Rexanne Becnel (18 page)

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Authors: The Mistress of Rosecliffe

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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But the dragon was unaffected by the violence of her emotions, and it loomed over the wolf as menacingly as ever. She faced it, chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. “I will destroy you,” she vowed, swiping vainly at her eyes.
Her paints were there, the precious pots of colors she’d worked so hard to mix. And for what purpose? To paint ugly murals that dishonored her family? That glorified villains?
She grabbed the first paint pot and the nearest brush. Then she attacked the wall. Swaths of red—blood—in great wild strokes. She cared nothing for line or form or balance. She slapped paint on the wall in utter abandon, wanting only to obliterate the beastly dragon from the wall. To obliterate
him
from her head!
Two floors down in the great hall, Rhys sat stone-faced in the lord’s chair. He heard Isolde’s shrieks of rage—half the castle folk heard—and he wanted to go to her. But he knew he was the last person who would be able to calm her.
“What have you done to her?”
He jerked at Tillo’s sharp words. The old minstrel stared accusingly at him—as did several serving maids and pages. Linus’s big face was lined with worry; even Gandy looked concerned.
“What have you done to her now, Rhys?”
His hand cut the air in an abrupt gesture. “Nothing! I did nothing!”
Except toy with her. Seduce her. Then insult her
.
Tillo snorted in disbelief. “Considering your intentions, she has borne our presence in her home very well. ’Tis clear some new atrocity has befallen her.”
Guilt drew him to his feet. “No atrocity. Just the unwelcome realization that she is no better than those who live outside Rosecliffe’s exalted walls. She is no more deserving than any other woman. No more constant. No more trustworthy.”
Rhys stood, muscles tensed, fists knotted, glaring his intent to silence Tillo with violence if the old man did not back off. But when Tillo did just that, retreating safely beyond the reach of Rhys’s clenched fists, Rhys felt another surge of the same shame that had beset him upstairs with Isolde.
Was this what he had deteriorated into, a bully who threatened anyone who disagreed with him? Daffyd had become a bully since last he’d seen him. His own father had been the same—brutal, driven. He himself had been the recipient of that brutality often enough to have vowed never to behave thus. But here he was, wielding words like weapons to crush Isolde, and threatening physical violence on an old man half his size. It was not Isolde or Tillo who deserved his anger; that he should reserve for Rand and Jasper FitzHugh. They were his targets, not the others.
He unloosened his fists, then raised his hands and stared at them. He would never be like his father. Never.
He looked over at Tillo. “Of late I have let anger rule sense. In the future I will do better.”
Tillo’s expression was not forgiving. “A cold swim and a few hours on your knees in prayer—that is the cure for this ailment that plagues you.”
Another crash echoed down from the second floor. “Perhaps you are right,” Rhys conceded. “That will not ease her mood, however.”
Tillo snorted. “Why should you care about her mood?” Another
crash. “Save that she may demolish what it took her father twenty years to build.” Then Tillo turned a shrewd gaze on Rhys. “You should have sent her on the ship with the others. You can still free her. Send her to Chester, or to her uncle’s home at Bailwyn. You do not need her, for whether you hold her hostage or not, you still hold Rosecliffe. The FitzHugh brothers will return here to retake their castle. You will not miss the battle you crave.”
Rhys realized that Tillo spoke the truth. But there was something in him not yet ready to release Isolde FitzHugh. “She is too vital a bargaining tool for me to send her away.”
“Methinks there is another reason.”
Rhys bristled. “My reasons are my reasons. You are free to leave Rosecliffe if you do not find my rule here to your liking.”
“Mayhap I will leave this place,” Tillo replied. “I would live out my remaining years in a place of peace and contentment. ’Tis what I sought when I followed you here. But you are not peaceful here, Rhys. Nor are you content. I wonder now if ever you will be.”
Again Rhys’s temper boiled over. “Go then.” He gestured angrily at the door. “No one prevents your leaving.”
Tillo glanced from Rhys to the door, then toward the stairs. “Let her come with me.”
“No!”
The word burst from his lips of its own accord—vehement, final—and Rhys refused to examine its source. Tillo gathered his purple mantle close around him and Rhys had to remind himself again that this was no enemy he faced, but an old man. An old man who had been his friend these many years.
