her; he must!

He paused for a moment, glancing back over his shoulder and cursing himself for not having come directly to Grasmere, going first to Rushden instead. But he'd had no way of knowing that Isabella was at the manor house, rather than her brother's keep.

She had been ill, Lord Hawkhurst had told Lionel coldly when he'd asked for Rushden's mistress, and the Earl had sent her to Grasmere so she might recuperate in peace. Icily, Lionel had thanked Lord Hawkhurst for the information, not missing the spark of antagonism that had flared in the Earl's eyes toward him at the mention of Isabella's name, then continued on to the manor house.

Briefly, a muscle quirked in Lionel's hard, determined jaw. No doubt Lord Hawkhurst was hot on his heels to Grasmere, for even if he did not want the girl, the Earl would not relinquish easily that which he considered his. Well, there was no help for it.

Lionel dug his spurs into his stallion's sides and galloped on toward the manor house in the distance.

"Why have ye come, Lionel?" Isabella asked again as they made their way across the moors, Lionel having insisted on the stroll

in order to escape from the curious eyes and ears of the servants. And if Lord Hawkhurst had indeed pursued him, it would take the Earl a while after his arrival to discover Lionel's and Isabella's whereabouts and put an end to their tryst.

"I wanted to see ye, of course," the heir of St. Saviour said.

"But— but why? After that day at the well—"

"I know, I know." He spoke impatiently, not giving the girl a chance to explain what had happened that afternoon. "I despised ye for that, but even so, I've not been able to get ye out of my mind. God knows, I have tried. But ye fill my thoughts every waking hour of the day, and at night, I dream of nothing save ye." Lionel suddenly stopped walking and forced Isabella to face him. "Tis as though ye have bewitched me, for I grow more obsessed with ye with every passing day. I tell ye, 'tis driving me mad! I want ye, 'Sabelle. Christ! How I want ye! I forgive ye for what happened that day at the well. Only say that Lord Hawkhurst means naught to ye, that ye are mine, now and for always!"

Hurt that he trusted her so little and could believe she had encouraged Warrick, as well as him, yet still want her, she turned her head away so he could not read the expression on her countenance. What kind of love was that?

"Did ye—did ye speak to Gloucester?"

"Nay," Lionel admitted at last. "But I shall, 'Sabelle, I promise ye! 'Tis only that Richard has been much preoccupied of late with this battling of the Scots. There has been no time to approach him "

"Then I am sorry, Lionel, sorry for both of us: for I made a vow to God, when I was ill, that if He would but spare my life, I wouldst marry Warrick and think no more of ye."

"Nay, 'Sabelle! Ye cannot do this to me! Ye are mine. Mine! God's blood—" Lionel swore and, without warning, suddenly took her in his arms, raining searing kisses passionately upon her face, claiming her mouth possessively, demandingly, compelling her lips to yield to him, though she struggled against him.

"Take your hands off my betrothed!"

Lionel and Isabella jerked apart as though they had been shot at the sound of the frostily delivered command. Warrick stood before them, grimly slapping the side of one black leather boot with his riding crop. His dark visage was a distorted mask of anger, though he held himself in check.

Godamercy! Isabella thought. What was he doing here, at Grasmere, and what must he be thinking?

Jesu! What a fool he had been! Warrick was infuriated by the idea. Because of the dreadful guilt he had felt when Isabella had fallen sick, he had almost convinced himself of her sweet nature. Well, thank God, he had discovered his mistake in time! She was as wicked as Brangwen had ever thought about being— worse—for he had saved Isabella's life, and for that alone, she had owed him her loyalty. Well, that was gratitude for you, using her illness as an excuse to slip away and meet her lover! Only, somehow, the two had gotten their messages mixed up, and Lionel had gone to Rushden by mistake. No wonder the young fool had been in such a hurry to leave!

"Well, well," the Earl drawled, his voice harsh and seething with rage. "Isn't this a pretty sight?"

"Warrick, please, let me explain—" Isabella began, mortified that he should have discovered her with Lionel and in such a fashion.

Oh, dear God. What must he be thinking? she wondered again. That she was a wicked, deceitful, ungrateful bitch who, though he had saved her life, had played him false at the first opportunity.* Nay, oh, nay! 'Twasn't true. 'Twasn't like that at all. If only he would give her a chance to explain—

"Warrick—"

"Be silent, witch!" he hissed, moving toward her threateningly, as though he meant to strike her, causing her to cringe from the wrath upon his face. "What a fool ye are, madam," he jeered hatefully, and her worst fears were realized. "Did your lover promise to wed ye and save ye from my bed? Is that why ye ran so eagerly to his arms?" Warrick snorted with contempt when the girl made no reply, understanding now that it was useless to try to explain, to attempt to reason with him. "Nay, I thought not," he sneered. "Do ye know why, madam?" he went on ruthlessly, wanting to hurt her, as she had hurt him. "Nay? Shall I tell ye then?" The Earl smiled mockingly, nastily, as he thought of the report his squire Rhys had delivered to him on Lord Lionel Valeureux. "Your lover cannot wed ye, because he is already married!"

"Married!" Isabella cried involuntarily, stricken to the very core of her being.

She turned and stared at Lionel with shock, as though she'd never really looked at him before. Her grey-green eyes begged him silently to deny the Earl's accusation. But Lionel did not.

"Oh, aye, 'Sabelle," Warrick continued, hammering the words like nails into her heart. "He is wed to Lady Gilliane Beaumaris

of Devizes, a plain brown wench, I'm told, nothing to compare to your silver beauty. But she is still your lover's wife all the same."

Isabella's head spun dizzily until she thought she would swoon. She reeled slightly on her feet, her limbs trembling violently with agitation and the aftermath of her sickness.

"Oh, Lionel," she breathed. "Lionel! Say 'tisn't true! Please," she pleaded desperately. "Say 'tisn't true!"

But he could not.

"I'm sorry, 'Sabelle." He confessed his duplicity at last.

"Oh, God, oh, God!" she wailed miserably, her world crumbling down about her. She had loved him—loved him—and all the time, he had been deceiving her. "Ye bastard!" she spat bitterly; then, with all her small might, Isabella slapped the heir of St. Saviour hard across the face.

He never flinched from the blow, just stood there staring at her with an anguish to match her own in his eyes. The girl's hand flew to her mouth in horror as she saw the red mark that her palm had made on his cheek.