Rose of rapture (42 page)

Yet, for all this, Isabella was frowning slightly as she walked

upon the moors toward the sea; and there were more than a few of the crofters who, upon spying her, secretly made the sign of the cross and murmured a quiet prayer for her soul. It was not that they despised the girl; indeed, they loved her dearly. But she was as fey as the wounded creatures she wondrously healed; and there was something about her solitary figure—and, perched upon her shoulder, that hawk, a wild and wicked bird, they thought—that gave the tenants pause.

Still, the Lord loved her; that much was plain to see. After all, had he, who had never cared about his inheritance, not allowed his wife a free hand and purse to restore it as she had seen fit? Had he, who had never before given a thought as to whether his villeins lived or died, not given his permission and supplies for them to build new cottages and plant vegetable patches for themselves? Had he, who so joyed in the hunt, not torn up one end of his stables and remodeled it so it might serve as a menagerie for wounded beasts? Had he, who had once had a never-ending string of mistresses, not become so fiercely faithful to his wife that his yeomen were afraid to cheat on their own women, fearing to incur the Earl's disapproval and displeasure?

If that was not love, what was it? the villeins marveled. Aye, the Lady Isabella had bewitched him right enough, and they were glad of it, for their own lots had improved considerably because of it. But still, sometimes, she frightened them a little just the same.

A gregarious, happy people, they did not understand her need for solitude or the fact that despite her joy and contentment, a small cloud of shadow had settled on her horizon. There was no reason for her disquiet, yet the girl was uneasy all the same; and she bit her lip thoughtfully as she recalled, with distress, the letter that had come this mom.

Once more. Lady Stanley's fine neat script leaped out at Isabella, as though it lay before her even now. The Baroness had written that one of her husband's favorite falcons was ill, and the falconers had been unable to cure it. It seemed the bird must die. Lord Stanley was heartsick. Was there nothing to be done, he had asked, and Lady Stanley had remembered Isabella's way with sick and injured animals. Would the girl be so kind as to advise the Baroness in the matter? The bird was suffering from such and such symptoms.

The letter had then chatted on politely about life at Court during the Tremaynes' absence. Lord Dante da Forenza, Conte di Mon-tecatini, had been recalled home to Italy. Lord St. Saviour had

drowned in a boating accident; his son, Lord Lionel, was now the Earl of St. Saviour-on-the-Lake (Isabella scarcely even noticed this piece of gossip). The King's excesses were growing steadily worse, and he did not look well. Edward's eldest daughter, the Princess Elizabeth, was fair to rivaling the Queen in beauty. Lady Stanley had had a letter from her son, Harry. How kind and thoughtful he was in his love and duty to his mother; she was surely most blessed in her child.

They had been die sort of newsy remarks anyone might have written in a letter. But still, Isabella found herself remembering that first night, at supper, in the great hall at the Tower, when images of the Duke of Buckingham, Lord and Lady Stanley, Harry Tewdwr, and Warrick as conspirators against the throne had filled her mind; and now, she shivered a little.

The pretext on which the Baroness had written the girl might be legitimate enough; it was true her special way with beasts had been much noted at Court. But still, Isabella found herself wondering. Hawkhurst lay just across the Bristol Channel from Wales, Harry Tewdwr's—and Warrick's—homeland. What dark Lai>-castrian schemes might, even now, be plotted there? What plans against the Crown and Edward and Richard Plantagenet might be discussed late into the wee hours of the morning? Isabella could not guess or even know if such were happening. She had only her suspicions, roused by Lady Stanley's seemingly innocent letter.

The girl sighed. There was nothing for her to do, she supposed, but reply. But perhaps she could manage to word her answer in such a way that the Baroness would be discouraged from writing again. Isabella knew she would be forced to show her husband Lady Stanley's letter, whether she wished to or not. After all, someone at die castle was bound to mention that a message from the Baroness had come to Hawkhurst, and Warrick would think it strange if Isabella did not share its contents with him. She had no reasonable excuse for not doing so; and if she chanced keeping quiet about the letter, hoping no one would say anything to the Earl about the messenger's arrival, and then someone did, Warrick was bound to believe his wife was dehberately hiding something from him.

