Rose of rapture (55 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

London, England, 1487

THE BATTLE OF STOKE WAS ENDED. JACK DE LA POLE, Earl of Lincoln, who had been Richard's heir designate, had been slain; and Lord Francis Lovell, once England's Lord High Chamberlain, had drowned while attempting to escape from the Tyd-der's army. Lambert Simnel, an unknown lad who had pretended to be young Edward, Earl of Warwick, son of George, Duke of Clarence, and rightful heir to the Crown, had been put to work as a turn-spit in the royal kitchen. Thus, the ill-fated rebellion against King Henry VII had ended.

But for Isabella, the repercussions of the scheme to put a pretender on the throne of England were just beginning.

Though it was July and hot, she shivered slightly as she huddled in the small boat that was taking her to freedom's end. Rowed by the Tydder's men, the craft moved slowly down the Thames, so all those crowded along the banks would have ample opportunity to view the consequences of treason.

Treason. Aye, Isabella was guilty of plotting to wrest the Crown from King Henry's grasp and now, discovered, was to pay the penalty for her crime. This day, she was to be imprisoned

in the Tower until such time as the Tydder determined to release her—or execute her.

She shuddered at the thought and trembled yet again as Traitor's Gate loomed before her, was swung open wide, and she was rowed inside. Hands assisted her in climbing the stone stairs up which so many others before her had trodden, but still, she stumbled a little and caught her breath, thinking the misstep an ill omen.

As she stood there, waiting, a herald unrolled a large scroll and delivered tonelessly the charges against her, the accusations she had already heard when they'd arrested and tried her. There was but one crime that stood out in her mind, however. Treason. Like an ink stain, the ugly word seeped through the caverns of her brain, blotting out the rest of the long list that was read.

Once more, she quivered slightly. For all that Isabella knew, she had come here to die, and she did not understand why. Her part in the rebellion had been relatively small; there were others who had been far more involved than she, and they had not been taken into custody. Because of this, the girl was as confused as , she was scared, and her bewilderment merely added to her fright.

Impulsively, she glanced back at Traitor's Gate, which was closed now. Through the iron bars, she could see the Thames and London sprawled haphazardly along the river's banks. Swiftly, she imprinted the scene upon her mind. It might be the last time she would ever see it. Then she turned to follow her gaolers to Garden Tower, where she was to be incarcerated. Isabella wished her place of imprisonment had been any tower but that one: for it was there the two boy Princes had been murdered; and instead of Garden Tower, the people of London had taken to calling it Bloody Tower.

That too seemed an evil portent.

Nevertheless, the girl choked down her fear and, head held high, walked bravely toward her fate. Only once did she pause, stricken, when she beheld Warrick standing in the dark dank corridor just beyond. For a minute, she longed desperately to flee, but there was no escaping from her destiny. Isabella swallowed hard as her grey-green eyes met her husband's amber ones and locked, as though they two stood alone there; and suddenly, a hushed little silence fell upon the onlookers, who waited, with bated breath, to see what would happen next.

They were disappointed when nothing untoward occurred: for all knew that, after the Battle of Market Bosworth, the Countess of Hawkhurst had left her husband and had lived alone, in her

manor house, Grasmere, for the past two years. What the Earl thought of his wife's desertion was not common knowledge, but it was known that he had refused King Henry's suggestion that Warrick set her aside and that he had not displayed one spark of interest in the ladies who had attempted to woo him from his solitary state.

After a moment, Isabella turned away and moved on. The blur that had been, for an instant, the Tydder's men sharpened once more into focus. They eyed her curiously, but from the expressions upon their faces, Isabella knew her own countenance showed none of the emotions that were churning tumultuously inside of her.

Well, thank God for it! She wanted no one to guess how deeply the sight of Warrick had affected her. She had not seen him for nearly a year—since the last time he had come to Grasmere to beg her to return to him. Then, though her heart had yearned fervently to heed his pleas, she had forced herself to remain hard and unyielding, and she had once more denied him admittance to the manor house. Later, after watching him ride away, she had run inside from her balcony to her chamber and wept bitterly until Jocelyn had come and, made bold by Warrick's sorrow and distress, had called Isabella a fool.

