Master Of Surrender (12 page)

“Aye, behind the stable are two sets of footprints and those of wagon wheels. But I lost the trail in the forest.”

Rohan whistled to Hugh, who had almost reached the stable. “Mount up,” he said to Warner. He turned to Thorin and grasped his shoulder. “Stand guard here, my friend. I will return, God willing with the maid.”

As Hugh returned with the black, Rohan sprang onto its back with much enthusiasm for a man who had thought of naught else but resting his weary body and filling his belly. Thorin watched with interest. Rohan caught the look. He smiled grimly. “Do not read more into my concern than what is actually there, Thorin. The maid is a valuable pawn in this deadly game I play with my brother. I would see her here to stack the board in my favor.”

Thorin grinned and nodded. “If you say so, Rohan.”

Rohan reined his horse about and called to Ioan and Stefan, who also had remounted. “Let us find the maid so that we may return to yet another feast.”

W
hile Isabel stacked what few items she had onto the small cart, she dreaded the long, cold walk back to Rossmoor. Ralph hand-constructed several torches, but she doubted they would see them all of the way back. The sun had set, and with the thick blanket of fog, the path would be more difficult to discern.

“Milady,” Mildred said, “mayhap you should not travel. The wolves prowl as hungry as we. ’Tis too dangerous. Wait till morn.”

Mildred spoke true. Yet Isabel knew she must return to Rossmoor as soon as possible. Her people would suffer under the angry hand of the Black Sword. She would not have their pain on her conscience. “Nay, I—” Isabel stopped. The ground beneath her feet rumbled as if the earth split in half. A distant thunder approached from where she had come. She looked up, and in the thick mist of the fog, the low glow of fire burned.

The thunder increased in volume, and the fire grew brighter. She cast her gaze wildly about to the villagers, but they had disappeared into the fog behind her. Only she stood in the camp. Alone as hell crashed toward her.

And then they emerged. Four black knights, each holding a blazing pitch torch, on black horses. Mailed and battle-ready, they thundered into the glen. The one in front, the biggest and, she knew, the worst of them all, came to a sliding halt only feet from her.

At that moment, Isabel knew what the hare must feel. Doom settled with a bone-chilling terror gripping her chest. Isabel opened her mouth to defend her action, but words would not come forth. Instead, her gaze clashed with the gold one that blazed from behind the black helmet. A slash of harsh wind blew against her, as if slapping her in punishment for her defiance.

Isabel shivered hard, the spasm wracking her entire body. Her jaw clenched so hard she thought it might break. Whilst she did not look directly at them, she could see Rohan’s men fanned out behind him.

As he continued to glower down at her, Isabel found her resolve. “Must you follow me everywhere?”

“You were ordered to stay at Rossmoor!” Rohan bellowed.

Another hard blow of cold air slapped her, this time from behind, as if it goaded her. “You do not own me, Norman.”

Rohan turned slightly to his left and tossed the blazing torch he held to Warner, who had a most interesting expression on his face. It was a look of extreme relief mixed with complete fury. Isabel smiled and gave the knight a shallow curtsy. “My thanks, Sir Warner, for the larder.”

His eyes narrowed. Isabel turned back to the person who gave her more cause for frustration than any other human on the earth. Rohan urged his mount forward. As he bent to snatch Isabel up from the ground, a sharp scream rent the tense air.

Like an arrow, Brice shot out of the nearest hut straight for Rohan. Warner swung the torch in a backward swipe. The young man screamed in pain as he went flying backward, landing on his back with a bone-crushing thud. Isabel moved to assist him, but Rohan swooped her up with his right arm. He flung her over the horse’s thick neck. Isabel kicked and screamed and righted herself. In a very awkward position, legs astride, she faced the furious knight.

His lips twisted in an amused sneer. Had he not worn his helmet, she would have struck him. Rohan yanked his helmet off and tossed it to Ioan, who had moved closer. Isabel trembled under his angry scrutiny. After he pushed the cowl back with his left hand, he grabbed her with both hands by the shoulders and shook her. “I own you, Isabel. I own everything your eyes can see. I forbade you leave the village today.
Yet you defy me.”

“I am no man’s slave,” she breathed.

Rohan’s eyes darkened. “Aye, you are mine, and you would fare much better the sooner you accept it.”

His eyes seared into hers as if branding her with them. She stiffened when his eyes dropped to her lips. Unconsciously, she licked them.

Rohan groaned. “Yea, I own you, damsel, and so I will claim you in public for all of your people to see.”