Isabella would have done almost anything to keep from losing her husband's trust again. How she wished Giles were here, so she might consult him, but he had returned to Rushden and, from there, journeyed on to Scotland to rejoin Gloucester. The girl sighed. She might have to show Warrick the letter, but she would

I

never, ever—not as long as she lived or as much as she loved him—aid him in any Lancastrian schemes to wrest the throne from her beloved Yorkists' grasp.

Though she did not care for him, Edward Plantagenet would be her king until he died; and Richard, his brother, would be her savior forever. They were York—and all it stood for and everything that Isabella had ever believed in—through and through. She would not let that go without a fight.

She squared her small shoulders determinedly and walked on across the windswept moors to the sea, where, in the distance, she could see the savage hills of Wales rising up before her, like far ships, come to conquer England's shores.

"Christ's son! What's this?"

Isabella turned, startled, at the sound of the voice behind her: for it was still her practice to bar all but those closest to her from her menagerie, and all of Warrick's knights knew and obeyed this. Slowly, puzzled, she rose from where she knelt, wondering what was going on. There must be something wrong that one of her husband's men-at-arms had d^ed to enter; but as she approached the doorway, the girl saw two strange yet oddly familiar men and their squires standing there in some confusion, their horses half-in, half-out, of the stables. Somehow, she knew one man was a lord, the other, a knight, though there was little difference in their garments. They both wore cloaks of green lined with gold and bearing rosettes upon which were the badges of cockatrices; green doublets slashed with gold; and green hose and high, black leather boots. Across their chests were the same sort of savage breastplates that Isabella had seen upon Warrick and Caerllywel the first time they had come to Rushden. And just as she had instinctively known Warrick to be a lord and Caerllywel, a knight, so she recognized the same of the two strangers.

Why, they must be guests, she realized at last, then wondered curiously why the servants had not taken care of them.

"Pardon me, my lord," she said courteously, "but ye must take your men and horses to the other end of the stables. As ye can see, this section now serves a different purpose, and few besides myself are allowed in here. But ye are strangers, of course, and could not have known that. I do not understand why the grooms have not come forth to assist ye. Perhaps they did not hear your arrival. Let me call them for ye, my lord."

The lord, who was obviously in charge, appraised her body

crudely with his pale blue eyes, causing her to blush and think she looked little better than she had the first time that Warrick had ever seen her. She had tied a kerchief on her head, as was her custom when visiting her menagerie, and her gown was a little mussed from kneeling in the straw. Nevertheless, her hair was hanging freely about her ripe, slender figure, and the lord, an astute man, saw at a glance the haunting beauty that was Isabella's.

"Well, well," he drawled, grinning. "Whom do ye belong to, I wonder? And why is he so foolish as to keep a tempting morsel like ye hidden away here in this—this place?"—this with some disgust.

Before Isabella, surprised and slightly offended by his lack of respect, could answer, the knight, with a quiet smile, spoke up.

"Perhaps she is as wild as these creatures, brother, and in sore need of taming."

The men all laughed at this, but still, the lord's eyes glimmered with curiosity and speculation.

"Methinks mayhap you're right, brother," he agreed. "There is indeed something wanton about her. You've only to look into her eyes to know. Still, her master is a fool to believe keeping her in such a place as this will achieve his ends. I'll warrant she wouldst find my method of breaking her to the bit much more.. .enjoyable. Who is your master, wench?" he questioned abruptly, then made an impatient movement with his hand, cutting off her response. "Nay, do not bother to reply," he told her curtly, "for it matters not. I've a fancy for ye; I have. Consider yourself mine from now on," he instructed arrogantly, reaching out to tease one lock of her hair. "You'll like my manner with women far better than your master's, I assure ye."

Outraged, Isabella gasped with shock and yanked the tress from his fingers. Why, how dare the lord indulge in such a brazen piece of impertinence toward her? Even the courtiers had never been so bold.

"How dare ye, my lord? Your manners are not fit to woo a sow!"

The girl's voice shook with wrath, and her body trembled. She was Lady Isabella Tremayne, Countess of Hawkhurst, not some maid who must cower before the lord's insults and advances.

"Brother, don't," the knight pleaded, all trace of his previous, gentle merriment now gone from his face.