Oh, Jocelyn, ye were right! the girl thought as she followed her gaolers through the winding halls of the Tower. I love him still, and he loves me. I can see it in his eyes. Oh, why, oh, why didst I not return to Hawkhurst when Warrick begged me to come? Giles bade me to forgive my husband. 'Twas my brother's dying request, and yet, I didst not honor it... could not... cannot. Oh, Giles, am I wrong? Am I wrong?

But there was no answer.

Her brother was dead, and Isabella was alone—in Bloody Tower.

Warrick came, as Isabella had known he would; and unlike Grasmere, here, in Bloody Tower, she was not able to refuse him admittance. He was one of the King's favorites and did as he pleased. So though, at first, the girl tried to deny him entrance to her chamber by informing her guards that Warrick was not to be allowed in, he merely overruled her command and came in anyway.

"What do ye want, my lord?" she managed to ask coldly as she turned her back on him.

"Ye know what I want, 'Sabelle." Warrick spoke roughly. "Ye

have grieved long enough. 'Tis been nearly two years since ye

left me, and I want ye to come home."

She laughed a little, as though she did not care, but was horrified to discover that tears stung her eyes all the same. Hastily, she brushed them away, lest Warrick should see.

"Even if I wished to do so, my lord—which I do not—I could not. I am a prisoner here—or have ye forgotten?"

"Nay, but 'tis an easy enough matter to resolve. I can secure your release from this place any time I choose. After all, your part in the plot to put Lambert Simnel on the throne was so small as to scarcely merit attention."

Her previous puzzlement at an end, in sudden understanding, Isabella whirled angrily at that.

"Sweet Jesu," she breathed. "What a fool I was. 'Twas ye! I thought I was to be executed for treason, and all the time, 'twas but ye who wanted me here—here, where I couldn't lock ye out! God damn ye and Harry Tewdwr! Ye let me believe I was to die—"

"As I have been dying these past two years, 'Sabelle," Warrick , reminded her grimly, fiercely. Then, more gently, "Sweetheart, 'twas a shameful deception, I know. But 1 could think of no other way to see ye again. I love ye, and I do not believe ye have hardened your heart against me as strongly as ye would like."

"Ye are wrong, my lord," Isabella declared, though she knew he was not. "And even if ye were not, I would hate ye now for what ye have done."

"Would ye, 'Sabelle? Do ye, cariadT Warrick inquired softly, moving closer.

The tears brimmed from her eyes at the old, familiar Welsh endearment. How many times had she heard him murmur it before—in the heat of passion, in the soft afterglow of a moonlit night, and sometimes, during the day, for no special reason at all? My love. My love. But still, she backed away from him. But the room was small, and there was nowhere she could run to. Soon, she was pressed against a wall, and Warrick had his hands on either side of her so she could not escape.

"Do ye, cariadT Warrick queried again.

"Aye," Isabella whispered, but her eyes belied the word, and he laughed.

"I do not think so," he told her, and bent his head as though to kiss her.

"Nay, don't!" she cried. "Don't touch me!"

To her surprise, he shrugged and turned away, though she did

not know what the deed cost him; the very nearness of her, the sweet rose scent of her, had inflamed him so.

"Very well, 'Sabelle. But I warn ye: My patience grows thin. I have waited long enough for ye to get over your grief, for ye to realize that 1 would never have deliberately harmed your brother, and for ye to return to me. I promise ye, ye will not leave this place until ye are mine once more. I shall come again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, until 'tis so. And if ye continue to deny me"—his jaw tightened with determination at the stubborn set of her chin—"I shall take ye by force, and there will be none here to gainsay me."

Haughtily, so he wouldn't know how frightened she was, Isabella tossed her head.

"That is rape, my lord," she said.

"Mayhap," he agreed. "But 'tis as I told ye on our wedding night: Willing or nay, have ye I shall."

And he did, though Isabella fought him desperately that night, months later, when his patience finally ended, and as he had warned her, Warrick came to claim, by force, that which was rightfully his.

She was no match for him. She never had been. Her slight, slender body struggling against his was like a willow attempting to stand tall against the wind. She knew she must bend—or he would break her. One look at his anguished, desire-filled face told her that. He wanted her—whatever the cost—and had thrown away his pride to have her.

