Rexanne Becnel

Read Rexanne Becnel Online

Authors: The Bride of Rosecliffe

To Benny
Benjamin James Becnel
1944–1997
Ae fond kiss and then we sever!
 
—Robert Burns
 
Prologue
 
London, October A.D. 1133
 
R
andulf Fitz Hugh lay naked on the bed. Beside him Marianne, wife of the aging Earl of Carland, lay just as naked as he. But while she curled into the warmth beneath the heavy marten coverlet, he reveled in the chill air on his sweat-slicked skin. While she slept as evenly as a babe, he stared morosely up at the dark plank ceiling.
He’d used her roughly, though that was not the cause of his foul mood. He’d been angry with the king—furious—and although he should not have, he’d vented his frustrations on her.
Not that she’d minded. Marianne was an insatiable lover. In that, they were well suited. But tonight he’d not been interested in the pleasures of her deliciously wicked body. He had more pressing matters on his mind.
A squat candle sputtered on the three-legged table beside the door. The pale light danced weakly across the bedchamber.
Damnation! Hadn’t he won every battle and overcome every foe that stood between King Henry and absolute power over his enemies? Hadn’t he done enough to earn a just reward? But King Henry was a crafty old fox. Today in court Rand’s drunken older brother, John, had renewed
his fealty to the king, and as his father’s heir, had received his official title, Earl of Asdin. Though it had grated, Rand had expected it. Then the king had turned his watchful gaze upon Rand and announced his reward. In front of the entire court he’d granted Rand lands in the name of the King of England, in the wilds of northern Wales.
Rand had been stunned. Northern Wales was as far away from the center of power in London as was possible to go and yet still remain within Britain. Henry had continued. He was to build a castle at the mouth of the River Gyffin, something impregnable. A mighty castle situated midway between Chester and Anglesey. He was to suppress any opposition to British authority in Wales, a task Henry claimed was an honor reserved only for his most powerful and trusted man.
Perhaps it was. But Rand knew also that sending his faithful supporters to the Welsh marches was the king’s way of controlling those men whom he deemed too powerful for
his
own comfort. The lands granted him were extensive. He would be veritably a king in his own kingdom.
But Wales was not the kingdom he wished to rule! In effect, the king had banished him from London, the seat of all power.
Rand snorted in disgust. Perhaps he should be mollified that the king had begun to fear his growing wealth and influence. But he was not mollified. It took years to build a castle. He’d be an old man before he could return to London.
“God’s bones!” He surged up from the disheveled bed, too frustrated to lie still, and lit another candle.
Marianne’s husband was not in town and Rand knew he could linger the night with her if he chose. But he was not interested.
It may be a long while before you have so adept a lover,
a voice in his head whispered as he poured water in a shallow basin and bathed himself.
Make use of her while you can
.
But he ignored the voice. There were women in Wales and he’d heard they were freer with their bodies than English women. Again he snorted. If that were true, they must lie in the streets with their skirts thrown up and their legs spread wide. In his experience, the women in Henry’s court would sleep with anyone so long as there were coins or jewels to be had for their efforts.
Not that he objected. He’d sated many a noble wife with sex, rewarded them with baubles, and used them for his own political gain. For information and insight. But cast away in the farthest reaches of Wales, he would no longer have access to those sources. He would be seven days’ journey from London. It might as well be the ends of the earth.
He slapped the washrag down. The woman behind him shifted in the bed. He knew without looking that she’d awakened.
“I’m not finished with you,” she murmured in the warm purr she used so effectively to attract men. “Come here. It’s your turn on top.”
Rand stared at her with a dispassionate eye. Marianne was a beauty. She’d been his lover for almost a year now, longer than he stayed with most women. Then again, she was better connected than most women. But in the end, her connections hadn’t helped him at all.
Could those connections, indeed, have
hurt
his cause with the king?
He blinked at that unsettling thought, but once insinuated into his head, it would not go away. Had her husband used his influence with the king to send Rand to Wales?
But why would he? Carland had his own mistress, the matronly Lady Ferriday, the only woman at court said to be willing to hold the old man to her ample bosom like a child, and rock him while he suckled her. Rand’s lips curled at that disgusting image.
Still, something was amiss. Carland might not have undermined
him, but someone had. Rand vowed to ferret out the truth.
