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Authors: The Mistress of Rosecliffe

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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But why?
The answer was simple. Because she had hurt him.
He wanted to deny it was true, but he could not. She’d struck him a blow more painful than any wound he’d ever received in battle. Blood could be stanched. Bones could be mended, and flesh stitched together. But he had a hole in his chest now, a huge, gaping wound—at least that was how it felt. And all on account of her. She’d ripped something apart inside of him, and he ached now with every fiber of his being.
She is not wrong to defend her family
.
Rhys closed his eyes. It was painful to acknowledge that truth. It was harder still to admit that he wanted that loyalty of hers directed toward him, and him alone.
“Jesus God!” he swore. He pushed away from the door and started down the dark passage through the massive stone walls. Taking Rosecliffe castle had been a Herculean task, perhaps an impossible one, he had often feared during his long years away. Yet he had succeeded in his quest. With perseverance and determination and daring, he had succeeded. Though it should bring him great satisfaction, however, it did not.
She
was the reason for that.
If conquering Rosecliffe had been a farfetched idea, however, he now saw that conquering its fiery mistress was even more so. But he would do it. He would bring her to heel, if only on the strength of her naturally passionate nature.
As he strode into the silent bailey, he firmly quashed the possibility that it was she who might yet conquer him.
 
Josselyn and Rhonwen rode side by side. Contrary to their husbands’ fears, their presence did not slow the progress of the small army the FitzHugh brothers had raised. Indeed, the two women were as driven as any of the men to return to Rosecliffe. Josselyn worried for her daughter; Rhonwen worried for her niece; and both of them worried for Rhys. Rebel he might be, a rogue knight who threatened everything they loved. But he was also their countryman, and he fought his battle for the sake of their country.
Josselyn could not help remembering a motherless little boy she’d tried to befriend, a child mistreated by his father and loved by no one. Rhonwen recalled the friend of her youth, an idealistic lad who’d always seemed to draw misfits to him.
“He has no family of his own,” Rhonwen said.
“But an abundance of friends,” Josselyn responded, knowing instinctively to whom Rhonwen referred. “He travels with a band of minstrels.”
“Yes. A giant and a dwarf, the messenger said. He always had the talent to draw others to him, to inspire their loyalty. Especially those with no other place to turn.”
“Lonely souls like himself,” Josselyn mused.
“Like I once was,” Rhonwen added.
They rode a while in silence. When the column of riders approached a long trench that snaked across the countryside, the women shared a smile. “Home,” Rhonwen said, breathing
deeply. They had reached Offa’s Dyke, the meandering border dug during ancient times between England and Wales. “Only two more days at this pace.”
“We cannot allow this to become a full-scale war, Rhonwen. No one will win, and everyone will lose.”
“But what can we do?”
The older of the two women stared past the heavily armed men ahead of them, to where her husband and Rhonwen’s rode together. What a magnificent pair they were. Strong. Handsome. Dedicated to their families. “Would he make a good husband?”
Again there was no reason to explain who “he” was. “For Isolde?” Rhonwen asked. “Politically, yes. There is much to be said for a match between them.”
“It would solve a multitude of problems.”
“But would Rand agree?”
Josselyn sighed. “’Tis not Rand who worries me. Isolde has been headstrong in the matter of a husband.”
Rhonwen nodded. “And she hates Rhys. She always has.”
“What of Rhys? Would he agree to such a thing? And would he be good to her?”
Rhonwen chewed her lower lip. “He is not a bad man, you know.”
“Yes, I believe that. But he has been gone from here for ten years, and his reputation is fierce. Rhys the Wroth. Rhys the Enraged. He is called that and more.”
“Our husbands also had fierce reputations. But that was in battle. They have ever been gentle with us. Except for when we wish them to be rough,” Rhonwen added with a saucy grin.
Josselyn rolled her eyes: “You make a good point. But Isolde is my child. My firstborn. I must be sure before I suggest a marriage between her and Rhys. After all,” she added, her face turning grim. “He is the son of Owain ap Madoc.”