Still, she resisted him, compelling herself to think of Giles and how he had died, what he suffered at Warrick's hands, those same hands that were, even now, pinning her own behind her back, moving slowly, tantalizingly, over her body, tearing impatiently at the lacings of her gown and the soft material of her undergarments.

"Nay," Isabella whispered. "Nay."

But even to her ears, the words sounded like faint moans of pleasure elicited by her husband's caresses as she writhed against him; and she knew she was lost.

For a timeless moment, he stared down at her, his gaze searching her face, taking in the dishevelment of her silvery tresses that tangled down about her in disarray; the wide, fathomless pools of her grey-green eyes; the dark, crescent smudges her long black lashes made against her pink cheeks when she closed the orbs against his scrutiny; the fine straight nose, its nostrils flaring slightly with anger—and slowly awakening passion; the tremu-

lously parted mouth; the small pulse beating jerkily at the hollow of her throat.

Warrick's yellow eyes swept lower, to the bodice he had torn open just minutes past to reveal the swell of her ripe round breasts that rose and fell rapidly at his nearness. Like a starving man, he feasted on the sight, savoring it, anticipating the banquet yet to come. Then Isabella began to struggle against him once more, bringing him back to the present.

Almost savagely, he caught the shimmering cascade of her hair and twisted her face up to his, his lips closing over her own, so gently, at first, that she was taken by surprise by the tenderness of his kiss. Oh, God. How long had it been since she had tasted his mouth, felt those carnal lips moving sensuously upon her own? Her head spun dazedly, and her belly shuddered, as though the earth had suddenly dropped from beneath her feet. His tongue darted forth, outlining lingeringly the sweetly vulnerable shape of her mouth before parting her lips to explore the softness inside. Her mouth grew hot, tingling with electric sparks of shock as his tongue continued its onslaught against her, searching out every hidden place within, until, at last, she was kissing him back, meeting his tongue swirl for swirl and, with her teeth, nibbling his lips, even as he did her own, making her feel dizzy and faint.

Dimly, she tried again to think of her brother and how he had died, but the memory turned to mist and escaped from her, chased away by her husband's kisses until her mind was but a dark, hungry void, aching to be filled by him. Blindly, she fought against the yearning, attempted once more to free herself from Warrick's grasp; but he only held her more tightly, forcing her to respond to him.

A tide of emotion whirled up to engulf her as roughly now, demandingly, his mouth closed over hers again, and once more, his tongue plunged between her trembling lips, plundering the honey that lay within. Isabella gasped with outrage at his assault—aye, and with desire too; she could not deny that, any more than she could deny Warrick, her husband, her own true love. Even now, her traitorous body was molding itself to his; her very bones were melting inside of her, turning to quicksilver as he continued to stroke and fondle her, touching her in ways and places that no other man had ever touched her, would ever touch her. Her treacherous heart beat fast within her breast; the tiny pulse at the hollow of her throat fluttered like the wings of a butterfly when Warrick kissed it, teased it with his tongue, nipped at it lightly with his teeth. Briefly, half-heartedly, she

tried one last time to elude him, but the fight had gone out of her at last. Warrick had claimed her as his, and she was powerless to deny him. Oh, God, what was he doing to her?

Again and again, his lips seared hers until it seemed he meant to go on kissing her forever, drain every last ounce of resistance from her body, leaving her weak and helpless against him. Over and over, feverishly, his mouth slashed like a whip across her face to her cheeks, her temples, her hair, her ears, her throat, then back to her lips, until her mouth was bruised and swollen; her nerves were raw; her thighs were wet; her body was screaming silently for him.

"Cariad," he murmured hoarsely against her ear, making her shiver and whimper a little. "Cariad."

There were other words he spoke in Welsh, his breath warm against her face, words that Isabella only half-understood, never having been able to master more than just the basic rudiments of the strange Welsh tongue. But she did not care. She did not need an interpretation; the meaning of Warrick's words was plain, the language of love, universal.

She was drowning, dying; yet, she was so vibrantly alive, she could not believe it. She was a mass of sharp sensation that tingled and throbbed against him in exquisite agony. She could not even think, could only smell and taste and touch and feel. She did not even realize that Warrick's strong, pinioning grip had loosened, allowing her hands the different kind of freedom they now so desperately craved.

