Rose of rapture (28 page)

He pressed his mouth to the unfolding petals of her woman's flower, tasting the honeyed nectar of her being. He tongued her deliberately until she writhed beneath him, moaning down low in her throat, her hands drawing him even nearer. She inhaled sharply with shock and pleasure at the intimate contact as the slow, throbbing tremors within her started to build with an intensity that made her think she would surely explode if they continued. And then suddenly, without warning, it was as though a thousand stars had burst within her, sending bolts of white-hot coruscation through her body. She gasped breathlessly once more, exhaled, panted raggedly for air.

No longer able to contain himself, Warrick rose, covering her body with his own. His hard maleness sought and found her, entered her forcefully, so she barely felt the sudden stab of pain that accompanied his assault, though she cried out until he silenced her lips with his own, kissing her fervently, as though again, he could not get enough of her. His mouth slashed like a brand across her cheek to her temple and then the silvery tresses

of her long damp hair. His breath was warm in her ear, where he muttered thickly, brokenly, words that Isabella only dimly heard, only half-understood; she was so filled with rapture. Deliberately, he withdrew, then drove into her once more; and this time, he did not leave her but lay atop her instead, accustoming her to the feel of him inside of her.

She could feel the sinews in his powerful arms standing out like cords, supporting his weight as finally he began to move again, plunging into her over and over, gyrating down into the moist, molten core of her.

Never interrupting the motion, he rolled slightly to one side, taking her with him so she rested upon one hip. He draped her free leg in the crook of his arm and grasped her buttocks, helping her meet his now-rapid thrusts. Isabella could feel the muscles in his sweating back ripple beneath her calf as she tightened her leg more firmly about him and put her arms around his neck.

Warrick threw his head back, breathing heavily, his hawklike face naked with desire as he stared down at her.

"Do ye want me?" he asked, his amber shards dark with passion and filled with a strange expectancy. "Tell me ye want me, 'Sabelle!"

The girl shivered with an odd thrill of vulnerability at the words, for it was as though Warrick were demanding her surrender, as though she no longer belonged to herself but to him

"Aye, I want ye," she whispered, unable to deny him.

His eyes closed. He groaned and crushed her to him possessively, burying his face in her shoulder, kissing that sensitive place at the curve of her neck, spiraling into her faster and faster until she cried out once more at the scintillating suns that flared within her, turning her to brilliant flame. The earth seemed to rock beneath her. Her head reeled. For one blind, exhilarating eternity, Isabella thought she would faint. As though from a distance, she heard Warrick's low moan of joy, felt the racking shudders that shook his body until, at last, he was still.

It was over.

His kissed her gently, lightly, several times on the mouth, then laid his head again upon her shoulder. Quietly, they rested together, waiting for the frantic pace of their breathing and hearts to slow. Finally, Warrick moved from Isabella's body, though still, he held her close, cradling her tenderly in his warm embrace.

They did not speak, for neither knew what to say. They had been swept away by the unexpected magic of the night, and now, they were confused and a little frightened by what had happened

between them. It was not love. Nay, it could not be love. Love was but a lie that only fools believed.

For a moment, Warrick stared at Isabella intently, searchingly, as though seeking something he had not previously thought to find. But she closed her eyes and turned away from his gaze so he could not see the expression on her countenance. Physically and emotionally drained, she was too vulnerable to face him now, this instant. He was so clever at guessing her thoughts; he would know immediately how his lovemaking had affected her, the strange hope and yearning for him that had risen in her heart; and he would use the knowledge to hurt her. To the girl's surprise, Warrick did not force her to look at him once more, as he had done earlier. He merely lay there beside her, playing idly with a strand of her silky, tangled hair and thinking.

It was only later, much later, that, despite her whispered protests, he took her in his arms again, this time teaching her about himself and the things he desired as well.