He let out a long sigh. “Seek you your rest, Tillo. There is no reason for us to quarrel. Soon enough the FitzHughs will arrive. Then I will defeat them and peace will return to this place. You will see.”
Tillo stared at him unsmiling, and in his old face all the lines earned over a lifetime of tribulation showed. “It may be too late then. Too late,” Tillo repeated, turning away.
Rhys watched him shuffle away. With an effort Tillo tugged the heavy iron-strapped door open, letting in an icy blast of winter. Then he disappeared into the bitterly cold dusk
outside. A shiver marked its way down Rhys’s spine, but he ignored it. Just as life must get worse before it could get better, so would the winter grow colder before the land warmed again.
He would survive both events, he told himself. One day he would be content, just as he would eventually be warm again.
He looked over the hall from his lonely place at the high table. “Stoke the fires,” he ordered a passing boy. The lad jumped, all big eyes and fearful expression. “Stoke the big hearth, then see to the fire in mine own chamber,” Rhys added.
Isolde would not vent her temper on an innocent lad, he reassured himself.
Then she is a better person than you
, an unpleasant voice in his head pointed out.
“Never mind,” he said, before the boy could run off. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
“Stoke the fire? You, milord?” the lad ventured, plainly amazed that the new lord would tend a page’s tasks.
“You tend this fire,” Rhys said. He stared over at the stairs that led to the upper floors. “I’ll tend the other one.”
RHYS EXPECTED TO FIND HIS CHAMBER IN A SHAMBLES. HE did not expect, however, the total havoc she’d wreaked. The furnishings were unaffected. His belongings were untouched. But the mural …
Only one lamp yet burned, but it cast sufficient light to reveal the enormity of the destruction. He stared at it, stunned at the ruin she’d so swiftly made. Days of work to create a truly magnificent mural, but only a few minutes to destroy it.
“
Uffern dan
,” he swore. He frowned and raked his hands through his hair. “What in God’s name has she done?”
Something shifted in the shadows to his left. Someone. Then she stepped forward and crossed boldly in front of him to stand before the smear of paint and water that now covered the wall. “Do you like it?” she sarcastically inquired. She swept her arms wide and stared at him, an odd combination of triumph and wariness on her face. “I think it a vast improvement.”
“Damn you, woman!” He advanced on her and she fell back. But still her jaw jutted obstinately forward. Had it not been for the wild glitter in her huge gray eyes and the damp trails down her cheek, he wasn’t sure what he might have done. As it was, he grabbed her by the arms, ready to throttle her for such idiocy. But her eyes and their silent testament to her distress affected him in a way he could not explain. Instead of punishing her, he wanted to comfort her.
He wanted to kiss her, he admitted to himself. Not wise at all.
He kept his arms stiff, holding her a safe distance from him. “How could you destroy your own art?”
“I hated it!”
“If you hated it, you would not have labored so long at it. You would not have created the images with such passion and fire.”
She glared up at him. “It was hideous.”
Outrage warred with understanding. Rhys’s hands tightened until he felt the beat of her blood in his fingers. “You will have to repaint it.”
Mutely she shook her head.
“You will do as I say, Isolde, else you will suffer the consequences.”
Her eyes darkened at his threat, but still she opposed him. “Then I will suffer the consequences. I will not paint your disgusting murals. I will not tend your temporary household. Could I tear down the walls of Rosecliffe, stone by stone, to keep you from possessing it, I would do that, too!”
“
Gwrtaith!
I should have sent you away with the rest of them!”
“Why didn’t you?” she cried, struggling finally to free herself.
“Because I wanted—” He broke off. Because he had wanted to possess his enemy’s daughter. And because now he simply wanted to possess
her
.
But to tell her that was to reveal how desperate his obsession with her had become.
“You will repaint the mural or suffer the consequences,” he repeated, angrier at himself than with her. For he’d underestimated her. She was a worthy opponent, he now saw, far more dangerous than any mounted knight he’d ever battled.
True to form, the stubborn wench answered him. “Then I will suffer the consequences.”
Isolde could not explain what drove her to make such a reckless declaration. The same demon that had driven her to ruin the finest work she’d ever done, she supposed. A part of her knew the mural had been exceptional. But though it was beyond the ordinary, it was nevertheless obscene and an insult to everything she believed in. She been right to destroy it. Now, though, she must prepare herself to suffer his retaliation.
