Authors: Jennifer Horsman
It would be raining tonight...
Young Richard spotted his Grace in the distance, emerging from the place where the river road merged with the village. He raced up to him, breathless and flushed. "Milord!"
Vincent swung the cloth over his shoulders before pulling a plain cotton tunic over his bare chest and lifting his hair out from underneath. The race of his squire's footsteps drew his gaze. "Richard—"
"Milord!" The young man stopped in front of Vincent and tried to catch his breath. "Twas as you said. Everything, save for one thing."
"Yes?"
"The lady prayed in the rose garden outside the gates." He searched his lord's gaze, dark and impenetrable. " 'Twas a sad thing, too, somehow. Her beauty against the newly blossomed roses, all white and pink and red. Owens had sworn he was going to bawl if he watched any longer."
"And now?"
"She has returned to her rooms,"
"Very well, then. Race back and give word that no one is to be in the stables tonight."
"No one but the grooms?"
"Mind my words, boy. No one. And go to that rose garden..."
The hour neared midnight and all was quiet. She came quietly out to the steps of the keep. The air felt thick and heavy with the promise of rain. Joan would not be afraid with Bryce; he would keep her safe now. No star or moon lit the night sky; the darkness was complete. Her blue eyes gazed up to her room, where the dim, flickering candles came from within. She closed her eyes, and thought she heard the soft sound of Cisely's tears.
"You cannot come," she had said over and over. "No, Cisely! I will hear no more protests. Your life is with him now, with Wilhelm. Vincent has promised him some land, so at least he will be a lesser baron, even if it is in England. And you have my blessing, and Charles's.” They had clung together, desperately holding on to their last moments. "I love you, I love you and someday, I promise to return to you."
She drew a deep breath before stepping swiftly, quietly, down the stone stairway of the castle keep. She did not think. Not now. She couldn't. To think, imagine, feel even a moment of the pain of leaving him would drop her to her knees, and the only thing worse was the idea, the certainty of his death. She had the long rest of her life to remember, and by God's grace, so would he.
For you, my love, for you...
As if to spur her speed, she leaned against the cold stone wall and closed her eyes, conjuring a picture of his death. She panicked, leaped up and ran, clutching the sack to her chest as if to slow the race of her heart.
For you, my love, for you...
She kept to the shadows of the outer buildings, the kitchens and ovens and armory, and finally came to the stables. She stopped outside the large wood doors, listening for the sounds of the grooms' slumber. It was so quiet. A familiar horse caught her scent and neighed, but otherwise it was so quiet.
She pulled open a door enough to slip inside. Four torches lit the enormous dark space. She stood in the open space of the grooming room. Fresh straw covered the floor, filling the air with a scent, both familiar and rich. Built against the corner was a hill made of bundles of hay. A rope hung from the rafters above, still and unmoving in the quiet night. Vincent himself had put it there before showing the waiting children the fun of dropping from the loft into the pile of fresh-mown hay.
How the children had loved this small piece of fun!
“
The sound of heaven is the laughter of children," Papillion had once said.
Her blue eyes adjusted to the darkness. Bare feet stepped quietly over the straw-covered floor, heading toward Etoile's stall. But where were the grooms? The stable hands who slept here? Why, how strange—
"Roshelle."
The sack dropped to the floor.
Distant thunder rumbled from far away as he emerged from the shadows and stood an arm's length away from her. An arm's length. The distance stopped her heart and stole her breath, immobilizing her for one second too long, and in the suspension of the moment, she took in the changed sight of him with a gasp: a raw, animal-like power emanated from his towering muscled frame. Shadows hid his face and she could not see his eyes. He wore only breeches, these belted just above the narrowing of his waist by a thick black belt, a dagger hanging on his hip. The savage strength of him was experienced as a pronouncement of her helplessness. Like his scars. The angry red blaze where a would-be assassin's arrow had pierced his flesh and yet had failed to kill him spelled her doom.
She had no chance; he'd give her no chance now.
Lightning lit the sky, flashing in the window high above and, for a flash, illuminating his eyes. A scream caught in her throat. All tenderness and love banished in the determined depth there. All she knew was that she would die with him; that she could not live unless she knew that somewhere in the world the sun shone on his face; somewhere in the world his gaze beheld a better world he had shaped. "No, oh, no." She started to back away. "Vincent! Do not do this to me—"
"I was to wait until Henry blessed our marriage."
The words riveted her to the spot. "Marriage!" The pain of it brought her blue eyes down and she held herself tight. "Marriage. A faraway dream, one we cannot have in this lifetime. It cannot be! Vincent, Vincent, my fear is the certainty of your death! Imagine if it were me, if I were to die—"
"Hush!" His eyes blazed with sudden fierce emotion. "Words are worthless, I did warn you."
She spun and bolted and then screamed. Screamed as two quick strides brought the iron strength of his arms around her. With a violent wrench, she tried to pull free, but he lifted her off the ground, holding her flailing arms tight against his length as if she were but made of cloth. Terror seized her, and as her legs pounded furiously against his shins with wild desperation, she tried to wrench free, but never had she felt his strength or the mercilessness of his power—
"Vincent, I beg you—"
He ignored her cries as effortlessly as he ignored her struggle, fierce though it was. For he knew no words would ease the fear of what he would do, what he had to do.