“When he weds he will not be like Owain. Of that I am certain,” Rhonwen vowed.
They guided their horses down into the trench, then up onto Welsh soil. “Then I suppose we are decided,” Josselyn said at last.
“In truth, it seems to be the only way to achieve a lasting
peace,” Rhonwen agreed. “Enemies wed to one another.” Then she laughed. “An unusual situation, to be sure. But we have, both of us, found happiness in that very same manner. Why should it not be so for Isolde and Rhys?”
THE SNOWS RETURNED. THE WIND HOWLED IN FROM THE SEA, bitterly cold and with a dampness that cut to the bone and pierced to the soul. No place in Rosecliffe Castle was warm enough, especially the small tower room. Higher than the castle’s outer walls, it was unprotected and exposed to the rip and claw of the winter squall.
Despite the hideous weather Isolde sat outside the tower room on the side of the walkway opposite the wind. She could not bear another minute of confinement inside the tiny room. Yet being outside was little improvement. Despite three pairs of stockings, two chemises, two kirtles, a heavy mantle, a thick shawl, and a wool blanket covering her, she could not get warm enough. Worse, however, there was nothing for her to see from her frigid perch, save the castle yard, still and frozen beneath the shrouding silence of the snow.
What she would give for a few minutes of company. But there was no one about. Even the guards were inside. The only movement visible was the gusting swirls of snow piling up against the walls in the bailey She breathed into her cupped gloved hands and tried unsuccessfully to retain the heat against her cheeks and nose. Her ears were freezing and her fingertips were numb. Her toes were beyond numb.
Stubborn fool! Go down to the hall
.
She drew the blanket over her head, burrowing into the darkness, and again breathed into her cupped hands. She was being childish, she knew. Rhys would not deny her the warmth of the hall. In truth, he’d sent several of his lackeys to bring
her downstairs. Gandy had been the first to come, though he had been so muffled as to be nearly unrecognizable. “He bids you come down,” the dwarf had said.
She’d sent him swiftly on his way and, later, had sent Linus away as well. Then Tillo. At least Tillo had understood Isolde’s obstinance. Still, the old woman’s parting words had been sharp. “What does it gain you to win this war of wills if you freeze to death, or else succumb to a fever of the lungs?”
But Isolde had resisted every urge to descend to the great hall where a huge fire fought back the cold. Rhys would be there and she was too sick at heart to be anywhere near him. She hated him; she desired him. She wanted to protect him; she wanted to escape him. It was utter lunacy. Yet after hours of pondering her behavior, she’d been led time and time again to only one miserable conclusion. She was falling in love with Rhys. It was madness. It was self-destructive. It was a curse. Yet what else could this confusion of emotions be?
She curled her feet closer under her legs. Better to freeze to death on the overlook than let the awful wretch see how cruelly he tormented her. What a delight he would take in such knowledge.
She peered unhappily out from her blanket tent and stared at the oppressive sky, then shivered when a cold gust of wind billowed the blanket. She could not hold out very much longer, she glumly realized. Soon she would have to descend to the warmer hall, for she did not think she could bear another night like the last one, shivering too violently to sleep.
Why was she being so obstinate?
“Why must you be so obstinate?”
Isolde peeked out from beneath the blanket. Had someone spoken? Or was she beginning to hear voices in the icy wind?
“Isolde!” A large hand shook her shoulder and she let out a shriek. “Come along. I’ll not allow you to freeze to death on account of stubbornness.” In a moment she was lifted up, blanket and all, and cradled in a pair of strong arms. Rhys’s strong arms. “You’re practically frozen,” he muttered.
“I am not,” she countered. But her voice was muffled by the blanket. She started to struggle against his high-handedness. But in truth he was so warm and strong that she could not muster any opposition. She was so very tired of
fighting him. Besides, he’d come for her himself, instead of sending one of his cohorts. Her anger dissipated, she let out a sigh, and sank contentedly into his embrace. It would be warmer in the great hall and the food would be hot. How good it would feel. How good he felt.