His lips crashed into hers. Stunned, like a piece of rope, Isabel hung limp in his arms as his lips plundered hers. His large hand splayed across the full swell of her bosom, heating her more effectively than the bonfire. The pressure of his hand increased, and her body reacted as if lightning struck. Isabel opened her eyes and squirmed. The horse pawed the hard earth beneath her. As quickly as it had begun, the kiss was over. Shame heated her cheeks.

And Isabel struck back the only way she knew how, with her tongue. “I will be no leman to a bastard!”

Rohan’s eyes flashed, furious. “As my slave, you have no choice.” He lifted her high from the horse’s neck and turned her in midair, then settled her in front of him. He pointed to Brice, who lay cowering on the cold, hard earth. “Who is he?”

“B—Brice.”

“Where does he hail from?”

Isabel half turned in the saddle and caught his angry eyes. “Alethorpe.”

Rohan’s eyes scanned the huts over her head. “What is this place?”

Isabel stiffened and turned, her eyes scanning the forest edge. Intuitively, she knew her people had not gone far, and all of the wounded still lay in the huts.

“A place of refuge,” she softly said.

“From the raiders, damsel, or from me?”

“Both,” she honestly answered.

Rohan reined his horse, and in a perfect pirouette the great steed turned on his back hooves, and they thundered to the edge of the encampment. Isabel cried out just as they were about to plunge into the darkness of the forest. But Rohan reined to a halt. Slowly, for great effect, he turned the great steed around. Isabel felt the power of his anger surround her. Nervously, she glanced around the clearing. Not one face showed save for Brice, who did not dare move away from Warner.

Isabel pressed her hand to her throat. The villagers might be invisible, but she knew they watched. The stallion pranced toward the largest hut, the one housing the wounded. She stiffened. What would he do to them? End their misery?

Facing the forest edge, Rohan stopped next to the hut. “Come meet your new master, Saxons!” Rohan called to the darkness. Nesting birds in the surrounding tress ruffled their feathers. Leaves rustled to the ground. An owl’s cry sliced through the tension. When the silence continued, Rohan shouted, “Show courage! Come from your hiding places and hear my words.”

As silence continued to meet them, Ioan said, “Shall we torch the huts, Rohan?”

“Nay!” Isabel screamed. She turned as much as possible in the saddle, which was not much, and grabbed Rohan’s shoulder. “Please, they fear you. I beg you, no more bloodshed.”

Rohan growled low. The vibration of it pulsed down her arm. His arm tightened around her waist. “Once again, you beg for something that is not yours, with nothing to give for it.”

Hot tears welled in her eyes. She could not allow him and his men to destroy what she had worked so hard to save this day.

“Spare my people, Rohan. Spare them, and you can take me here, now, in this saddle!”

His eyes narrowed. “Your people are mine now, Isabel. I would do my best to protect them. Yet you are too stubborn to see it.”

She caught her breath at his words. “You have no intention of harming them?”

“Only if they attempt to harm me.” He pointed to Brice, who lay as still as a corpse. “What punishment should he receive for coming at me?”

“None. He sought to save me from harm.”

“I would not have harmed you. Indeed, why do you think I am here?”

“To find your wench for the night!”

Rohan threw his head back and laughed. The sound was pure glee. Isabel scowled until he had his fill.

“You mock me, sir. ’Tis not wise in front of
my
people.”

Rohan sobered. “I fear them not. And they would see themselves spared my blade.”

“Tell them you do not wish to harm them.”

Rohan scowled. “I will tell them what I will.” He forced her around to face the encampment. “Step forward, Saxons, and hear my words! I am Rohan du Luc. I claim these lands and the people of these lands in the name of William Duke of Normandy, who will be crowned king. Swear your fealty to him, and you will have the duke’s protection and with his protection, you will have mine!”

Brice was the first to offer his pledge. He was quickly followed by several more villagers, most of them from Wilshire. When Ralph came forward with Mildred, Isabel stiffened. Ralph’s eyes held nothing but contempt. And if it were possible, Rohan’s body tensed to hewn steel. Many more eyes still watched from the forest. Were they angry enough to attack? A sudden thought terrified Isabel. What if this favored knight, indeed, this cousin to William, should fall under a rebellious Saxon’s hand? The terrifying vision of more slaughter erupted in her mind.

“Ralph,” she pleaded from the saddle where Rohan enveloped her. “Please, no more blood needs to be spilled today.”

The smithy nodded and turned to Rohan. “I am Ralph, smithy to Alethorpe. I pledge my fealty to William, but in return I expect my family should not be harmed.”