Without her recognizing they did so, her fingers crept up to entwine themselves in his rich tobacco-brown mane streaked with gold; her arms fastened around his neck to draw him even nearer as he pressed his mouth once more to her pale throat, that swanlike column flung back now in exultation, laid bare for his taking.

Isabella shuddered with delight and a little fear too as Warrick's lips traveled hotly down the length of that pearly pillar, for his kissing her there made her feel so vulnerable to him. Might not those teeth that nibbled her so gently have just as easily sunk viciously into her throat, torn her silken flesh apart? Might not those hands that lingered there so caressingly have just as easily strangled the very life from her body?

As though Warrick guessed her thoughts, he tightened his fingers there briefly, possessively.

"Mine," he muttered thickly. "Ye are mine, always mine."

Isabella shivered at the words. The power she knew lay coiled within him overwhelmed her, intoxicated her, made her head spin

dizzily with passion, tliat savage, primal emotion that no civilization would ever tame. Her flesh was on fire with it; its heat emanated from her body and engulfed her in a fine, dewy sheen of sweat that smelled of her white rose fragrance, the forest scent that clung to Warrick, and the musk of them both as their mouths met yet again, tasting, devouring, one another. Isabella's knees buckled, and she knew she would have fallen, had she not been enfolded in Warrick's strong embrace.

Little by little, unnoticed, her clothing slipped away, slid as soft as a sigh from her body to fall in a pool of satin at her feet until she stood naked in his arms, a small silvery goddess his hands and lips worshiped without end.

Warrick's loins tightened, racing with excitement as hungrily his eyes raked her, ravished that soft, yielding skin he had gone without for so long. He inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring slightly, as he sought out every curve, every nuance, that he had ever known so intimately and called his.

His. Only his. Forever his.

He would never let her go. No matter if she hated him for the rest of her life, she would never belong to another—this forest nymph, this water sprite, who had cast her spell upon him, bewitched him with her haunting grey-green eyes, enchanted him with her siren's song. What magic had she woven to bind him so dearly to her? Warrick did not know. He did not care. He loved her, and she was his. That was all that mattered.

Eagerly, he fondled her breasts, those alabaster spheres of perfection that had always so enchanted him. Like marble they were, of so translucent a white, he could trace the blue veins through which Isabella's life's blood flowed. Their pink crests stiffened and blushed even more rosily as his palms cupped the twin globes, gliding sensuously across their tiny buttons in a languid, circular motion that sent waves of pleasure radiating from them in all directions. For an instant, Isabella felt a strange warm fluttering in her belly, then the feeling passed to be replaced by something even more exciting as Warrick's thumbs flicked gently at the rigid buds, taunting them to even greater heights. His mouth covered one flushed tip, sucking, tongue swiriing about it deliciously in a manner that made Isabella cradle him even closer and arch her body against his lips, his fingers, hungry for more. She could feel her nipple puckering, growing even harder as, on and on, he tormented it until she thought she could bear no more and was straining feverishly against him, half-mad with wanting. Like wildfire, his mouth scorched its way across

her chest, seeking her other breast and setting it ablaze, as he had done its twin, until it too was a smoldering ember; and she was a wild thing with the passion clawing its way through her body.

Deep within the secret place of her womanhood, a small flame flickered and grew until it was a conflagration she longed desperately for him to quench. She ached to have him in her; but still, he went on kissing her, his lips as soft as a wisp of cloud as they floated down her belly, torturing her, making her writhe and seethe with desire. Slowly, he sank to his knees before her, his hands on her slender hips to hold her near. His tongue probed her navel, making her laugh a little, huskily, throatily, for it tickled as well as aroused her; and she found joy in his lovemaking and was glad. It was good to laugh again—if only for this moment—with the man she loved, the man who loved her. She did not realize how much she had missed it until now, when, smiling, he looked up at her, his golden eyes glowing with tenderness. She noted how the fine lines that crinkled the comers had deepened with time and pain; and a shadow haunted her grey-green orbs, recalling them both to the present as the memory stolen from the past was lost.