The lord only laughed and strode toward Isabella deliberately, his intent plain and alarming. The girl was horrified. Why, he meant to rape her—and before the amused eyes of his men as

well! She couldn't believe it. She had heard of men who engaged in such sport, but never before had she been exposed to such. But then, what did she know of a man's behavior toward a maid who was not noble bom (for by now, the girl was certain the lord thought her some yeoman's daughter)? Perhaps all women of common birth were subjected to such treatment at the hands of men. Terrified, Isabella pivoted to flee, but the lord caught her cascading mane once more and, with a single jerk of his hand, sent her sprawling in a pile of hay. Almost immediately, he fell upon her and pinned her furiously fighting body to the earth. His hands tore at her clothes; his carnal lips sought hers.

"Let me go!" she cried desperately, mortified, twisting her head this way and that to avoid his searching mouth. "Damn ye! Let me go! I'm—I'm—"

"Come," he interrupted before she could inform him of her identity. "There is no need for ye to play coy with me, wench," the lord coaxed smoothly. "I'll be generous enough with ye."

"The maid has said she does not want your generosity, brother," the knight observed. "Release her now. Ye have teased her long enough."

"Nay, I mean to have her," the lord vowed, "whether she wants me or not. But if you've no stomach for the sport, brother, then leave us. And take the squires with ye!"

Isabella gasped again and renewed her struggles frantically as roughly the lord attempted to shove her skirts up about her thighs. Finally, managing to free one hand, she smartly boxed his ears.

"You'll pay for this," she warned, rasping for air as he growled and caught easily her fist. "I promise ye, you'll pay if ye don't release me, apd now!"

"Oh? And just who's going to make me, wench?" the lord inquired, lifting one eyebrow as though he found her threat diverting.

"My husband, my lord," Isabella retorted proudly. If the lord thought her without protection, he would soon learn otherwise. "He'll slay ye for this, I promise ye. Now—let—me—go! I'm— I'm—"

"Ye have promised me much, wench," the lord broke in again before she could tell him who she was, "but naught yet that which I desire. Come. What say ye? I assure ye your husband will not mind parting with ye. In fact, I'll warrant he's tired of ye by now anyway."

"I doubt that!" Isabella snapped, infuriated. "Since we are but newly wed."

"What a pity. Still, I shall compensate him most handsomely

for his loss, I assure ye," the lord uttered, caressing, with his fingers, the hollow between her heaving breasts that swelled with rage above her bodice.

"Then prepare to do so with your life, my lord!" the girl spat. "For if I'm not mistaken, 'tis his steel ye now feel at your neck!"

The lord stiffened, for he did indeed feel the prick of a blade upon his flesh. He tried to crane his head around to see who held the weapon so threateningly against him, but the sword jabbed him wamingly, cautioning him to be still.

"Emrys!" the lord called to his knight. "Why dost thou stand there, doing naught?"

"Perhaps because Caerllywel has a dagger at his throat to ensure just that," Warrick answered grimly in response. "Though I'm certain the sport ye had planned was not to his liking, Emrys is your brother and would no doubt make some foolish attempt to save ye if he could."

"Sweet Jesu\ Waer—Waerwic?" the lord queried hesitantly, startling Isabella now more than ever.

"Aye, 'tis I, " her husband purred silkily, his voice now having taken on a dangerous, deadly edge. "Now get up, Madog, slowly, and tell me what ye mean by trying to rape my wife."

"Your wife! God's wounds, Waerwic! I did not know she was so; I swear it! Ye know I wouldst never have touched her otherwise! For God's sake, brother! 'Tis the truth; ye have my oath on it!"

Isabella did not know whether she was more surprised to learn the lord was her husband's brother Madog—although as he now rose, she saw the resemblance at once—or to find that Warrick blamed her not at all for what had happened.

"My Lady Hawkhurst"—Madog turned to her, his hands spread apologetically—"I am indeed sorry. Had I realized—"

"Ye wouldst not have touched me, of course," Isabella finished tartly, still frightened and upset and now more angry than ever. "A fine attitude, my lord. Ye take only those maids who are lowborn and helpless against ye! Well, I warn ye right now that should I discover ye attempting to force yourself on any woman here, regardless of her rank, ye shall still feel the bite of my husband's steel. I do not know how things were before I came to Hawkhurst, but ye will find now that they are greatly changed!"