“Rhys—”
One of his knees parted her legs and the hardest, hottest portion of him burned against her belly. “I cannot wait,” he whispered roughly in her ear. His mouth claimed hers again and he drove his tongue deep, stroking in and out, until she was on fire.
“Rhys,” she pleaded, arching up against his greater weight.
“Damn, but I burn for you.” He lifted her knees and positioned himself, but when their eyes met, he hesitated.
If she bade him stop, he would. She saw it in his eyes and that knowledge banished whatever might remain of doubt in Isolde’s mind. She loved him. And if he did not love her in return, at least he cared about her. He cared, and her heart swelled with that knowledge. It grew and swelled until it filled her up and spilled over to him—and filled the entire room.
“Don’t stop now,” she said with a trembling smile. “For I shall die if you do—”
She broke off with a groan when he came fully into her. This was right, she told herself as he began. This was right.
They were right.
I love you
, she thought as they moved in tandem.
I love you
…
They rushed to the crescendo. Frantically. Feverishly. They catapulted to it. Then it came, the shuddering peak. The shattering joy. He thrust over and over, prolonging the exquisite agony of it. “I love you.” She gasped the words out loud. But then, what reason to hide the truth when surely she must die from this pleasure he brought her?
In the aftermath they were hot and damp. He lay heavily upon her, his heart thundering against hers. As their breathing slowed, as they cooled, he rolled to the side, pulling the snarled bedcovers over them both. But he kept her close and she held tight to him.
Had he heard her confession of love? She did not know, but she vowed not to fret about it. He’d proven that he cared for her. That was enough. She would not think about anything but him and the time they had left together, Isolde told herself. Just him and her. The bed would become their world, and this night the sum of their years. She buried her face against his neck, knowing how pitifully flimsy this little world was. But it was all she could contrive. There was no other way.
Rhys held Isolde close. He felt her breathing slow. He felt her body relax against his. They did not speak with words, but they communicated clearly.
Why had he waited so long to go to her? Why had he wasted so much of this week? There was so little time left. His arm tightened around her and he breathed deeply of her womanly scent. She was his now, at least until her family returned. He clenched his jaw. Once they returned—once he faced her uncle and her father and slew them as he must—then he would lose her. This bond they’d made would never endure that. And the words she’d said in the midst of her passion … She would never say them again to him.
“Damn,” he muttered. He did not want to think about the future. He wanted only to think of now.
So he pressed his face into her hair and breathed deeply, and he drew her over to lie across his chest. She wriggled into
a more comfortable position, then sighed as if she were asleep. Then he felt her hand moving slowly up his arm, each finger stroking lightly. His skin tingled wherever she touched, and despite his weariness, he felt revitalized.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
“No.” She breathed deeply, and her softness—her breasts and belly against his chest and loins—was amazing to him. They fit, the two of them. “I am asleep,” she continued in a warm, husky voice. “And I’m having the loveliest dream.”
Rhys’s arms tightened around her. God, but he loved her—
His entire body tensed. No. This was not love. It was just desire. Just passion. It was a stronger passion than he’d ever before felt, he admitted. But that did not make it love. He wouldn’t let it be love. And anyway, he knew nothing of love. He did not truly believe it existed. So he focused on his physical desire for her and shoved any other emotions into the background.
“I believe I may be having the same dream,” he replied when she shifted again so that she lay fully on him. “Some angel has come down from heaven to drown me in pleasure.”
She chuckled and he felt her lips move against his chest. “Some angel has rescued me from the cold.”
“Come here, angel,” he murmured.
She came over him so sweetly, with such earnest intent to give him pleasure, that Rhys could easily believe he had died and some angel had indeed carried him up to heaven. Except that he was more likely to wind up in hell.
But he was in heaven now. And he could not deny himself the pleasure of it.
So he let her make slow love to him. They slept, then he pleasured her again. They pleasured one another. Rhys did not fear that Isolde would try again to escape, though he could not say why. He just knew that this time she would not flee.