Chapter Twenty

ISABELLA STIRRED GENTLY AS THE FIRST PALE streaks of the rose dawn lit the sky. There was something different about the day; she knew. But it was not until she felt the tightening of Warrick's arms about her that she realized what it was. In a rush, the events of last night came flooding back to her, causing her to blush painfully with shame and mortification. God's blood! How could she have behaved so wantonly, allowed herself to be so completely conquered by this man who lay beside her, siu--rendered so willingly to his strong, enveloping embrace?

'Twas the wine, she thought dully. 'Twas only the wine.

But the girl knew, in her heart, it was not true. Oh, sweet Jesii. What had Warrick done to her?

Cautiously, so as not to waken him, she turned her head slightly to study him curiously, as though somehow expecting to find him changed; but he was not. Though the hard lines of his face were not as pronounced in sleep, there was still an arrogance about his dark, handsome visage that could not be denied. But strangely enough, Isabella felt no fear of him now. Caerllywel had been right. Warrick had not beaten or abused her, as the giri had been half-afraid he might; and though she suspected the Earl would not be above dealing her a few sharp slaps in a rage, she knew

now that he would not physically ill-use her, as many men did their wives. Had Warrick been as cruel as she had first thought, he would not have taken her with such tenderness last night, taking the time to be certain she knew pleasure too. He would simply have raped her instead, brutally, without care for her feelings. But he had not. There was some kindness and compassion in him. At least Isabella could be grateful for that. At least she would not have to spend the rest of her life with a man who would savagely torment her.

The rest of her life. How strange that sounded. How strange to think that every morning now, for as long as she lived, she would awaken with Warrick lying beside her, one arm about her possessively, one hand tangled in her cascading mane of hair. In the past, the girl had always slept alone. Now, unless her husband were gone, she would never sleep alone again, for Warrick was not a man who would not claim what was rightfully his. He had made that quite clear last night. Isabella shivered a little as she recalled the words he had spoken.

Willing or nay, have ye I shall.

Aye, Warrick would take her whenever he wished, and she would be helpless against him. Worse yet was the terrible knowledge that, despite what she felt in her heart and mind, her body wanted him; and he knew it. Yet, there had been more than just lust between them last night; surely, there had been. Did a man truly take a woman as Warrick had taken her if there was not some spark of caring in him for her? Isabella bit her lip. Her knowledge of courtship and lovemaking was so limited that she did not know. Perhaps all .men were liars and cheats, masters of deception and duplicity who stole your heart, then shattered it into a million pieces. The girl sighed wistfully, her heart aching at the depressing thought. She wondered how it would have been, had it been Lionel who had taken her last night, Lionel, whom she had loved.

Warrick, who had awakened and was watching her silently, saw her face soften briefly, dreamily, and guessed the cause. His nostrils flared whitely. Isabella was his wife, by God; and though he had taken her fiercely last night, with a torrid passion that had inflamed them both, he had been gentle with her, and she had responded to him in a manner he had not believed possible. He had almost dared to hope she did not truly hate him after all, that they might yet make something of this marriage they had not wanted. Now, this mom, though he held his bride in his arms,

Warrick knew her heart and mind were with Lionel Valeureux, The thought filled him with rage.

"Do not even think of him, madam," the Earl ordered coldly, startling the girl. Marry-go-up! How long had he been awake, and how had he read her mind so easily? It was uncanny, and for a moment, all her fear of him returned. Was she to have no secrets from this man? "Like it or not, ye are mine," he continued wamingly, "and I will have no other in your thoughts. Do ye understand, 'Sabelle?" His golden eyes pierced her own grey-green ones, as though he could see into her very soul.

Isabella shuddered slightly and turned away.

"I—I do not know what ye mean, my lord," she said. "My thoughts were of no one special."

"Do not lie to me, madam!" Warrick snapped, catching her jaw and compelling her to look at him. "I saw your face, and 'twas easy enough to read. Well, ye will never know the answer to your question, for ye will never share the bed of Lionel Va-leureux or any other man save me. Is that clear? Ye are my wife—"

"Well, I wish I were not!"

Warrick's mouth tightened with anger. His eyes narrowed.

