Conquering Passion (16 page)

She fidgeted nervously. “I don’t know what will happen, Lord Rambaud, the grief and uncertainty is too new. I’m a woman alone.”

She sobbed, so quietly he wasn’t immediately aware she was crying. The embroidery fell to the floor. He strode across to sit by her side, hesitant to take her hand, not knowing how to bring comfort. Why did he want to?

He retrieved the embroidery, but as he returned it to her lap, their fingers touched. She seized his hand and gripped it with both hers. Trembling, she leaned into him and he nervously put his arm around her shoulders, trying to bring comfort.

As the sobs wracked her slender body, the wimple slipped from her hair, and brown curls tumbled to her hips.

She’s younger than I thought. And beautiful.

His body responded. He ran his fingers through her hair. She appeared embarrassed by the crack that had appeared in her armour, but he continued to comfort her, and soon her weeping subsided. She was aware of his obvious physical reaction to her. He cleared his throat, extricated his hand, withdrew his arm, and stood.

“Lady Ascha, I’ll place you and your manor under my protection. I don’t intend to take your manor for myself, but others will no doubt try. I’ll station a contingent of my men-at-arms to protect you, and provide a steward to help you manage your estate.”

He suspected fellow Normans might be more of a threat than the Welsh, but said nothing of this.

She stared at him, open mouthed. “I thank you for your unexpected compassion but I can’t accept. I’ve nothing to give you in return, Lord Montbryce.”

“I want nothing in return, Lady Ascha. If my future wife was in a similar position, I’d like to think some champion would protect her.”

His conversation with Ascha started Ram thinking about Mabelle. How would she feel if he fell in battle? If he’d fallen at Hastings? She would likely never be in the same perilous position as Ascha because he had brothers to protect her, but how would she
feel
? Would she mourn him? He’d not seen her since September, and then only briefly. He needed to get home. Had the message he’d survived got through? He resolved to leave the next day to inspect Ellesmere, and then make his way home to Normandie.

He took his leave and returned to his chamber.

***

Ascha liked the sound of the word
champion
but not Ram’s reference to his future wife. She’d been drawn to this attractive Norman warrior deposited into her care. He had a sensitivity her brutish husband had lacked. She’d held on to his hands like a rock in her sea of fear and uncertainty, and the unexpected intimacy of his arm around her shoulder had sent a warm shiver through her body.

And he’s not married yet.

***

“I wish you weren’t leaving. Head wounds can be dangerous and the effects can linger. You should rest here longer, Lord Rambaud,” Ascha cajoled the next morning, when he told her of his decision to leave forthwith. Now she wasn’t cool and detached. Her hand lay on his arm as she spoke, and she looked into his eyes.

Ram looked back, surprised at the intimacy of the gesture, and the use of his given name. Desire flickered in the grey depths.

She’s lonely. She desires me.

The thought aroused and dismayed him. She was an attractive woman who’d been without a man for a considerable time. What would it matter if he gave them both a few pleasures? It wouldn’t obligate either of them to the other. Her eyes told him that.

Perhaps a kiss? What harm could a kiss do?

He’d been without a woman for months. Since meeting Mabelle, he’d lost interest in Joleyne. In these dangerous new lands he could be killed before he ever made it home to Normandie. Since Hastings he seemed to be constantly hard, constantly needy. Hugh was right.

“Lady Ascha,” he murmured as he bent his head to kiss her.

His lips brushed hers as she breathed, “Lord Rambaud.”

They kissed. The blood rushed to his groin. His tongue coaxed her lips and she allowed him entry. The kiss was sweet and gentle, and she responded to him as he pressed his arousal to her body. “I didn’t love my husband,” she whispered. “War was his life. He didn’t understand the needs of a woman.”