Only one thought marred the perfection of the long night they shared. Eventually he knew he must let her go. And when the time came, it would kill him.
SNOW FELL, ALTERNATING WITH SLEET AND SOMETIMES JUST a bitterly icy rain. For four days the castle lay as if in siege, only it was the winter, not an army, that held Rosecliffe in its iron grip.
As she sat in the great hall, Isolde tried not to think of her father and uncle, caught somewhere in the relentless storm, struggling with their men to reach Rosecliffe. She worried endlessly for them, but she could not help them. The best she could do was to keep the people of Rosecliffe warm and well fed, and to remind them by her presence that the FitzHughs had always valued the well-being of their people as highly as they did that of their own families.
So she had abandoned the tower room. It was too cold, and it was selfish of her to wallow in her own private misery. Besides that, Rhys would not allow it.
Isolde paused now, her needle poised half the way through a torn seam in one of her aprons. Rhys had been so different these past few days. Since that night he’d carried her down from the tower room, something had altered between them.
She swallowed hard and blinked, and bent back to her stitching. But her thoughts remained fixed upon him, as was more often the case than not. He had installed her back in her own chamber on the second story, and without dissent she had resumed her role as chatelaine of the castle.
By day she supervised the workings of Rosecliffe, as her mother had taught her to do. With outdoor activities severely curtailed by the storm, it fell to her to find suitable activity for
the many idle hands. Every repair that had been postponed during the busy harvest season was now performed. Buildings, furnishings, tools, and garments—no item was too small to escape her notice. Near the front door a group of men crafted new fish baskets, ropes, and leather harnesses. A sewing circle of women worked near the pantler’s cabinet, its membership ebbing and flowing through the day. The hall fairly hummed with activity, becoming workplace, dining hall, and sleeping accommodations to twoscore additional workers. Better to heat one larger space than numerous smaller ones. Even Rhys’s men-at-arms abandoned their barracks for the warmer quarters of the hall. And it seemed all of the folk turned to her with their questions.
For their disputes and quarrels, however, they turned to Rhys. Or rather, he interceded in those matters before they could deteriorate into brawling matches. Had he not been a constant presence in the crowded hall, Isolde was certain several of those disagreements would have gotten out of hand, for with little to do, his men-at-arms had turned to drinking and gambling. Had he also not been a constant presence in the hall, Isolde might have been better able to compose herself. At least she hoped she could have.
But Rhys was constantly there, working at his own tasks, but nevertheless always within sight. She had but to lift her head and glance about, and without fail she would spy him—and without fail he would look up and meet her gaze.
Though she tried to stop herself, Isolde looked up now and found him, his dark head cocked as he listened intently to something Gandy said. Her heart began to drum in her chest, an insistent beat that pumped awareness into every portion of her body. What was it about him, about this one particular man? He’d even begun to look natural sitting at the high table in the lord’s chair. Her father’s chair.
At that moment he looked up directly into her eyes, as if he knew instinctively where she was and what she was thinking.
Not much longer until we retire for the night
. Were those his thoughts or her own?
Isolde blushed and averted her gaze to the needlework in her lap. By day they kept apart and tended the tasks they must.
But by night … By night he became her lover, and she his. She went up the stairs first, and he allowed her sufficient time to let down her hair and make her evening ablutions. Then he came into her chamber—no knock to warn her. But she was always ready. He came into her chamber and she did not protest.
By day she recounted all the reasons she must end this shameful liaison. She knew she must put a stop to the duplicitous life they shared.
But by night … Oh, by night she could no more send him away than she could will herself to cease breathing. By night he was the man she’d always wanted, and always would want. Tender. Demanding. Possessive. Generous. He could be rough and forceful, but he knew, somehow, to stop just short of hurting her.
She felt her stomach clutch now, and a wicked warmth began down low in her belly, where the pleasures of the body all centered. Did he feel this all-consuming passion when he gazed upon her from across the room? she wondered. Did he feel faint with desire as she did? Did he wonder whether she loved him?