"No more than do I, my lady; I assure ye. Nevertheless, 'tis done, and we must live with it. And if ye wish to find some semblance of happiness in our relationship, ye had best learn to obey me."

"Happiness! What do ye know of happiness, my lord? Ye, who arc bitter and cruel! Ye know naught of joy. Naught!" Isabella cried out in defense.

Warrick smiled hatefully, mockingly.

"Do I not?" he asked. "Once more, ye lie, madam. Tell me, if ye can, that I didst not give ye joy last night and receive it in return."

The girl gasped and flushed with embarrassment. Godamercy! How could he speak so openly of the intimate act they had shared last night? 'Twas indecent!

"Ye dare to remind me—" she began.

"That ye surrendered to me willingly?" He raised one eyebrow devilishly, then laughed. "Oh, 1 shall do more than remind ye, 'Sabelle." His eyes raked her meaningfully. "Aye, I shall do much more than that."

"Nay," she breathed, trying to yank away from him. "Don't touch me!"

Easily, he retained his hold of her.

"Why so eager to flit away, my fairy queen?" he inquired jeeringly. "The mom is early yet, and I lust for thee."

"Lust, aye," Isabella hissed. "That is all 'tis!"

"Did ye expect something more, my lady? Love mayhap? Alas, how wicked of me to crush your hope—"

"I hoped for nothing, do ye hear? I want nothing from ye!"

"Well, that's too bad, 'Sabelle, because I want something from ye," Warrick told her intently. "Come, madam," he coaxed. "Ye know 'twill do ye no good to fight me; and though ye will doubtless find it difficult to believe, I really have no desire to hurt ye."

"Don't ye?"

"Nay, my lady. I wouldst but give ye pleasure, as I didst last night."

"Pleasure! I knew no pleasure, my lord—"

"Didn't ye?" Slowly, Warrick pulled the sheet from her body, exposing Isabella's nakedness to his hungry eyes. He laid one hand upon her breast. Almost immediately, to the girl's shame, the rosy crest hardened at his touch. He laughed once more. "Didn't ye, 'Sabelle?" he queried again.

And then he was kissing her, ravishing her, despite her struggles, setting her afire as he had done last night. When it was finished, he moved from her slowly, then rose and began to dress.

"Twould be wise, in the fumre, madam, if ye did not lie to me," he said. "Now summon your women, and start packing the best of your clothes and jewels. We leave Rushden Castle within the week."

Surprised, Isabella sat up, drawing the sheet up to cover her nakedness.

"Leave Rushden! But—but where do we go, my lord?"

"To Court, of course. Things are well in hand here—Master Potter and Sir Lindael can oversee the keep quite adequately until our return—and I have tarried far too long from the palace as 'tis. There is no telling what Dorset and Hastings may have done in my absence to discredit me. Besides, His Grace would be deeply offended if I did not present ye at Court. Ye are, after all, his ward; and as 'twas he who insisted on this marriage, I am certain he will wish to be assured our wedding has indeed taken place."

Isabella bit her lip as she remembered the ceremony that had been nothing at all as she had sometimes imagined during her childhood. She and Warrick had been married quietly in the chapel at Rushden, with only a handful of the castle's knights

and maids present to witness the rite. Giles had not even been there, for Isabella had feared he would do something rash to prevent the wedding from taking place, had he known about it. She would write him today, informing him of her marriage, saying only that it was by the King's command she had wed their warden, Lord Warrick ap Tremayne, Earl of Hawkhurst, and that she was well content with her husband. It would be enough. It had to be, for the girl could not bring herself to explain about Lionel and how he had deceived her. The heir of St. Saviour was Giles's foster brother and dearest friend. No matter how deeply Lionel had hurt her, Isabella could not destroy the bond between him and her brother.

'"Sabelle." Warrick spoke, bringing her back, with a start, to the present. "Why dost thou linger in bed? Do ye wish me to rejoin ye?" He grinned wickedly, as though he were already contemplating this.

"Nay. Nay," she answered hastily. "I was—I was but waiting for ye to leave."