“
Uffern dan
,” he swore again, his black eyes glittering. “God save me from—” He broke off. “Any other man would beat you for your defiance.”
Isolde felt an undeniable quiver of relief. At least he did not mean to beat her.
“Any other man would make quick use of you, then discard you for the pleasure of his men. Ah, I see that draws a response from you,” he added when she sucked in a fearful breath.
So it did. “But you are not like other men,” she prompted, unable to bear the suspense of what he had in mind for her.
Again she felt his hands tighten around her arms. But this time an emotion other than fury seemed to drive him. It was desire, she realized. A purely carnal desire for her. She recognized it because she too felt the same emotion.
She shuddered, appalled by such perverseness in her nature. She desired a man she hated. She made a masterpiece of a mural she despised. But she had destroyed the mural, she reminded herself, and she would destroy these inappropriate feelings, too. Then she would help her father destroy Rhys.
But was that truly what she wanted to do? She knew it was not, and once more she shivered.
“No,” he said in a rough whisper, pulling her nearer. “I am not like other men. I am more the fool than they.” He stared down into her eyes, not blinking. Not moving. He was all tension and muscle and more dangerous than he had ever been. Yet Isolde was afraid to move, afraid to break the spell that held them together this long, tenuous moment.
He held her so long she thought surely he would kiss her, as he’d done before. What would she do then?
She did not have the opportunity to find out, for with a groan he suddenly thrust her away. “Get up to the tower room,” he ordered in a voice raw with emotion.
She stumbled, then caught herself on the sturdy table beside the door. “Gladly!” she flung back at him. “Anything to be out of this room—and to be rid of your unbearable presence!”
But she did not leave. She stood in the doorway, caught between right and wrong, between duty and desire. She wanted to hate him—and she did. But something prevented her from hating him as completely as she should. On impulse
she said, “Leave here, Rhys. Leave here before anyone has to die. ’Tis not worth it.”
Whatever emotions he felt seemed to harden at her words. His lips twisted cynically. “Who are you afraid for, Isolde? Your father? Your uncle?” He waited, a grim expression on his face, and she suspected he wanted to keep anger as a buffer between them. But she was done with anger. She’d spent her anger destroying the mural.
Who was she afraid for?
She answered with the truth. “Yes. I am afraid for them. But I am also afraid for you, Rhys. For you.” Then she turned and she fled. Up the dimly lit stairwell. Up to the tower, and away from the tumult of feelings he roused in her.
Rhys stared after her a long while, long enough to slow the thundering pace of his heart and bring his breathing under control. But his muscles remained tense. His entire body remained rigid. It was the only way he could prevent himself from following her.
Why had she said that?
Did she mean it? Was she afraid for him?
With a grimace he tore his gaze from the empty doorway. When it lit upon the mural, however, he let loose a curt oath. He spun on his heel, only to face the massive curtained bed. This time he let out a groan.
She was twisting him into knots, and he seemed unable to stop her. When she was furious he wanted to tame her. When she was distraught he wanted to comfort her. Those perverse responses to her were bad enough. But that admission of concern she’d made, that small expression of worry … Had she not fled the room, he feared he might have been sucked body and soul into the comfort he’d seen in her eyes.
He had desired many women through the years, and most of them had professed to worry about him when he rode into battles or tournaments or melees. But their concern had been more for themselves than for him. Every woman wanted her lover to be champion, to defeat the men he rode against. It increased a woman’s standing to have a powerful lover. He’d understood their concern for him, and he’d used it to his advantage.
Before them he’d not known any woman’s concern—,
briefly, for Josselyn’s. But she’d betrayed her people for a FitzHugh, and later his friend Rhonwen had done the same. Their worry for him had not been sincere. As for his mother, she’d died when he was but a babe.
Now there was Isolde expressing concern for him. Was he supposed to believe her?
He rubbed a hand over his eyes and grimaced. He’d be a fool to believe her. A witless fool. But a part of him wanted to do just that, and he was afraid to wonder why. So he turned away from the bed and the mural and the door, and he crossed to the narrow window. It was cold outside and he pressed his overheated brow against the rare panes of glass, trying to clear his mind.
He pounded one fist against the window frame. It was the waiting that was addling his brain. He needed to confront his foes and strike them down. Waiting for their return was driving him mad.
