Master Of Surrender (19 page)

Not understanding what drove him, Rohan stood and, sopping wet, stepped from the tub. Wrapping the linen towel around him, he walked over to where Isabel sat by the fire. He squatted before her and placed his hands on her knees. “Isabel, I am sorry.” He did not know what else to say.

She raised red-rimmed eyes to him. Her bottom lip trembled. He slid a hand up her arm to her neck. He pressed his fingers to her skin, his eyes locked with hers. Once again, this woman’s quiet strength amazed him. He knew she hung on to the hope of her father returning. Yet he knew the day he thundered up to the doors of Rossmoor that the old lord was dead. He had his reasons for keeping the news to himself. Reasons he would not divulge now, if ever.

Isabel choked back another sob. When she threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself to him, Rohan stiffened and stood to move away, but she came up with him. His body instantly warmed. She clung to him like a child. Her sobs increased, and he was at a total loss. The only thing he thought to do was slip his arms around her waist and hold her until her tears passed.

Isabel’s small body shuddered with sobs, and she mumbled words he did not understand against his damp chest. When she wiped her cheeks across his skin, the warm wetness of her tears stung him. He stiffened. She molded herself more firmly against him, and Rohan responded. His cock filled, his arms tightened, and he pressed his lips to the top of her head. Isabel looked up to him, her violet eyes wet with her tears. For a moment, he lost himself in their depths and wondered how he had allowed this slip of a girl to wheedle her way under his skin. At that moment, when she rose on her toes and offered herself to him, he didn’t care.

“Isa,” he whispered. Taking her face into his hands, Rohan lowered his lips to hers. The taste of her salty tears reminded him of her sorrow and her vulnerability. He knew all was forfeit when he realized that he wanted this woman’s trust.

Warm and soft, her lips parted beneath his. She was warm liquid silk in his arms. When she kissed him back, blood surged through him. He swelled against her belly. Isabel would have to be dead not to feel it. The damp linen clung to his warm skin, and her gown of linen and wool was thin. He felt each inch of her against him. And he wanted more than a kiss. He wanted to take her to the great bed and lay her down and make love to her, slow and unhurried. Her lips clung to his. The heat of her body mingled with his, steaming up the room. The kiss deepened—his tongue, slow and languid, swirled against hers. Isabel moaned and pressed harder against him. His fingers dug into her hair. If she did not stop…

Only knowing one way to make a woman feel better, his lips still pressed to hers, Rohan picked Isabel up in his arms and strode to the bed. As he bent with her in his arms over the mattress, Isabel tightened her arms around his neck. “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded.

“I won’t,” Rohan breathed against her lips. “I won’t.”

A
s hard as he was for her, Rohan’s sense of duty overrode his yearning to lose himself in Isabel’s body. She needed this time to mourn, and while he was not a man prone to chivalrous actions such as considering another’s feelings, he could not in good conscience press her for more than what she gave him. So he lay down beside her and listened to her sobs trail off to soft sniffles, until finally her chest rose and fell in a regular pattern. Her soft body pressed against his side; her warm breath caressed his bare chest. Her tiny hand lay on his chest, her cheek pressed to it. His cock stood straight up beneath the linen that separated him from her. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed his blood to cool.

Before his lust overtook his conscience, Rohan slipped from the bed and dressed. Enid hovered just outside the room. Rohan scowled. Most women irritated him, and the way this one was constantly fluttering about wore his nerves thin. “Your lady sleeps. Leave her be.” He strode past her, strapping his sword belt around his waist, then proceeded down to the hall and to much safer ground.

His men greeted him with raised cups. Rohan grinned. They were cleaned up and dressed as he,
sans
their mail, in more courtly garb. Manhku, too, was clothed in his native kaftan and loose-fitting trousers that had been augmented to accommodate his wounded leg. “How does the leg feel, Manhku?” Rohan asked, handing his brother in arms a full cup.

“Better.”

Rhys approached and leaned a brawny arm against the stone wall near the blazing hearth. A secret smile twisted his lips. “That confession must have cost you, old man.”

Manhku frowned. Rhys explained. “Once healed, you will lose the attention of the wench.”

Rohan scoffed. “Trust me, Rhys, Manhku does not have the fortitude to manage a wench such as she.”

Rhys raised his cup. “We are in awe of you, Rohan. ’Twere it any of us”—he flung out his arm to encompass the rest of the Blood Swords, who all listened intently—“the wench’s virtue would have been a thing long gone, and she would no doubt feel the burden of yet another bastard to carry on the line.” Rhys raised his cup. “Your balls must be purple by now. I bow to your superior self-control!”

Rohan laughed and raised his cup and drank deeply. As if on command, several village maids, some of them new faces to Rohan, and the widow Gwyneth appeared.

Ioan chortled along with Rhys and the quiet Stefan. Once again, the ale flowed, and the easy camaraderie that was the essence of the Blood Swords filled the hall.

Rohan sat before the hearth and drank and watched his men behave like the conquerors they were. The women did not seem to mind. Heat burned in his loins. His belly growled, and if he could not feed his lust, he would see to his belly. He debated whether to send someone to fetch the lady of the manor but decided he would see to the chore of waking Sleeping Beauty himself.