"Why?" he inquired and then, at her blush, drawled with amusement, "Oh, for Christ's sake, Isabella! How can ye be so shy of me after what we shared last night and this mom?"

The girl flushed even more painfully with embarrassment.

"Oh! How can ye speak of such things to me?" she asked, mortified.

"And just why should I not? There was naught wrong in what we did. In fact, I enjoyed it very much. Besides, ye are my wife—"

"So ye keep reminding me, my lord," the girl put in dryly.

"And I may discuss what I choose with ye," he went on as though she had not interrupted him. "I'm afraid you'll just have to get used to it, sweetheart."

The endearment came naturally to his lips, surprising them both; and for an instant, the magic of last night sparked between them once more. This time, it was Warrick who turned away.

"Arise, my lady," he growled, his voice sounding oddly constricted. "Ye have lain abed long enough to set the whole fortress gossiping about my virility and your nature. No doubt I shall have gained the admiration of every man in the keep for my prowess and your willingness to receive me."

To Isabella's horror, she recognized this was probably the truth. She glanced at the little clock that sat upon the table by the bed. Why, 'twas nearly noon! All would realize the marriage had long been consummated—and not just once, but several

times! She could already picture the sly, knowing looks of merriment that would be directed toward Warrick and herself, the bawdily insinuating jests that would be told. She could have wept with vexation and despair as she fairly flew from the bed and scrambled hurriedly into her robe so she might summon her maids.

She was just reaching for the chamber door when Warrick's arm suddenly shot out, preventing her from sliding the bolt back.

"Wait!" he commanded curtly, striding to the bed.

Briefly, he stared down at the fine white linen sheet upon which they'd lain. He raised one eyebrow coolly as, at last, he spied the blood stain he was seeking.

"What is it, Warrick? What's wrong?" Isabella queried, puzzled.

"I wanted to be certain the proof of your virginity was plain upon the sheet," he informed her.

Isabella blanched, as though he had struck her. Her hands clenched tightly by her sides.

"Did ye doubt ye wouldst find it, my lord?" she questioned icily, hurt and indignant.

"Nay, 'Sabelle. I knew last night I was the first. 'Twas only that I wished to be sure others would not doubt it. If there had been no proof of your virginity for them to see, ye wouldst have been publicly disgraced. Ye know that."

Aye, she did. She was ashamed she had been so quick to judge her husband unfairly when he had only been thinking of her.

"I—I'm sorry, Warrick."

The apology was stilted, but at least she had spoken it. He gazed at the woman who was now his wife, and for a moment, Warrick wanted desperately something he could not name.

" 'Sabelle—" he began, but the almost pleading word had come too late.

Isabella had gone.

e---^-

BOOK TWO

Jlose

of Rapture

■*"* Qp->r^t-^ '^

Chapter Twenty-One

The Road to London, England, 1480

ALTHOUGH HER HUSBAND RODE AT HER SIDE, STILL,

Isabella was more excited than she'd ever been in her life as they traveled toward London. Never had she journeyed so far from Rushden and viewed as many wondrous sights as, to her delight, she saw now. Eagerly, her eyes, wide with marvel, took everything in, awed and overwhelmed by the towns through which they passed, much larger than any she had ever seen. She was skeptical and dumbfounded when Warrick told her that London was even bigger, for the girl could not conceive of such, even in her imagination. New too was the deference all showed to her as the Earl's bride. Though Lady Isabella Ashley of Rushden had commanded respect, the Countess of Hawkhurst, wife to one of the King's favorites, wielded a power that was almost intoxicating. Isabella found herself petted and pampered and waited on hand and foot as she had never been before; and she thought wryly to herself that there was something to be said, after all, for having a man like her husband at her side. Warrick had but to lift an eyebrow in that devilish fashion of his, and all quailed before him, scurried to do his bidding, and grew faint if every-

thing was not to his liking. As his bride, Isabella lacked for nothing; and to her surprise, in all things, she came first and foremost with the Earl.

