“Be still now,” she told him. “I’ll do all the work.”
But it was almost impossible for him to lie still. She straddled his thighs, her womanhood open and so near his aching arousal. Though his hips thrust upward in blatant demand, she only smiled. “Be still,” she crooned, as her palms slid up his rigid belly to his chest. “I want only to give you pleasure.”
“You know how best to do that, Isolde. No need to play games with me.”
She leaned over him and swept her hair back and forth over his face and chest and shoulders. “I am curious. I want to explore a bit. There’s no need to rush,” she added. “We have all night.”
One of her hands moved down toward his arousal and he groaned. No use to fight her. It felt too good to resist. So he lay there and let her use her fingers and her lips and every other portion of her body to please him.
She slid up and down him again, her weight a hot stroke down the entire length of his body. She kissed him everywhere, beneath his ear, along his collarbone. When he swallowed she nipped his throat. When he groaned she moved her sweet lips and lethal teeth to his chest and hardened nipples. And when he thrust his hips up convulsively against her belly, she slid lower still.
He thought he would explode.
He thought he would die from the pleasure of it.
“Enough,” he muttered, trying to grab her and pull her up. But his bandaged hands had him at a disadvantage and she knew it.
“Do you like that?” she whispered, gasping for breath.
“Yes. Too much. Come here, Isolde.”
“Wait.” She wet one finger, then watching his face, ran that finger up the straining length of his manhood. “I want to be certain you are fully aroused,” she said, smiling down into his eyes.
“I’ve never been more—Damn!” He gritted his teeth, trying desperately to restrain himself.
“Never? No other woman has ever done this to you?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
He shook his head, his jaw still clenched. “Don’t speak of other women.”
“But there were others,” she persisted.
He stared at her flushed face and winced at the vulnerability she could not quite disguise in her eyes. “There has never been a woman like you, Isolde. Not for me.”
He hadn’t meant to say that, to reveal so much to her. But when her lips trembled so that she could only still them by pressing them together, he was glad he had. The vulnerability disappeared from her eyes, replaced by a shining joy. “I love you,” she said once again, so faintly this time that he hardly heard.
Then, not waiting for a response from him, she took him in hand and sheathed him within her.
Rhys shuddered, his relief was so profound, and it took every bit of his control not to erupt. But he knew he could not long withstand her sensual assault. She rocked over him,
holding him so tight, and he wanted to hold her tight also. But when he tried to grip her waist, he could not. Wherever he tried to hold her or caress her, he met with the same barriers of pain and the bulky linen bandages.
She must have sensed his frustration, for she paused and pushed his arms down onto the mattress. “Can you not just lie here and let me give you pleasure, Rhys? Must you always be the one in control?” She ran her fingertips down his chest in the most provocative manner. He could see in her eyes that she understood what she was doing to him.
She continued. “For this night, at least, I am stronger than you and more adept. Tonight I am in control, not you.”
A feeling akin to panic rushed through Rhys, nearly overpowering passion. Had he ever allowed anyone that sort of control over him? No. At least not since he had become a man. For giving up control, whether in battle with another man, or in bed with a woman, was a sign of weakness. He had vowed never to be weak.
But where Isolde was concerned …
She resumed a slow, sultry rhythm and his hard-fought control began to slip. “Damn you,” he muttered as she began, oh so gradually, to increase her pace. “Damn you, Isolde …”
She went faster. She held him tighter and tighter. Then abruptly, in a flash of light, in an explosion of all darkness, he lost control. It blinded him. It ripped him apart. It exposed his guts and threw every secret part of him out for her to see.
He grabbed her despite the pain in his hand and held on as he poured himself into her. “Isolde,” he chanted as he filled her with himself over and over again. “Isolde.”
I love you
.
THE ALARM CAME AT MID-MORNING. BY THEN ISOLDE HAD cleaned and redressed Rhys’s injuries. She had also made love to him again, and whispered words of love in that exquisite moment when they’d found their release together.
As before, he had not responded with the words she so wanted him to say, but by now she thought she understood why. She’d heard enough of the life he’d lived to know that love had never been a part of it. He knew nothing of love, save the physical side of it, whereas she had grown up surrounded by love, but only the emotions.
He’d taught her the intense pleasures of making love; she meant to teach him the utter joy of being in love. But it would not be easy, nor would it happen quickly. But he did care for her. She had felt it in the reverent way he’d awakened her, kissing up the length of her body. She’d been surrounded by it when they’d curled together, enjoying the steamy aftermath of their early morning love play. For him to admit to himself that he could love her went against everything he’d believed, for she was a FitzHugh. For him to say the words to her might take him a very long time. But she was convinced that in his own way he did care for her.
In time he would come around.
If only they had time.
But she refused to let the threat of the future ruin the happiness of the present. So she had closed her eyes against any shadows over that happiness, refusing to let them in. And she’d succeeded. She’d presided over morning prayers and a warm, filling breakfast. There had been a few breaks in the cloud cover, and an occasional ray of sunshine had fallen brilliant
upon the pristine snow. The world was beautiful today. Why could it not always be so?