Rohan stood and called to Astrid, who stood frowning at the doorway to the kitchen. “See to the meal, woman!”

Rohan took the stairs three at a time and stopped abruptly as he saw Isabel move toward him, her maid fussing over her. Rohan shot the maid a hostile glare, and Enid scurried past him. He strode up to Isabel and smiled. She paused before him.

“You seem rested,” Rohan softly said.

Her cheeks pinkened, and his cock swelled. Her long golden tresses hung lose around her shoulders, a delicate golden circlet on her head. The crimson velvet of her over-gown accentuated the high color of her cheeks.

Shyly she looked up at him. “I—” She searched for words. As she did, Rohan maneuvered her against the stone wall. He placed a hand on either side of her head and moved close to her.

“You what?” he whispered as he lowered his lips to hers.

Isabel struggled to control her racing heart and her warming body. The hardness of the wall pressed into her back; the hardness of the man surrounding her pressed into her breast. “Please,” she whispered, not knowing what she pleaded for. This knight’s gentle handling of her earlier had confused her. She was not used to allowing her weakness to show. She was the person everyone came to for succor. While she found the situation foreign, she did not find it altogether unpleasant.

Rohan’s eyes blazed in the torchlight. He watched her as a hawk watched its prey, seeing deep into her soul. She licked her lips. He swelled against her and groaned. “Isabel, you tempt me beyond my will.” His lips crashed down onto hers, and she did not fight him. Indeed, she pressed back against him, finding his strong warmth revitalizing.

The power of him surrounded her, his passion, his strength, and his ardor fueling the flame he had ignited the first time he touched her. She gave in to it because she chose to. Just this once, she would allow another to ease her burden.

Isabel did not think of her losses; she thought only of how safe she felt at that moment in this man’s arms. She opened her mouth wider, and as he had done earlier to her, she touched her tongue to his. Rohan groaned and pulled her against his chest, arching her back, taking what she offered.

The sheer force of his pursuit left her breathless. Her breasts grew heavy, her nipples hardened, and Isabel found herself wishing he would ease the ache between her thighs.

“Du Luc!” Thorin’s voice thundered from the hall. “The Blood Swords starve!”

Isabel broke her lips free from Rohan, trying valiantly to collect her racing pulse. Rohan groaned again and pressed his forehead against hers. “I will sew that Viking’s mouth shut.”

Isabel smiled and slipped from his arms. “Come, Sir Rohan, let us slake our hunger.”

His eyes glowed as he presented his arm to her. “Aye, but ’tis my hunger for you that I will slake later this night.”

Isabel’s cheeks flushed hot. And to her utter horror, she looked forward to his carnal promise more than the promise of the food downstairs.

As they descended into the hall, the Blood Swords whooped and cheered as if the Conqueror and his duchess made an appearance. Isabel instantly noted that all of the knights, while armed with their swords, were dressed in more courtly garb, as was Rohan. They were clean, and their faces beamed, mostly, she decided, because of the maids, who were red-faced, and the tapped kegs near the tables. If they continued their regular wenching and feasting, there might not be enough larder to see them through the next month!

Isabel also noted that there were at least four more maids come from the village. Rohan grinned and escorted her to the lord’s table. As soon as she was seated, the knights followed. And soon the evening meal was under way. Rohan cut several choice pieces of meat from the platters for her and put them in the trencher they shared. He smiled down at her, and she smiled in return. He sipped from his cup and handed it to her. Very aware that his men watched, Isabel sipped from where Rohan’s lips had touched.

“You tamed the shrew? Eh, Rohan?” Wulfson asked as he chewed a hunk of roasted lamb.

Isabel rose to the challenge. “’Tis not I who has been tamed, sir knight.”

Rohan choked on his food, and Thorin pounded him on the back. Red-faced, Rohan drank a swig of his ale. He turned red eyes to Isabel, and while he scowled, mischief danced behind his eyes.

Isabel’s words had been a randy comeback, but his men did not think it so amusing. The mood of the room shifted. They watched Rohan intently. Isabel’s throat tightened as she swallowed a tender piece of capon.

Not to be bullied by his men, Rohan took Isabel’s hand and raised it to his lips. He grinned and looked at her first, then at his men. “I have found that in love and war, sometimes the force of a sword must be tempered with a firm but”—he bit into Isabel’s palm, his intimate action shocking her; his eyes burned into her, and heat rose in her cheeks and spread to her thighs—“gentle stroke.” He kissed her where his teeth marks showed in her skin.

Isabel drew her hand away. “Rest assured, sir, your sword will never breach me.”

His men roared in laughter. Rohan was undaunted. “Would you like to wager on that, damsel?”

Isabel glowered at Rohan’s men. “Continue your jesting. Take these willing maids, and spread your seed to replenish Alethorpe.” She turned to Rohan, and while she wanted to pierce his cocksureness with her words, she chose to ease the sting. “Is the life of a bastard so enjoyable, Rohan, that you would see a son of your loins endure what you have?” His face clouded in anger. She looked from him to his men. “What of you? What of the children spawned from nights of debauchery? Do you not think of them? What manner of men are you to continue such a hardship for one of your own making?”