Each morning, Sir Bevan, Warrick's master-at-arms, made certain the girl was accorded a place at the head of the cavalcade, so she would not be smote with grit from the horses' flying hooves as they rode along, and saw that her flask was filled with cool fresh water to quench her thirst as the day wore on. Every so often, the knight would appear at her side to inquire if there was aught she needed, and she had but to ask a thing, and it would be done. Several times, Isabella was forced to turn away to hide her smile when Sirs Eadric, Thegn, and Beowulf grumbled under their breath about Sir Bevan's attentiveness to her.

At midday, the party would stop at some roadside inn for lunch, and there, Warrick never failed to hand Isabella down from her saddle, escort her inside, and demand a private room, where she might dine and rest. Usually, he took his meals with her as well, as did Caerllywel, and made certain she received the choicest of the food and drink that was served them. At night, he engaged the finest of chambers for her; and Alice, Jocelyn, and the two other maids who attended the girl were kept busy unpacking Isabella's coffers and laundering and airing her own personal linens before they were put on the bed, Warrick being of the firm opinion that all inns' sheets were infested with lice and bedbugs and unfit for him and Isabella to sleep on.

She wondered at his consideration for her, for she had not expected it; and once, when she questioned him about it, the Earl glanced at her impatiently, frowning.

"Ye are my wife," he said for the hundredth time, as though this explained everything. "Didst think I would ill-treat ye?"

"N—nay, at least I hoped ye would not. But then, neither did I believe ye wouldst go out of your way to be kind me. I—^I know ye didst not wish to wed me."

"We have been over this before, madam. Whether we like it or not, the deed is done. We are married, and I would scarcely abuse ye for that when 'tis no fault of your own. God's wounds! I am not a monster, my lady, though ye have accused me of being such in the past. As long as ye are mine—and please me— ye will want for naught. Much as ye may believe otherwise, I do not desire your unhappiness."

Thoughtfully, Isabella considered this last remark as the days passed, and the entourage rode toward London. It seemed a strange thing for Warrick to have told her when he had hurt her so deeply

by exposing Lionel's deceit. But gradually, as she pondered the matter, the girl realized the only times the Earl had truly wounded her had been when he'd believed her unfaithful to him, either in body or mind. She recognized then that Caerllywel had been right about his brother. Warrick had been so terribly injured by Brang-wen's betrayal of him that he found it difficult to trust any woman, and he was too proud to be made a fool of again. That was why he watched Isabella so fiercely, so intently, like the hawk whose badge he wore, growing angry and jealous if even her thoughts strayed to another man.

At last, I think I'm beginning to understand him, the girl decided. He is afraid to love. How strange that it should be thus when he does not even fear death. Yet, 'tis true. He is afraid to love, for to love, one must risk being hurt. Warrick cannot bear that, so he asks only for loyalty instead. 'Tis as Caerllywel told me. Warrick is hard—and sometimes cruel—not because he is unkind or unjust, but because he is so vulnerable. As long as I am true to him, in both body and mind, he will be a good husband to me, just as he is a good lord to the men who serve him so faithfully. And perhaps, in time, as Caerllywel said, Warrick may even come to care for me a little, and my life with him will not be so bad after all. Even now, I really have no cause for complaint, for he sees to my every need, even in bed.

Isabella blushed with mortification at this last unbidden thought, glancing quickly, surreptitiously, at her husband to discover if he had discerned the direction her silent musings had taken. To her relief, he was conversing with Caerllywel and appeared to be paying her no heed. She exhaled thankfully, for Warrick seemed to have an uncanny knack for knowing what went on in her head, and it was difficult for her to hide her innermost feelings from him. How horrible it would be if her husband were to learn how— now—just the sight of his muscles rippling beneath his doublet stirred her, making the girl long for the evening, when they would close their chamber door and shut out the rest of the world, and Warrick would take her in his strong arms and make love to her. Now, after so many nights of lying in his warm embrace, she made no protest against him when he took possession of her. It was useless to deny him; he would have her anyway, despite her struggles; and it was pointiess to fight him when her body so obviously desired him.