As he strode down the stairs, Rhys cursed himself for a fool, for an idiot. For a selfish, single-minded bastard. She’d rebuffed everyone he’d sent up to her. But instead of giving orders that they drag her down anyway, or doing the job himself, he’d fumed and cursed her, and vowed to let her freeze if that was what the hardheaded wench wanted. He’d sat there in the chilly hall, sullenly nursing a mug of heated ale, and tried to convince himself it was anger he felt, not pain.
But it hadn’t worked. He did not know why she was being so stubborn, but he knew why he was. Because he had begun to care for her. It was the worst thing he could do and the last thing he wanted to do. But try as he might, he could not deny the feelings she roused in him. She was his enemy. She hated him and she would betray him at every opportunity. He knew all that. He knew also that he could make her want him. But that was not enough. He wanted her loyalty for himself. Ludicrous as he knew it was, he wanted her to choose him over her family.
Was that love? No, he told himself. He had begun to care a little for her, but that was not love. He did not love her. It was only that all this confusion and frustration was driving him mad.
So he’d broken down and taken the stairs to the tower, three at a time, intending he knew not what. When he’d burst into that mean chamber and not found her, his anger had immediately turned to fear. When he’d pushed out onto the overlook, however, that fear had turned to horror and his heart had stopped.
She’d been huddled in a pitiful heap, practically frozen beneath a pile of clothes and blankets, and he’d thought at first that she was dead. Even now his heart thudded with dread for she was so still in his arms. And so cold.
But she was alive and he meant to keep her that way. Down the stairs he went with his precious bundle in his arms. He kicked open the door to his chamber. It was not warm, but it
was a vast improvement over the tower room. He was loath to release her, but he had to put her down in order to build up the fire. When she moaned as if in objection, he cursed under his breath. She needed him and his body warmth.
In a trifling he stirred up the embers and piled wood over them. Then he stripped off his leather hauberk, kicked off his boots, and climbed into the bed with her.
She was cold, so cold that when he wrapped his arms around her, he shivered. But he was undeterred. He burrowed beneath her mantle and pulled her close, tucking her within the curve of his body. Even her hair was cold as he pressed his face against it.
“Damn you, woman,” he muttered.
If it was your wish to strike back at me, then you have succeeded very well
.
A harsh shudder wracked her body and then another. But Rhys held her close, sharing his warmth and absorbing her violent shivers. It seemed to take forever. But slowly she warmed. Slowly her body lost its tension. The shivers eased and she relaxed against him.
But as she relaxed, Rhys grew more tense. He had her in his bed where he’d wanted her all along and his body reacted accordingly. Then she sighed and shifted against him, and he bit back a groan. This was no longer a good idea.
“Isolde? Isolde, are you awake?”
Isolde heard the low voice so near her ear. She felt it rumble against her back and blow warm through her hair. But she did not want to respond. It was so nice lying in his arms, pretending all was right with the world. She had but to close her eyes and go to sleep beside him and not think of anything else. She had been so cold, but he made her warm.
“Isolde.” His voice was more urgent, dragging her unwillingly from the pleasant fantasy she wove. “Do you hear me? If you do, answer me, sweetling. Please.”
Sweetling.
Beneath the heavy coverlet she smiled and stretched. Rhys had called her sweetling. And he sounded so sincere.
Then her backside came up against the ridge of his manhood, and she let out a little gasp.
His arms tightened around her. “So. You are awake.”
She slowly nodded. She was awake all right.
“Are you warmer now?” he asked.
“Y-yes.” Her voice was husky, and she nervously cleared it.
There was a long pause and every added second made her more and more aware of him and the intimate position they shared. He held her so close, in a lover’s embrace. At least they were clothed. At least she was.
What chamber had he brought her to?
With one hand she tugged down the marten coverlet that muffled her face. The air in the room was cold, but not nearly so bitter as the tower room. A quick glance confirmed what she’d already guessed. They were in the master’s chamber. Beyond the bed hangings the ruined mural loomed, reminding her of all the reasons she must hate him.