Intense emotions, pent up since Hastings, swept over him—the terror of the battle, the horror and stench of the bloodshed and broken bodies, the sickening brutality, the constant homesickness, the exhaustion of travel, the heavy responsibilities put upon him by his Duke, the unbearable aching for his infuriating Mabelle, the frustration of Rhodri’s escape, the concern for Hugh—all conspired to render him senseless, his only instinct a need to possess and be possessed. He held a woman in his arms who’d admitted never knowing the pleasures of passion. It was more than he could resist. He wanted to tear the clothes from her body and take her on the floor, to liberate her from the sexual frustration she’d endured.

He ran his hands over her body, along the swell of her breast, the curve of her hip, the flesh of her thigh. He gathered her up, intending to carry her to the chamber where she’d tended him. He felt a momentary dizziness as he rose, but braced his legs and steadied himself. She curled her arms around his neck and rested her head against his chest. Once in the chamber, he laid her on his bed. She undressed, her eyes fixed on his face. He helped her, then tore off his own clothes. She gasped and licked her lips when she saw his rigid manhood, and her eyes burned with wanting.

He didn’t have to spend long preparing her. As a spasm of release tore through her body, he raised himself above her, positioned his shaft at her opening and groaned as he slid inside. They quickly found each other’s rhythm and she smiled, her hands reaching up to his chest, thumbs brushing his male nipples. In a moment of clarity he rasped, “Have no fear Ascha, I’ll spill myself outside your body.”

She dug her nails into his shoulders. “No, Rambaud.”

“But—”

Her hands went to his hips and she gripped him fiercely, pulling his body to hers. “No! Fill me! I can’t keep you. I want every bit of you I can now. These moments are all I have.”

The intensity of her words inflamed him. He shuddered and revelled verbally in his euphoria as his seed entered her body.

Later, as his wits slowly returned, an image of Mabelle lying by the lake, barely covered by her chemise, rose up in his mind. It was so vivid that he abruptly rolled away from Ascha.

“Ascha—I shouldn’t have,” he said hoarsely. “My obligation to my betrothed—I shouldn’t have. You’re a widow. It was wrong to take advantage of you.”

But it had nothing to do with obligation. How could he have sacrificed what he wanted to give to Mabelle with another woman, no matter how great her need, or his? Mabelle was his destiny, brought to him through some miracle he didn’t understand, which he’d tried to deny. He’d betrayed her with this woman. What he’d experienced with Ascha was simply physical release.

Yet again I have betrayed Mabelle.

“You didn’t take advantage of me, Rambaud,” Ascha whispered languidly. “I took advantage of you. I know you’re a man in love. My husband didn’t love me, didn’t understand the importance of touch for a woman. I envy your betrothed. She’s a lucky woman. I thank you for the gift you’ve given me today. The memory of it will help see me through many difficult days. I don’t regret what we’ve shared. I don’t expect you to love me.”

Confusion whirled through Ram’s head. “Ascha—I must leave now. I’ll be your champion but I can’t be your lover.”

He dressed quickly, and prepared to leave.

She became agitated and knelt up in the bed, wrapping the linens around her body. “Rambaud,” she stammered. “I lied. I need you—please. Stay a few days.”

He shook his head, desperate to be gone from this manor. “I can’t.”

He strode out of the chamber. She would be safe under his protection, but he prayed she would find a good husband some day. She was a woman with a deeply hidden passion Caedmon Woolgar had been unable to ignite, and he silently thanked God for Mabelle and the erotic joys her touch and her kisses promised. A chill went up his spine when he thought of Mabelle finding out about his liaison. Had she been faithful to him? He wanted to believe she was still a virgin but, given the life she’d led, the odds were—

If there’s no love, if it’s only about passion, why not? What’s the harm?

His fury grew at the idea of Mabelle sharing another man’s bed, and he was dismayed he’d bedded this woman, and was now hurrying away. This wasn’t behaviour worthy of a Montbryce.