“I have other matters to attend,” he said as he drew on his braies.
She watched in silence for a moment. “Surely that can wait. You needn’t leave for Wales until spring.”
“There’s much to do between now and then,” he countered. “Men to hire. Materials to purchase. The king wants a castle. I want it done swiftly.”
The mattress ropes creaked as she rose to her knees. The marten coverlet slid down to puddle around her legs. Her waist-length hair half hid, half revealed her lush body. Her breasts were full, her nipples large. The thought of her toothless husband nuzzling at them like a child made Rand suddenly disgusted. He looked away.
“I’ll miss you, Rand. Will you miss me?”
Rand shrugged into his shirt. The fact was, he wanted to get away from her, but he wanted the truth more. He chose his words carefully. “I’ll miss you as much as you will miss me, and we both know you’ll have a new lover within the week.”
Her eyes narrowed in quick fury, just as he’d expected. “What does that mean? Have you some other woman ready to take my place? Are you bringing her with you to Wales?”
“Now Marianne, you are married. Why should you concern yourself—”
“Who is she?”
“There is no one.”
“So you said when you pursued that DeLisle bitch—” She broke off, but it was too late. He frowned.
“The DeLisle bitch? That was a marriage contract, nothing more.” Then all at once it made sense. Stephen DeLisle had initially welcomed Rand’s offer to wed the man’s only child, a pretty young woman approaching marriageable age. Marianne had been miffed, but once Rand had assured her that she was far more appealing than the younger woman,
she’d been appeased. Indeed, she’d told Rand that it would be a strategic match, a political coup. But she’d not been above pointing out the girl’s lack of physical endowments. At the time he’d attributed her caustic words to simple female jealousy. But had it gone further?
Two of the king’s advisors, Robert Hartley and Emery Ives, had certainly taken their opposition further. The two resented anyone whose power threatened their own, and they recognized that a union between Rand and DeLisle would give Rand control of a huge amount of property. Emery Ives especially knew how to manipulate Henry. A hint here, a word of caution there, and Rand had become one more of the king’s casualties—men too powerful for their own good. Yes, Ives had played a part in this, he knew, and Ives was Marianne’s cousin.
God, how could he have been so stupid? Marianne had been a conduit straight to Ives. Had she been so jealous that she’d killed Rand’s marriage plans? Rand was suddenly sure she had.
“The DeLisle bitch, as you call her, was hardly that. Indeed, she was a sweet young thing, an innocent virgin—or at least she used to be,” he added. Though he’d never touched the girl, he wanted Marianne to think he had. He was not fully prepared for her furious reaction.
“You wretch!” She came at him with claws bared, nearly toppling him over. In a moment he wrestled her down, then held her writhing on his lap. She raged at him. “You bedded that skinny bitch—”
“No, I did not. But I see now the lengths you would go to stop me—the lengths you
did
go. ’Twas you who ruined my agreement with DeLisle.”
She went limp in his arms, a sure sign of her guilt. But still she protested. “It was not me. The king put pressure on DeLisle—”
“And Emery pressured the king, after you pressured Emery.”
She turned in his lap, but instead of trying to escape, she
clutched his shirtfront. “I did not pressure him, Rand. I only complained that I would be unhappy to see you in another woman’s bed. Is that so terrible? I am a jealous lover and I want you all to myself. But I am not to blame. ’Twas my cousin’s idea to thwart your marriage plans, not mine.”
Perhaps she told the truth. Perhaps not. In any event, the result was the same. He was exiled to Wales. While other men increased their political strength, he would be raising stone walls and fending off Welsh madmen.
With a sharp curse he thrust her off his lap. But when he rose to his feet, she clasped her arms around his legs. “Don’t leave yet. Not like this,” she begged from her position on her knees.
“’Tis done between us,” he said, trying to dislodge her hands.
But she clung even more tenaciously. “One more time, then. One more time, for memory’s sake.” She rubbed her bountiful breasts back and forth across his thighs and clutched his buttocks with her hands.
Despite his anger, Rand was not immune to her blatant behavior. When she felt his manhood stiffen, she smiled up at him and slowly licked her lips. “One more time,” she purred.
Rand started to object. He’d spent too much time with her already; that was his biggest mistake. But he’d not make that same mistake again. Then she loosened his braies and Rand reluctantly tangled his hands in her hair.
Only once, he told himself. Only once. After tonight he’d never let any woman affect his plans again.

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