But then the alarm had come, first a shout from somewhere along the walls outside. Then the bell had rung. The telltale creak of the castle bridge rising and the heavy thud of the cross bar in the gates had been the final blow for Isolde. She did not need to see Rhys’s face to confirm the grim news.
The FitzHughs had returned. Her father and her uncle Jasper had arrived.
By rights she should have been relieved. She should have exulted. At last the captured Rosecliffe Castle would be liberated. But instead Isolde wanted to cry. Not yet. Not yet!
Though she knew it would change nothing, Isolde wanted to pretend just a little longer that Rhys was not her enemy, that he was not intent on destroying people she loved. She wanted time to soften his need for vengeance and teach him how to love.
But the alarm bell dashed her hopes; the cold expression that descended over Rhys’s face killed them.
The fact that he met her eyes for but an instant before turning to hear his man’s report buried her hopes forever. This was it, the day she’d once hoped for and now dreaded. The beginning of the end of her life. The day someone she loved must die.
Rhys strode from the hall, as did most of the Welshmen—men-at-arms and servants alike. The women and others who remained in the great hall turned at once to Isolde, watching for her response. She rubbed her hands together anxiously. They probably knew, or at least suspected, what had passed between her and Rhys. They could not know, however, how completely her heart had become engaged.
What did they expect now, for her to renounce him? Or renounce her family? Or did they watch her to see if she would fall apart?
She pressed her lips together to prevent them trembling and glanced around. Worried faces. Troubled faces. One or two, however, stared hopefully at her.
Hopefully?
Isolde wove her fingers nervously together. What did they hope for? Did they think she could bring peace between these
knights who hated one another? While it sometimes had seemed possible, Rhys’s harsh expression this morning shook her confidence. Still, she could not stand idly by while the world collapsed around her. So she snatched up her mantle from a hook in the pantler’s closet. But as she hurried toward the door to the bailey, she was halted by Tillo’s call.
“I fear they will break your heart, child. The two of them, father and lover. They will break your heart.” The old woman hobbled out from behind a square stone column. “’Tis what men do best,” she added, shaking her head.
Quick color flooded Isolde’s cheeks. “You don’t understand any of this,” she snapped in reply. “How could anyone possibly understand?”
“I understand that you love them both.” The old woman broke off when Newlin came toward them.
“She loves them both,” the misshapen bard echoed. “And they have both brought her great joy.”
“But no longer,” the old woman warned.
Newlin faced Tillo, and with his one good hand he caught her by the wrist. “That is a choice her heart must make. If a person turns away from a love that is freely offered, ‘tis not the love that inflicts the pain. ’Tis a choice, Tilly. A choice.”
Isolde stared at Newlin, puzzled. He wasn’t speaking of her now. Those words were for Tillo—except that he’d called her Tilly—and they sounded suspiciously like a declaration of love. Isolde heard it as clearly as she’d heard the alarm bell sound. Here, in the midst of a war for possession of Rosecliffe Castle—at the unlikeliest moment possible—could the ancient seer of these hills be declaring his love for an old woman who disguised herself as a man? Despite her own fears and confusion, Isolde’s lips curved in a bittersweet smile. Perhaps one bit of goodness would emerge from these dark days.
No other good possibly could.
“Be wise in your response to him,” she said to Tillo. She touched their hands, which were still joined. “And be brave. There is much to gain and time is running out.”
“I might give you the same advice, girl,” Tilly muttered. But her tone was not so caustic, and when her faded gaze darted toward Newlin she seemed less sure of herself.
“The pair of you would both be wise to heed the advice
you give each other,” Newlin remarked with a soft smile. “Go, child. See what peace you might bring out there.”
Isolde stared at him a long moment before she turned to go. Everything was so uncertain. Did Newlin believe she could insert herself into this mess and somehow ease the tensions? Linus stood near the door, his expression as friendly as ever and yet worried, too. He opened the door when she approached. Outside Gandy stood on the top step, wrapped in a doubted-up blanket as he stared out at the busy yard. She hesitated beside him, searching for Rhys.
The dwarf looked up at her. “I do not like this.”
Isolde gave a short, unhappy laugh. “Nor do I.”
“He cannot fight. He is still injured from the fight with Dafydd.”
Isolde stiffened. That was true. He would not be able to grip his sword well enough to fight. A little part of her began to hope. Perhaps there would be no battle after all. But she knew better. She knew that was not possible. Rhys had prepared his whole life for this day. He would let nothing stop him. Not his pain. Certainly not her love.
Unaccountably, memories of the Welsh children’s chant rose in her mind.
When stones shall grow and trees shall no’,
When noon comes black as beetle’s back,
When winter’s heat shall cold defeat,
We’ll see them all ’ere Cymry falls.
She pulled the mantle close around her neck. The first two predictions had already come to pass. Twenty years ago a stone fortress had begun to grow on the rocky rose cliffs. Then ten years later the midday sky had blackened to night. She remembered it well, the panic, the fear that it was the end of the world. But it had not been the end of the world and the darkness had saved her uncle Jasper from sure death. And it had led to Rhys’s first defeat.