Warrick's eyes darkened briefly with sorrow—and then something more as his hands tightened for a minute on her hips before deliberately they slid down her legs, following the shape of her calves, then moved back up, and then down yet again, before, at long last, he parted her flanks. Lightly, lazily, over and over, his fingers trailed along the inside of her thighs, making them quiver with a yearning that Isabella could not disguise.

With a little cry of agony, she caught his hands, causing Warrick to laugh low in his throat with exhilaration and triumph.

Slowly, tormentingly, he sought the swollen folds that curved beneath the downy curls, soft as moss, which twined between her legs. Gently, tantalizingly, he stroked rhythmically the warm wet flesh that opened to him of its own accord as he urged it to part. Finally, languidly, his fingers found the dark cavern that beckoned to him so enticingly. His breathing rapid, mingling with her own, he explored the warm moist chasm that grew molten at his touch and trembled with desire, making him long to bury himself within it, plant his seed in its fertile ground. Warrick could feel the tiny tremors of delight that surged within Isabella as he fondled the length of her. With each fluttering movement of his fingers inside of her, each flick of his thumb upon the little bud that flourished upon the valley's knoll without, he knew her

excitement was climbing toward its peak. Hotly, his mouth enveloped the small bloom his thumb had teased; tauntingly, his tongue rained upon it sweetly, faster and faster, causing its petals to unfurl and then suddenly close up tightly as Isabella gasped, glorious ecstasy flowering within her, sending blossoms of rapture through her body.

From deep within her throat came a single animalistic cry, a low moan of surrender as she clutched him to her, wanting him, needing him. Convulsively, uncontrollably, she shuddered and arched against him until, at last, she whimpered softly, sighing deeply with the pleasure of her release, and was still.

Without warning, Warrick rose, catching her up in his steely arms and setting her upon the rich velvet cushion of a nearby chair, his lips now upon her own, his tongue probing her mouth so she could taste the honeyed nectar of herself that lingered still upon his lips.

Then, slowly, reluctantly, he drew away to divest himself of his own garments. How quickly he was free of them and standing before her, towering over her like some ancient pagan god. Isabella's heart beat crazily in her breast as her eyes swept the bronzed, muscular length of him; thought about how tightly yet gently those corded arms could wrap themselves around her; how that broad, furry chest felt pressed against her pale silken one; how that flat firm belly and those narrow hips met her own so strongly with each powerful thrust of their mating—

She flung back her head and closed her eyes, running her tongue across her lips to moisten them as she inhaled raggedly, the pulse at the hollow of her throat leaping wildly with excitement and anticipation.

Warrick caught his breath jerkily at the sight; the sinewy muscles in his belly and loins tautened, like a thong, with sharp desire. For an instant, he did not know if he would be able to restrain himself; but he forced himself to breathe deeply, to relax, and the moment passed.

Suddenly, roughly, possessively, his hands tangled themselves in the satin strands of Isabella's long silvery tresses. Her eyes flew open wide at his touch; her mouth parted eagerly as he bent to kiss her yet again, his lips hard and demanding upon her own. Then he straightened, breathless with expectation as her palms reached up to stroke his chest, glide across the dark mat of hair that grew there. Slowly, mesmerizingly, she stood, nuzzling his breast with her cheek before she pressed her mouth to one nipple and sucked it gently until it was as rigid as her own. Her tongue

darted out to swirl about the stiff button, lick it, tease it tanta-lizingly. Her teeth grazed him lightly; and all the while, her hands moved upon his lithe lean body, causing the muscles in his back to bunch and quiver and ripple beneath her kneading fingers. Deftly, her palms slipped down his flesh, tracing the outline of old scars here and there, as her lips traveled across his chest to stimulate his other nipple until it was as stiff with excitement as its mate. She could feel the evidence of his desire hard against her belly; and, firmly grasping his smooth buttocks, she pulled him to her; and her hands found his maleness at last.