She had never said those words to him again, not after that night. If he’d heard them he had not acknowledged them. That alone should tell her something about the nature of his feelings for her, she told herself. And if he had not heard her confession of love … Well, it was just as well. Naught could come of her feelings for him.
She stared at the well-worn apron and the row of neat stitches she’d sewn. The best she could hope for was that her father would regain Rosecliffe without killing Rhys, and that he would find it in his heart to spare Rhys’s life once more. Her hand tightened on the softened cloth she held, twisting it into a knot. She feared her father would refuse to spare him. But she meant to plead for Rhys’s life. She would beg her father on her knees, if necessary, and promise to wed whomever he chose, if only he would not pass a death sentence on Rhys. Isolde could not bear the thought of Rhys’s death, especially at her own father’s or uncle’s hand.
“What a picture you make, milady.”
Isolde looked up, startled, and pricked her finger with the needle. It was Dafydd.
He grinned, then took a long noisy drink from his cup, all the while staring at her. “You better be careful. Don’t want to go bleedin’ all over your lover’s shirt. Or is that somethin’ you’re making for the babe he’s tryin’ so hard to get you with?” As before, his eyes fastened on her chest.
Isolde had to fight the urge to cringe from his repulsive stare. But she refused to show any fear. “Get away from me,” she ordered him through gritted teeth. She glared up at him. “Get away or I’ll—”
“Call Rhys? He just left for the stable,” the odious wretch gloated. “That wench from the dairy is waitin’ for him,” he chortled. “And anyway, what d’ye think he’ll do? He’s had you now. He’s had FitzHugh’s daughter enough times to plant ten babes in your belly. A Welsh bastard from a cold English bitch.”
He laughed at her stunned expression. “Fitting revenge considering that it’s Rhonwen he’s always wanted, a Welsh cunt who’s given your uncle his own pair of English bastards. But Rhys has found another Welsh cunt in Emelda. So if you get lonely, Isolde, I can take your mind off him quick enough.”
Isolde lurched furiously to her feet, her fists knotted, ready to launch herself at his awful grinning face. But Dafydd backed away and with a leer and a wink he turned and sauntered away.
One of the pages looked over at her, as did Gerta who labored near the hearth. But after a moment they returned to their tasks, leaving Isolde to stand there alone, trembling in impotent rage. How could Rhys call that disgusting man his friend? How could he think Dafydd a better man than her father and uncle?
Then her anger dissolved to fear. Dafydd was lying. He must be. He was a vengeful, evil man—and a drunkard—who sought revenge because she’d embarrassed him before the other men. He was wrong about Rhys and Emelda. Wasn’t he?
Her eyes swept the hall, searching for Rhys. He was not there, though, and the implication of that suddenly seemed ominous. Was he in the stable with Emelda? She spied that wretch Dafydd near the pantler’s closet, refilling his cup with
ale. She knew he hated her and he would not be above lying to her. But what if it were not a lie? What crueler way to torment her than with the truth?
After all, Rhys had loved Rhonwen all those years ago. But she’d wed Jasper, the only man he hated more than Isolde’s father. Now Rhys made love to her, the daughter and niece of those men. Every night they came together. How could she not expect a child to result? How could he not?
Was Dafydd right? Was that all Rhys wanted from her, another form of revenge against his foes? For should he not survive the coming conflict, his child born of a FitzHugh would provide him the final revenge against her family. Meanwhile, did he turn to another woman—a Welsh woman—to spite her?
Isolde’s hand went to her throat as she fought down such awful suspicions. Yet that was a more likely truth than the simple one she preferred to believe: that he was beginning to love her and would eventually abandon his revenge on account of that love.
Devastated, Isolde sat down hard, staring blindly across the hall to the upper windows with their muntins lined with snow. Only when Gandy approached did she drag her emotions inside and tamp them down. Even then, however, the little man’s expression was curious.