Isabel took a deep breath and continued. “I do not condemn you, Rohan, or any man here, for what you had no hand in. But you do have the power not to continue the legacy. Is it such a burden to marry and bring legitimate children into this world?”

“I would claim any by-blow I should produce, Isabel.”

“And what means do you have to support such a child? Your life is not your own.” Isabel looked around the table. The Blood Swords frowned, but she could see her words had struck a chord. She let out a long breath. Fatigue gripped her again.

“What of you, Isabel? Should you find yourself with child and no husband, would you cast it to the streets as something ugly and disgraceful?” Rohan challenged.

She gazed up at him and saw his own pain, for it was clear this man found no love from his mother. Slowly, she shook her head. “Nay, a child is a gift. I would never cast him away.”

“But how would you support a child with no husband to provide for you?” Rohan turned the tables on her. She straightened and looked past him to his men, then up to Rohan, who regarded her keenly.

“I would do whatever was necessary.”

Rohan nodded and took a deep drink of his ale. As he set the cup down and nodded, he said, “As would I, milady. As would I.” She opened her mouth to comment, but he raised his hand. “Enough! I weary of this talk. Let us sup.”

Even had she wanted to fight his edict, she did not, for the Willinghams decided to make an appearance. She knew the minute Deidre broke into view. Rohan’s men, sitting across from her facing the stairway, grinned like idiots. Isabel rolled her eyes and shook her head. Men. They were led not by the head that sat upon their shoulders but by the smaller one that hung between their legs.

As lady of the manor, and despite their bad manners for not appearing before the feast was set, Isabel rose and introduced the guests. She was not surprised to see Lady Willingham not in attendance.

“My wife is not feeling well,” Lord Willingham offered.

Isabel was not stupid. She knew the great dame would rather sit with a pack of wolves than sit at the same table as a Norman. Isabel shrugged. “I will see that a tray is sent to her.”

Lord Willingham took her hand as he raised her from her short curtsy. “Thank you, she will appreciate that.” The old man turned to his daughter and took her hand.

Isabel looked up to Rohan, then to his men. “Sir Rohan, sir knights, may I present Lord Oswin of Willingham, formerly of Dover, and his daughter, Lady Deidre.”

Rohan nodded his head, not giving the Saxon the full respect of a bow. He did the same to the daughter. Isabel watched Deidre’s eyes widen in surprise. Did she think the Norman sported two heads?

“My lord,” Warner said, slipping between Isabel and the noble lady. He bowed to the lord and turned smiling eyes on the daughter. “My lady, I am Warner de Conde. I am at your service.”

Deidre smiled and extended her hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Sir Warner.”

Thorin snorted and poured himself another draught of ale, as did Wulfson. Rhys shook his head and said to Ioan, “Next thing you know, he’ll be singing to her.”

“Milord?” Isabel asked Rohan as she inclined her head to the lord’s table.

Rohan nodded, and with his permission, Isabel invited the lord and his daughter to sit with them and sup. Isabel was glad to see that when Deidre made a move to sit to Rohan’s left, Thorin directed her farther down the table and to the other side, where her father sat beside her. They were given a trencher to share. While the old man looked rather nervous surrounded by his enemies, Deidre fastened her gaze onto Rohan. Isabel was not surprised. ’Twas her way. It was clear to everyone in the hall that Rohan held some claim to Isabel; whether that claim was returned Deidre did not know, and apparently she did not care.

Once the ladies were seated, the men followed suit and the meal continued.

“Tell me, sir, what news have you to share?” Rohan asked.

The old man’s hand shook as he raised his cup. He set it down and looked directly at Rohan. “Edgar has been crowned king.”

Rorick snorted. “The lad is not fit to wipe his own nose.”

“Aye,” Rohan agreed. “Besides, it is of no matter. The Witan has no power. William will be crowned as rightful king.” He speared Willingham with a glare. “What are your thoughts on the matter?”

“I believe Harold should have been named heir over your duke. He is a Saxon, and the people’s choice.”

“What of Harold’s twice-pledged oath to William to uphold Edward’s naming of him as king? He swore the second time on the bones of a saint.”

“He was coerced,” Deidre offered.

Rohan set down his piece of bread. “Coerced? Nay, he was not. I was there. Harold freely pledged his oath.” Rohan turned to Isabel. “And I assure you, when a Norman gives his oath, he sees it through, even to his death.” He turned back to Deidre. “Do not talk to me of coercion. William saved Harold from Guy of Ponthieu’s dungeon. Besides, William is nephew to Edward’s mother. There is blood.”

“Edgar has more right to the throne than Harold or William,” Willingham interjected.

Rohan nodded and stabbed a tender piece of capon from the platter and cut it into smaller pieces, which he set on Isabel’s side of the trencher. He took a heartier piece for himself. “By blood that may be true, but by a king’s decree William is heir.”

“What will become of us?” Deidre asked sharply.

“William will expect a pledge of fealty,” Wulfson said. “From there it is up to him.”