But waiting was all he could do. Wait and prepare, and learn every secret of the enemy fortress he had seized.
The next three days he did just that. No passage or storeroom was too insignificant for his study. From the cranking mechanism of the mighty bridge, to the postern gate behind the kitchen, to the steep descent to the beach below, he examined everything—everything except the tower room. He avoided the tower room and its maddening occupant. Instead of confronting her, he confronted every other person now under his rule.
He goaded the woodcutters to increase their efforts, demanded that the fishermen and hunters remain long hours at their tasks and ordered all their game smoked or salted, cured and packed for future use. He demanded that the armorer and all his men-at-arms labor just as diligently repairing weapons, stockpiling arrows and spearheads, and oiling the leather straps and lacings that kept both weapons and armor in their best working order.
A battle was imminent, as was a siege, and Rhys prepared for both, using every bit of planning and cunning he’d learned during his years as both a Welsh rebel and an English knight. As the days passed, his confidence increased. This was the test
he’d prepared all his life for. He would not lose Rosecliffe. He could not.
Unfortunately the days occupied but half of Rhys’s time. The nights were another matter altogether. Another form of torture. He spent those long and grueling hours alone in his chamber, lying in the giant bed, staring up at the violent smear of color that dominated the room, and thinking of her. By day the ruined mural was just that, a magnificent image lost forever. By lamplight, however, hidden images revealed themselves. And by the erratic flicker of the niche fireplace, Rhys could almost believe that shadowy figures moved in its depths. He scoffed at such fanciful imaginings. If images on that wall moved, it was because of late he’d been drinking more than was his wont. Still, a sane man would have had the wall whitewashed, or would have hung a tapestry over the ruin Isolde had wrought.
But therein lay Rhys’s problem. For he’d come to the morose conclusion that he must not be a sane man.
On the night of the third day of Isolde’s confinement, Rhys entered his chamber later than usual, and drunker. The castle was asleep save for the guards posted along the walls. He’d sat the whole evening in the lord’s chair, scowling into his ale while Linus and Gandy entertained the castle folk. But it was hard to achieve a jovial mood. With each passing day the tension mounted, for everyone knew a battle was inevitable. So Linus and Gandy had abandoned their routine, and people had drifted quietly away. Now, in addition to the bitter cold, the night wind was heavy with the wet scent of snow. They’d had two days of warmth and thaw, but now another winter storm approached.
Removing his girdle, Rhys hung his short sword on a wall peg, then unstrapped his dagger sheath and tossed it on the bed along with his hood and gloves. He stood there a moment and scrubbed his hands over his weary face. Then he stared at the heavily draped bed. His chamber was cold, but not bitterly so. A brazier filled with hot coals had only to be slid between the linens to warm the bedclothes, and once he was beneath the coverings with the hangings drawn, the bed would warm up nicely.
But there were other ways to heat a bed, other ways far
more appealing than hot coals in an iron brazier.
“Damnation,” he swore and sent a killing glare toward the mural. Like a dark devil tormenting him, it merely stared back at him—the hulking mess that had been the dragon, the prone swirl that had been the wolf. He fancied the wolf still stared at him, the yellow eyes a clear gray now, though shielded behind the muddy shadow of paint.
Damn her!
He snatched up an ewer and flung it against the wall. It crashed high against the mural, drenching the painting with water that streamed down the wall in streaks of gray and red.
Rhys raked his hands through his hair, conscious that he was shaking. She had done this to him. His plan to take Rosecliffe had been daring but it had succeeded. Now she was wreaking havoc with that success. He took a deep breath, willing himself to a hard-fought calm.
As a boy he’d held her—an infant—in his arms, he reminded himself. As a youth he’d fought her family and, for a short while, held her hostage. Now she was once again his hostage. Yet perversely it felt more like he’d been imprisoned by her. She haunted his thoughts and his dreams. She tortured him waking and sleeping. And why?
Because he was frustrated. It was that simple, he told himself.
Like a randy youth, his body craved hers. He spent half the day fighting down his desire for her. Only when his body was fully engaged in physical effort—when sparring with his men or laboring beside them—did he defeat the demon in his braies. But at all other times he was sore beset. Especially here, in the chamber where he had lain with her.

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