Rohan nodded. “I accept your terms, Ralph. See to it, though, your family gives no cause for harm.”

As each able-bodied man and woman gave the oath to Rohan, Isabel felt more tension leave her body. But every time she rearranged herself in the big saddle, she found herself rubbing up against Rohan’s chest and thighs. Several times, she felt him stiffen behind her.

As the last villager came to kneel before Rohan, Isabel could hold her rigid position no longer. She relaxed against the hard chest of mail behind her. Rohan slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her tighter against him.

“Sir Warner,” Rohan called to the knight who tossed a crude club onto the very small pile of weapons he had secured from the huts and persons of the villagers. Warner looked up to Rohan. “Since your careless acts have sent us here this night, I bid you watch over these churls until the morn, when I will send more men to accompany you and these poor souls back to Rossmoor.”

Ioan snorted his glee. Warner frowned. Rohan turned sideways in his saddle. “He shall need company, Ioan. It is good of you to volunteer.”

“But—”

Rohan laughed and reached down to grasp the torch Warner had snuffed. He signaled the horse forward to the fire, where he dipped the pitch-black tip into it. Instantly, it flared. He turned to Stefan. “See to the other torch, and let us ride.” Before he turned to leave, Rohan tossed a saddle bag to Warner, who stood scowling in the center of the encampment.

“Good night, my friend.” He reined the steed about, and with the torch held high, Rohan thundered into the dark of the forest.

After several leagues, Rohan felt Isabel’s body finally relax against his. He knew it was more from exhaustion than comfort. His arm tightened around her soft warmth. He had shed his mantle and wrapped it securely around her shivering body. Now she burned like an ember against his chest and thighs. His groin tightened, and despite his own fatigue, he wanted nothing more than to pull Mordred to the side of the path and lay his mantle down for them both.

He flexed his jaw as he remembered the feeling of pure elation when he rode into that camp to find her standing alone, blood-soaked and defiant, next to the roaring fire, much as he had found her when he broke through the doors of Rossmoor. Once again, her people had deserted her, and once again, she stood fast against William’s most notorious death squad.
Les morts
was not a name come by for living a passive life.

After rescuing William from certain death as he attempted to squash a rebellion in Brittany on his return from the harsh years in Iberia, Rohan, along with the surviving knights, was given the highest of honors as William’s own private guard. It had been with very grudging reasoning that William dispatched Rohan and his men into the English countryside after Senlac. The duke trusted few men to secure this land, so he weighed the price of keeping Rohan and his Blood Swords close at hand or casting them wide to see to the duke’s business. In the end, William opted to send
les morts
as his fist to squash the rebellious Saxons until such time as William was crowned. Once crowned, he would summon his trusted men, and they would decide on the future of
les morts
and England together

Isabel moved closer against Rohan’s thighs. Half turning toward him, she rested a hand much too close to his thickening groin. Despite the bittersweet pain her presence caused him, Rohan pressed her pliable body closer to his. With one hand holding the torch high and the other around Isabel, he gave Mordred his head, knowing the beast would get them home posthaste. The call of a warm stall and a full manger was the only guide Mordred needed. Rohan looked ahead to Stefan, who led the way, his torch showing the path.

With each thrust of the steed’s powerful haunches, Rohan’s hips moved against the back of the sleeping damsel. With each move, his muscles tightened, and with each move, the urge to sate himself between her thighs grew stronger.

As their pace slowed, Rohan could not keep his hand in neutral territory. His fingertips splayed across the bottom swell of Isabel’s full breast. When she wriggled in the saddle, her backside pressing more firmly against his burgeoning groin, he groaned.

He moved his hand up higher and cupped the fullness of her. He closed his eyes and envisioned his lips pressed to the sweet rose-colored peak. Aye, she had the breasts of a goddess. Full, ripe, creamy smooth. Perfect fodder for a man’s amusement. Rohan pondered that thought. While he was not an inconsiderate lover, he was more bent on satisfying his own needs. Mostly because of time constraints. There was no time to woo a maid in the aftermath of battle. Yet there had been more than a few winsome maids in William’s court who were wont to take things slower when abed. He had lingered mostly for their sake, none holding his attention for more than a night or two. He found himself leaving the bed as soon as the deed was done, having no inclination toward the small talk women were bent on having after the act.

Nay, he was more comfortable conversing with his men, where he knew the words meant what they were intended and there was no speaking in riddles or guessing games such as the maids were plagued with. He found his relief in a woman in the bedchamber and had no desire for further interaction.