He left soldiers to guard Shelfhoc but the contingent that rode away with him was still a force to be regarded with respect. As he made for Ellesmere, he deliberately pushed away the tantalizing vision insinuating itself into his head of a maiden with golden hair, lying on a grassy bank. He’d denied his passion for Mabelle, but Ascha’s words echoed over and over—
I know you are a man in love.

Through the window, Lady Ascha Woolgar watched until the Normans were completely out of sight, her fingers absent-mindedly rubbing the oiled window covering she held. From the moment she’d set eyes on the magnificent Norman Lord when he’d been brought to her home, feelings had stirred within her she’d never known with her husband. She’d tried to deny them but couldn’t. She sank to her knees sobbing, swathed in bed linens, feeling more fulfilled, yet more bereft than she’d ever felt. She would never see Rambaud de Montbryce again, but she would remember the feel of his touch, the fulfilment of his manhood inside her, forever.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The tragic news of his father’s death caught up with Ram as he stood surveying the crumbling Anglo-Saxon timber
fortification that was Ellesmere Castle. It guarded the only dry approach to the town, which seemed to exist in a sea of mud. Anguish brought him to his knees as he grieved his loss.

His brothers were devastated. They had rejoined him at Ellesmere after hearing of his injury. All Ram could think of was returning to Normandie and his Mabelle.

How did she cope with this alone? Will she turn to someone else for solace, as I did?

Ram swore to someday build a magnificent castle for Mabelle at Ellesmere that would be warm and welcoming, instead of this abomination, and to return to her side as soon as he could. What more did he want in a wife? He set himself, his horse and his men a punishing pace to the south coast where they took ship for Normandie. A sennight after receiving the tragic news, he, Antoine and Hugh were galloping into the bailey of the castle Montbryce, long after sunset.

He’d expected Mabelle to come out and meet them, and was disappointed when she didn’t. He was anxious to tell her he was sorry, that they would marry as soon as possible. He longed to tell her about Hastings, about his promised Earldom.

Fernand Bonhomme appeared and grooms came to take their mounts.

“Fernand.” Ram embraced his trusted steward, who looked haggard. “We are all desolate at the news of your wife’s death.”

“
Merci, milord
. Vangeline was a good wife and helpmate. We’ll miss her sorely. And your father—It was a desperate time, but he succumbed quickly and didn’t suffer. Your betrothed nursed him night and day. He found comfort in her. And now you’re the
Comte
,
milord
.”

“
Oui
, Fernand, but I would prefer our dear father was still with us. The hour is late. I suppose my betrothed has retired to her chamber?”

“
Non
,
milord
. She’s gone.”

They’d walked as they talked, and were standing in the Great Hall. He noticed Giselle coming towards him, her face grim.

Dread tore at his gut. “Gone? Gone where?”

Not dead, please God, not dead.

“
Milord
,” Giselle cried, “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. She was unhappy here.”

“But where would she go? She has no-one, only her father—
Non!
She’s gone to Alensonne?”

“
Oui, milord
.”

“Ram!” Antoine shouted, as his brother’s fist smashed into the wall. “Ram, be calm. You can go after her, convince her to return.”

Ram leaned his forehead against the stone. “There won’t be time. I have to go back to England for the Coronation. She’s left me, and no wonder. But I’m not a man to go crawling on my hands and knees.”

Hugh put his trembling hand on Ram’s shoulder. “Let’s go down to the crypt. I’m tired, and I want to pray by our father’s tomb.”

As Ram stood in the cold, candlelit crypt, flanked by his grieving brothers, his arm across Hugh’s shaking shoulders, a tear slid down his cheek. They felt their loss keenly, but his heart ached too for Mabelle, the beautiful refugee he’d done his utmost to alienate.

The three returned to the Hall, where they reminisced together until after midnight, then Ram decided to clear his head out on the battlements before retiring. If he slept at all, it would be from sheer exhaustion.

He came at last to his chamber feeling calmer, but as he slumped onto the bed, he noticed a parchment tucked under the bedcover.

A letter.