But the third prediction, winter’s heat … She pondered what it might mean. Would God come and melt the snow just like he’d darkened the sky back then? Would He save Rhys as He’d saved Jasper? But then, saving Rhys would mean
sacrificing Jasper or her father. Isolde wrapped her arms around herself. She believed in the chant; she was too afraid not to. But she had no idea how to interpret it.
She forced herself down the steps, consumed with guilt. If Rhys could not defend himself sufficiently because of his injuries, it would be her fault. He’d hurt himself in her defense. In spite of her need to protect her family, she also wanted to protect Rhys.
Dear God, but she did not want him hurt!
She started across the silent, snow-packed yard, but at the steep stone stairs that led up to the wall walk her path was blocked. A grim-faced Welshman stared her down. “Go back to the hall. This is no place for a woman.”
“Let me pass,” she ordered, glaring at him. “I have business with Rhys.”
“You’ll have to wait. You’ll have to wait,” he repeated, though in a less confident tone.
Isolde planted her fists on her hips. “Perhaps you forget that I am the bargaining point between him and my father. What I have to say to Rhys is vital. His life—and yours—may hang upon it.”
When his gaze darted away from hers then returned, only to dart away once more, Isolde knew she’d won this contest of wills. But that was of small comfort. Rhys and her father were the ones she must try to divert from a disastrous confrontation, and that task seemed hopeless.
She sidled past the guard and clambered up the cold steps, never looking back. Up on the wall walk the wind was bitter. Beyond the castle the land lay still and white. The forest crouched in the distance, dark under its mantle of snow. The river Geffyn showed, edged with boulders and brush. Had the entire surface of the water frozen over, or did an icy center yet rush headlong to the sea?
How Isolde wished she could that easily be washed away from here, removed from this battle that could have no true victor.
But she could not float away. And anyway, this was her home. So she squared her shoulders and headed toward the gatehouse parapet and the men clustered there.
The looks sent her way were a mixture of wariness, suspicion,
and gloating. She was the enemy they all expected to defeat. But Isolde cared nothing for anyone’s opinion but Rhys’s, and he stood beside Glyn staring out to the road that ended on the far side of the moat. The other half-dozen Welshmen there grudgingly parted as she advanced through them.
“Come to see your father’s defeat?” one of them laughed.
“Give ’em a wave. They’ll get no nearer than that,” another burly fellow jested.
“Let her through!” Rhys barked. He stood in the open space between the crennels, his arms resting on the walls framing it. He scowled down at the knot of horsemen at the edge of the moat.
“Come here, Isolde.” Still he did not turn toward her. “Your father and uncle would see you.”
With a lump in her throat, Isolde made her way to his side. It was cold and quiet on the wall walk. No bird wheeled through the winter sky calling out. No hound barked in the bailey. Even the men were silent behind her. The wind’s moan along the high walls was the only sound, and it added to the chill that gripped her.
“Rhys, please,” she whispered when she stopped beside him.
But his jaw was clenched tight, and when she touched his arm, it was rigid with tension. “Rhys—”
He turned, abruptly shaking off her hand, and grabbed her by the arm. If it hurt his sliced hand to propel her forward, he gave no indication of it.
“Here she is, FitzHugh. Unharmed, as I said.”
Isolde tore her eyes reluctantly from Rhys’s hard profile. Below them, so near and yet so impossibly out of reach, sat her father and her uncle Jasper, along with four other mounted men.
She leaned out, overwhelmed by a rush of love for her family who she knew loved her so much. On impulse she waved, and one of the knights waved back. Isolde squinted. Was that her younger brother, Gavin?
It was. Quick tears stung her eyes, and though she brushed them away, she could not so easily brush aside the fierce emotions that lodged in her chest. Even her young brother, not yet fully a knight, had come racing to her rescue.
“I … I am all right!” she called to them past the lump in her throat. “Do not worry over me.”
Her father separated himself from the others, riding alongside the moat. He pushed down his cowl then raised a hand in salute to her. Isolde felt almost as if he’d touched her cheek.
“Papa,” she whispered, stretching her hand out to him.
“I am relieved to see you,” Randulf called up to her. “We have, all of us, been worried.” Then his voice grew strident. “Release her! She is innocent of our dispute!”
“I am not harmed!” Isolde cried before Rhys could answer. “Nor am I afraid. Is Mother here?”
“Yes.”
“Enough.” Rhys pushed her aside, and at his signal one of his men quickly took her in hand. “I am a man of my word, FitzHugh. She will come to no harm in my care. But neither will she be freed until I have my vengeance.”
“Vengeance for what? I spared your life. I provided for your education—”
“You stole Welsh lands. Your brother murdered my father!”
“Then meet
me
in battle!” Jasper threw out. He rode up beside his brother, his massive steed snorting and pawing. “Meet me in battle. But do not hide behind a woman.”