“Is aught amiss with you, Isolde?”
She shook her head and grimaced, for she could not make herself smile. “’Tis this confinement to the keep. That is all. I grow impatient to be outside again.”
“I’ve spent many such a night in the wildwood. This keep is stout and warm, and I, for one, am glad to be inside it.” He gestured with one hand toward the hearth. “The meat is done. Will you begin the meal soon?”
“We await Rhys,” she answered, swallowing hard at the thought of where he might be. “And Tillo. Where is he?”
Gandy shrugged. “Of late he has been out of sorts.”
“Has he?” Isolde sighed. The little dwarf was so clever, yet he could not recognize the elderly woman beneath his friend Tillo’s garb.
Was she just as blind to the truth about Rhys?
“Tillo has been out of sorts. Then Newlin arrived earlier
today, and Tillo has been absent ever since.” Gandy crossed his short arms over his chest. “Does Newlin have the second sight as everyone claims?”
“He is very wise,” Isolde admitted, setting her needlework aside. She smoothed a loose curl back from her brow. Had Newlin deduced the truth about Tillo? Could he tell her the truth about Rhys? “Where is he?”
“Who, Newlin or Tillo?”
“Both of them,” Isolde replied, wondering if the two might be somewhere together. “’Tis nearly time for supper and, besides, they are old. They should take a place near the fire.”
Across the room Cidu began to bark, a high-pitched, excited yammer, and a group of little children began to laugh. “They’d best not be feeding him fat,” Gandy grumbled. As he toddled off, Isolde’s gaze once again swept the hall. Newlin and Tillo. Was something afoot with those two? Even it were, however, Isolde knew neither of them would do anything to hurt either Rosecliffe or Rhys. Still, they were both wise and they both wished for peace. Mayhap together they could help her sort out the truth. Meanwhile, she must put aside Dafydd’s insinuations for now.
Rhys entered the hall on a burst of frigid air and snow flurries. But Isolde did not look over at him. Once he took his seat at the high table she signaled for the meal to begin.
Tillo and Newlin did not appear until after the meal had begun, and then they entered separately and sat apart. Isolde stood near the hearth, supervising the serving maids. When she spied Tillo, she approached her at once.
“Come sit near the fire. You are frozen!” she exclaimed when she touched the woman’s shoulder. “Where have you been?”
“Do not fuss over me,” Tillo grumbled. “I have not yet reached my dotage.”
“You told me once you wanted only a peaceful and quiet place to live out the remainder of your days. ’Tis my intention to help you find that place—and to increase the number of those days. I cannot do so if you freeze to death, Tillo, so do not argue with me.”
With an arm around Tillo’s shoulders, she steered her toward
the hearth. “Here, sit and eat. And after the meal,” she added, “I would speak with you a while.”
Tillo looked up at her and a faint smile passed over her lined features. “You have a good heart, child. But that ofttimes makes for a harder life.”
Perhaps so, Isolde thought as she turned and searched out Newlin. But it was too late to alter the direction her heart had taken. And too late to protect it.
Still avoiding Rhys, she found Newlin sitting in a squat heap along the side wall, holding a trencher of brown bread filled with stew. Three of the castle hounds sat in an expectant half-circle facing him, their mouths lolling open in anticipation of his generosity, their tongues slurping in eagerness.
“Ah, good-hearted Isolde,” he said, smiling more widely than was his wont. “Be of good cheer, my child. From the coldest winter still comes the hope of spring.”
Isolde stared gravely at him. “I am grateful to hear as much. Would that I could be more certain precisely what that means.”
But Newlin only smiled and tossed a bit of bread to one of the patient hounds.
Isolde sighed. “I bid you come and sit where it is warmer.”
He shook his head. “Tillo will leave if I come too near.”
Isolde arched her brows. So. She was right. “Why would she do that?” She barely stifled a groan when she realized her verbal slip. She had referred to Tillo as “she.”