Inviolate strength radiated from him, from his desire; she felt the waiting threat of his enormous shaft on her side. She did not know she was crying until the sound abruptly stopped. Lightning cracked in the sky again, flashing light in the upper windows and illuminating the knife now at her throat. She went very still. Fear choked her as his other arm held her backside against his length, the heat of him penetrating through the heavy cloth of her cloak. The blade sliced through the clasp of her cloak. The thick cloth fell from her shoulders. She cried out as the cold steel blade never touched her skin, but ripped effortlessly through the cloth of the traveling tunic and the cotton undergarment beneath. Her small hands desperately struggled to keep the cloth to her skin, but another twist of the blade and a rip, and she felt a brush of warm night air against her naked skin.
He tossed the dagger into the darkness.
Thunder rumbled in the faraway distance.
She twisted with a long pained cry as lifted her weight into his arms and carried her to the soft bed of hay. The long rope of her plait coiled unnoticed against the straw as he laid her to the ground and stood over her. Like a hunter over a kill. The thrilling rage of his desire kept him blind to her terror; all he knew was he'd have her by force before he'd know her with love.
She sprang up.
Instantly, she felt his bare foot against her stomach, knocking her back and stealing her breath. He took a pace back and deftly snapped the buckle from his belt and stepped out of his breeches. Lightning cracked once more against the sky. Heart pounding, she gulped in huge gasps of air.
She only knew the terror of it. The image of a grave tore a pained cry from her throat. With a desperate surge of strength, she flung herself to the side to escape his grasp, but it was too late. It had always been too late. He pulled her effortlessly beneath his body. Small clenched hands pounded against his chest. He caught her hands, pinning them tight to the cushioned, pungent ground and stilled her struggle with his weight.
A hot slap of fire shot through her.
It terrified her. She threw her head back, as if in pain. Tears filled her eyes. It would not end! By the saints, it would not end until he died, and he would die. He would. This one moment to trade for his death!
"Vincent, I, I be-g-g—"
His mouth stopped her protest. As a last desperate protest in the futile hope to make him see, she yielded him no inch. She kept her mouth closed hard and her teeth clenched. He forced her lips apart, his demanding tongue sweeping into the sweet recess of her resisting mouth until she couldn't breathe or think or know anything but the plundering domination of his kiss.
His tongue swept through every height and hollow and whether it lasted a minute or an hour, she would never know. She didn't know anything but the mounting horror of being forced closer and closer to a waiting gallows. His lips lifted from her swollen ones but briefly, long enough to let her draw a gasping breath that sent a rush of hot chills down her spine and exploding in her loins. She twisted her head to escape his mouth, but he gave her no measure
She didn't know how hard she struggled to free her hands from his grasp or that he held both with one hand. She only knew the hot and tantalizing pressure of the kiss, that she was sinking into a swirling darkness of pure sensation. A place where death waited for him.
The moment he released her mouth she emerged with a pained cry of his name. "Vincent! Vincent! No—" Like a wild animal, she fought to escape, but his hard-muscled legs stilled her struggle as his hand wrapped cruelly around her plait, drawing her neck up at an arch. His lips moved downward to her breast.
"Fight me all you want, Roshelle."
Her pained cry stopped in her throat as his mouth covered one rosy pink tip, his tongue circling, then sucking, then circled more until it grew large and taut, forcing the hot, penetrating pleasure into her resistant flesh and mind. Hot chills seized her, rush after rush, her breathing changing from hard and fast to small, quick gasps that barely managed to sound the urgent "No."
The rain pounding against the stable roof drowned out the roar of blood in her ears as his strong-muscled leg parted her thighs and she felt his seeking fingers find the moist avenue of her womanhood. She was shaking her head in negation as he stroked her there. With a cry, she arched her back instinctively, opening herself wider. Relentlessly he caressed her tender flesh, until he felt the gentle swell and sweet wetness of her body welcoming him when she would not.
"Now, Roshelle."
"No . . . no!" She tossed her head back and forth, her last denial as he lifted himself partially up, his knees forcing hers helplessly farther apart. And farther. She felt the hard, hot tip of him push against her opening and she screamed. Lightning ripped through the sky and, ending the virgin's curse forevermore, he thrust himself into her.
A searing pain ripped her in two.
He felt the virgin's tear as a hot, tight warmth enveloped him in a pleasure so intense it was painful. For a mercilessly long moment, he stopped as the intensity of it rocked through him, and for the same long moment she thought she was dying instead. Then the pain began to recede, resonating into tight, hot contractions deep inside. She heard the husky sound of her name from far away as he slid all the way out before moving in again, forcing her tightness open to accommodate his enormity, again and again, over and over with agonizing slowness, until she felt the hot length of him stab her womb arid touch her soul.
"Love, love, sweet mercy, I have died." He desperately sought some measure of control, harder as he kissed her, and she closed her eyes; the warm communion of his mouth with the joining felt like a penetrating sweep of her heart. He broke it only to stare into her lovely eyes, struck to his heart by the sadness there. He fought to offer reassurance. "Tis over now, Roshelle, 'tis over."
"Aye, tis over…"
For fate would make her pay the crudest of prices for this joining. He knew this, too; she could see it in his eyes. Desperately he tried to deny it as he lifted and thrust, lifting partially up from her to watch the miracle of flesh darken her blue eyes. Red-hot sensation resonated through her and she was calling his name, crying, feeling him everywhere inside and out; and his own pleasure, the mercilessly tight sheath, grew more, and more, carrying him to a place he had never been before—
Suddenly darkness swirled all around, swirled and swirled, bursting into bright, hot colors, then red. Bright red blood and darkness again. A white rose and a red rose entwined, bursting into flames. A scream in the night. Ecstasy rocking their souls...