She tried to shove his arm away from her. “I cannot stay here.”
“You cannot leave,” he countered, tightening his hold. “I’ll not have you freezing up in that tower.”
“Then let me go to my own bedchamber. Or down to the hall.”
“’Tis too late for that, Isolde. You are here now and I will not let you go.”
Isolde hated that part of her that found such great pleasure in his words. But still she could not help asking, “Why?”
He moved and drew her onto her back. In the dim room his face was nevertheless close enough to be distinct. “Because I want you here. And I want that to be sufficient reason,” he added, so softly she barely heard him. But she did hear, and the honesty—the vulnerability—of his words stilled her objections. He wanted her to stay. She wanted to stay. Her mind spun with indecision. Would it be so terrible to remain with him a while? If she ignored the myriad problems that complicated their lives, everything became so simple. They wanted the same thing: to be together, shutting out the rest of the world.
Would there ever be another time when they could do that? Was now the only chance they would ever have?
The terrible answer was yes. What was it Tillo had said? “Search your heart and do not fear the pain you dredge up. To live in this world is to know pain.”
There was no future for Rhys and her, only the present, and Isolde knew she must accept that unhappy truth. There would be no future for them save one filled with pain. But there was now, this moment. If that was all she could have, then she must not waste it.
She stared up into his eyes and for once she forced herself not to hide her emotions from him. “When you found me outside the postern gate …” Her voice wavered. “I … I was not running away from you. I was coming back to you—”
The rest was lost in a kiss. It stole her breath; it stole her thoughts. It stole her heart. He pressed her down into the thick mattress, kissing her. Devouring her. Did he believe her? He must. Exultant, she rose to his kiss. His mouth took possession of hers and she gave in. His tongue demanded entrance, and she allowed it. His body moved to cover hers, and she moaned her acceptance.
At once he lifted his head. “I’ve hurt you.”
“No.”
“You are ill from the cold.”
“No.” She circled his neck with her arms and pulled his head down to hers. “I am not ill. I am not cold, either. Kiss me.”
It was his turn to groan. But he did not argue, and he did not hold back. As if some barrier between them had finally collapsed, he kissed her deep and long and hard. Her lips, her cheeks and eyes and ears. He found the tenderest skin of her throat, the most sensitive spot beneath her ear. It was heaven and Isolde gloried in the frenzied eroticism of it. Her hands slid along his back and arms and shoulders. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She wanted him closer. She wanted his hot skin against hers.
He heeded her desires. Though they were swaddled in blankets and bed linens, his clothes and hers, they managed to strip the primary barriers away. His chainse, her mantle and a pair of kirtles. His chausses and braies, her chemises and stockings. The bed drapery kept out the cold while their passions heated the small enclosure.
Then they were naked, the two of them beneath the heated sheets, lying face-to-face with no impediments to their joining.
Rhys slid one hand slowly down her side, tracing the slope
of her waist and the curve of her hips. She mirrored his motions, exploring the hard ridges of his chest, the trail of hair that thinned as her fingers followed it down. In the dark she could not see, but she could feel and she could tell how eager he was.
“Damnation,” he groaned, catching her wrist as her hand moved lower still. He pushed her onto her back.
“Let me,” she protested.
“I fear you will unman me,” he said, beginning a new exploration, but with his lips this time. “You do things to me”—he kissed her mouth—“that rob me of all reason.” He moved his lips down her cheek to her throat and along her collarbone. “And bring me too fast to the brink.” He caught one of her nipples between his teeth and she gasped, arching up to the pleasure of it.
“You bring me to the brink,” he murmured, the hot words alternately against one breast and then the other. “You bring me to the brink, Isolde, but I would bring you there first.”
“We can … we can go there together,” she panted.
“We will.” He slid up over her, allowing his full weight to press down on her, and it was such an arousing feeling she nearly swooned. His weight, his heat, his strength. They were all focused upon her and it made her breathless with desire.

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