Aye, she wanted him, just as he wanted her. It was not love, but it was more than many had.

Warrick saved my life, Isabella reminded herself, and despite

all that has occurred between us, he is trying to make our marriage work. Can I do any less? Nay. I must put Lionel from my heart and mind and devote myself to being a good wife to Warrick, as I promised when I bielt before the priest and plighted my troth.

Still, it was so difficult to do. Though she now longed to despise him, Isabella had loved Lionel deeply, and she found even the pain of his duplicity could not completely obliterate her gentler feelings toward him. Again and again, she told herself she hated him. But then, just when she thought she was over him, something would happen to make her recall the love they'd shared, and a thousand treasured memories would flood her very being before the anguish of Lionel's perfidy pierced her anew. The gleam of sunlight upon a young man's golden hair, a pair of laughing blue eyes looking into her own grey-green ones, a white rose handed to her by a child, a fragrant bar of sandalwood soap given to her by an innkeeper's wife—such small, unimportant things, they were, that made her remember and yet yearn to forget.

Oh, Lionel. Lionel!

Only at night, in Warrick's arms, did the ghost of Isabella's first love cease to haunt her, driven away by her husband's kisses, his caresses. Once more, the girl gazed at Warrick searchingly.

Aye, at last, she could understand the hard shell he had built around himself in order to survive. The betrayal of one's love was not a wound that was easily healed.

There is magic in these tender hands. Can ye not set them to curing the ache in Waerwic's soul? If ye can, ye may find he will love ye more truly than ever a man has loved a woman.

"I will try," Isabella vowed softly to herself. "Before God, 1 will try."

Vast and cluttered, the city of London sprawled along the River Thames in a haphazard jumble of cacophony and confusion. The air reverberated with the lusty cries of merchants hawking their wares, each trying to out-shout his competitors as he advertised the bargains available at his stand. Candlewick Street was a close huddle of cloth shops, before which the peddlers had set up their carts to display bright bolts of material of every color and weave. On West Cheap were the more elegant establishments and stalls of the goldsmiths and jewelers, which contrasted sharply with the marketplaces of the fishmongers, ironmongers, and vintners that could be found on Thames Street, where the tangy smell of

freshly caught fish pervaded the nostrils, and the violent pounding of hammer upon anvil assaulted the ears. Often, the bolder of the vendors could be seen accosting passersby; and the unfortunate, captive customers would be forced to listen to a barrage of demands, pleas, and wheedling before they either purchased the wares arrayed for their inspection or escaped from the persistent merchants by threatening to call the guard.

Occasionally, fights broke out here and there upon the streets and especially around the docks, where exotic goods from far-off places were being busily unloaded from the boats and barges that clogged the wharves. Isabella discerned the fragrant scents of cinnamon and clove among the many other spicy odors that wafted deliciously through the air, mingling with the enticing aroma of newly baked bread and pastries that emanated from the bakeries. From the Thames itself came that peculiar, dank smell always associated with rivers, accompanied by a slightly damp breeze that stirred faintly, sending tiny waves rippling across the waters that lapped gently at hulls and piers alike.

With the wind rose the gay trill of the flute and twang of the lute as wandering minstrels moved from comer to comer, pausing, now and then, to pass their caps for small donations. There were mimes and mummers, acrobats and jugglers too, and once, Isabella saw a man with a monkey that danced to the tune of a carillon and held out a battered tin cup for coins. The jingle-jangle of the sovereigns was lost in a smattering of applause that gave way, in turn, to the sounds of raised voices warning, "Make way, make way," before the clatter of horses' hooves and carriage wheels, which mmbled over the cobblestones and paving blocks, sent the gathered crowd scattering rapidly. There had been more than one poor, unwary townsperson trampled to death by the steed of a careless, impatient lord or crushed beyond all recognition beneath the churning, rimmed wheels of a fast-moving vehicle. Isabella's breath caught in her throat as she saw a ragged child barely escape from such a fate, and she pressed her mare close to Warrick's stallion for protection, somewhat frightened by the hustle and bustle of London.