Warrick inhaled sharply, then sighed with pleasure as her fingers traced tormentingly the length of him, up, then down, before they closed about him; and she began the slow, sensuous motion that was as old as time. His body jerked and shuddered when her thumb found that soft, sensitive place upon his shaft and flicked it quickly again and again until his flesh was as raw and screaming for release as hers had been earlier. Still, she went on torturing him sweetly, her mouth sliding like a feather down his belly as, litde by litde, she sank to her knees, lowering her head to kiss the spheres of his manhood that hung just beneath his bold sword. Hotly, her lips and tongue taunted the soft globes until they contracted within the pouch that contained them. Then languidly, almost unbearably, her mouth slid lingeringly up the length of his maleness, then down, over and over, arousing him to a feverish pitch with rapid litde kisses and licks of her tongue before finally, slowly, her lips claimed him; and he moaned with delight. Again and again, her mouth engulfed him; her tongue swirled about him teasingly like a moth's wings fluttering against the flame of a candle until Warrick knew he could stand no more.

With a sudden, swift movement, he pulled her to her feet, then pressed her down upon the edge of the rich velvet cushion of the chair, dropped to his knees before her, and parted her thighs. Moments later, the tip of his shaft found her, plunged into the warm wet core of her with a tender fury that made her gasp with keen desire. Then, just as suddenly, his manhood withdrew, only to thrust into her deeply once more. Over and over, his fiery sword pierced her flaming sheath until they were both panting raggedly for breath. Isabella's nails dug into Warrick's shoulders, raking little furrows down his back. Her body stiffened slightly, then melted and quivered with the explosions of ecstasy that shook her. She whimpered a little, tiny moans of rapture that mingled with his own as their passion-darkened eyes suddenly opened and locked. Isabella felt as though she were drowning in those amber

depths, so vibrantly intense was the intimacy of that moment. Shyly, yet unable to tear her eyes away, she watched hungrily Warrick's face as his body shuddered with the sweet, savage thrill of his own release, and he spilled his seed within her.

In that precious, primal moment, he offered his soul to her by letting her witness the expression on his dark visage. Always before, he had suddenly crushed her to him, burying her head against his shoulder so she could not see the joy and triumph and sheer sensuality that flitted now across his countenance as his carnal lips parted, and he cried out lowly with exultation, his eyes closing at the last.

Then there was nothing but the sound of their quick breathing, which gradually grew less rapid as the furious pounding of their hearts slowed, and the racing of their pulses gently returned to normal.

Afterward, he kissed her, then, smiling a little as his golden orbs raked her possessively, knowing how victoriously he had conquered her, Warrick withdrew.

And Isabella knew he had taken her heart and soul with hinj for all time.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

London, England, 1489

"DAMN HIM! DAMN HIM TO HELL AND BACK!" LORD Montecatini growled as, like a caged tiger, he paced the room restlessly, his wrath and frustration mounting with each rapid step. "Always, he interferes with my plans—the half-Welsh bastard—advising Henry against any scheme I propose. I may as well return to Rome. As long as Lord Hawkhurst remains a favorite at Court, I am useless here in my position! Sangue di Cristo, but I wouldst like to slay that whoreson earl!"

"Ye have wounded him, my lord." Lady Shrewton spoke smoothly, soothingly, fearing the Count would fall into one of his black Italian rages and beat her, as he always did when displeased. Why she stayed with him she couldn't imagine. Still, if she were to leave him, where would she go? How would she live? A few ugly bruises seemed a small price to pay for the security he gave her. "After all, ye murdered Lord Rushden, and his stupid slut of a sister blamed Hawkhurst for the deed. Though the Earl has hidden it well, 'tis said the bitch's abandonment hurt him deeply. And still, he continues to pursue her like a moonstruck fool!"

''Aye.'' Lord Montecatini nodded. "Still, 'tis poor satisfaction for the trouble the bastard has caused me, continues to cause me. I am foiled, made to look a fool at every turn. Even Geoffrey has begun to treat me as though I were naught save a bumbling sciocco" the Count complained, referring to his latest lover. "Well, I shall deal with him soon enough, the ungrateful idioto\ Ferite di Dio! A mere knight he was when first I took an interest in him. Now that he has attained a barony, he thinks he no longer has any need of me. Well, Geoffrey shall discover his mistake shortly. In the meantime, 1 must think of a plot for ridding myselt of Hawkhurst. For too long, he has been a thorn in my side. But I must take care. No one must know 'twas by my hand the whoreson died, or 'twill certainly be the end of my most lucrative position here in England. Rome will not countenance another disgrace. Dio! If only the Earl were not such a favorite of Henry's. If only I could get my hands on Hawkhurst's wife!"