Master Of Surrender (21 page)

“Nay, Isabel.” It would be so easy to replace his finger with his cock. She was so hot and slick for him, would she forgive him his loss of control in the throes of passion? He told her he could not promise…

“Rohan,” she begged as she pushed her bottom against his hand.

“Jesu, Isa, I am not made of stone.”

Rigidly, he kneeled behind her, afraid he would not be able to control himself if she moved against him again. She must have sensed his battle. Her body trembled. “Rohan,” she softly said, “please, ease my ache.”

Rohan thrust his hips against her bottom, his cock slid between the firm cheeks, and in a slow, rhythmic movement, he moved his finger in and out of her.

Isabel closed her eyes and reveled in the erotic charge of him. She’d no idea such sensations existed. His finger was large and thick, and Isabel knew if he were ever to press her with his cock, she might not be able to accommodate him. He hit a spot deep inside her each time he pushed into her. His cock had stiffened to capacity and slid back and forth against her bottom. Still slick with his previous ejaculation and her perspiration, he moved between her cheeks. Rohan bent over her and nipped at her back and whispered, “Isa, you make me forget my promise.” He bit the back of her neck, and Isabel shot off like a shooting star. She screamed as a hard wave of release slammed into her, then shuddered through her body with the force of an army.

Her muscles clasped tightly around his finger.

“Isa!” he cried hoarsely. His hips slammed against her, and she felt the warm spill of him against her backside. Slowly, their breakneck ride came to a panting halt. Isabel dropped to the bed, breathing heavily and knowing she was forever lost to this man. She also knew that if she continued on this path with Rohan, she would lose not only her maidenhead to him but her heart.

Rohan wiped his seed from her back with the linen she had used, then slipped into the bed beside her.

Isabel turned over, her body still warm and slick with sweat. Rohan slid up against her and kissed her deeply. She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought him closer to her. For it would be their last kiss. As she realized that, she suddenly felt cold and empty.

She closed her eyes. Aye, it was already happening. She had feelings for this knight that she should not have.

Breaking away from his kiss, Isabel caught her breath, and in the firelight she looked up into his hooded eyes. He smiled the smile of a happily sated man. Her heart swelled. It made it all the more difficult to separate from him. She pushed back a heavy lock of his hair the better to see his face. Scars and all, he was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. Even at court, the nobles garbed in rich silks and velvets did not compare. His wide, muscular shoulders hovered above her, and she knew he would slay one hundred dragons should she but ask him to.

She should be angry with herself. For now she was truly a wanton. But at least she was still intact. And, she reasoned, many noble Saxon women were praying this very night that they carried no bastard Normans. Ravishment ’twas but a casualty of war, the maidenheads taken as a trophy. She was spared. For now. Because this knight had given her his oath. An oath that she would break if she continued to sleep in this bed. Isabel smiled.

“Ah, such a rare and beautiful sight,” Rohan said softly.

“In these times, there is not much to smile about.”

Rohan rolled over and pulled her with him. “But this eve we forget the war. Forget our sorrows. Here with you, I care not what is happening outside that door.”

Isabel rose on an elbow and traced a finger down the scar on his chest. “How came you by this?” she softly questioned.

Rohan pressed her hand to the scar. “A brand.”

Isabel gasped. “A brand? How barbaric! The person who did this to you also did it to Manhku?”

Rohan nodded and closed his eyes. “Aye, and Thorin and Wulf and Rhys—”

“All of your knights?”

“Aye.”

Isabel pressed her lips to his chest just below the point where the cross bar was burned into his skin. Rohan stiffened and grabbed her hand. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing the hurt away.”

Rohan squeezed her hand, then brought it to his own lips. “The physical pain is long gone, Isabel.”

“Mayhap, but what of the memories?”

“They are few and far between.”

Isabel searched his face. “Was the man who did this to you and your men named Tariq?”

Rohan sat up in the bed, his eyes flashing wildly. “How do you know that name?”

Fear shot through her, but it subsided just as quickly. “That night you awoke from the night terrors. You called out the name.”

Rohan jammed his fingers through his hair. And the wild look left his eyes. He lay back on the pillows, drawing her with him.

“Aye, Tariq was the sultan’s son, sent to hone his torturing skills on Christian knights.”

“Rohan, I’m sorry. I should not have asked.”

“’Tis truly but a vague memory.” He yawned and pulled her tightly to him. “I am fatigued, wench. You have worn me out with your demands; now, cease your talk so that we both might find some sleep.”

Isabel nodded and snuggled close to him, amazed at her comfort with him. She cleaved to him as if he were a lover known for years instead of just recently.

“In the morn, we must talk about this thing between us,” Isabel said as she yawned. “It cannot continue.”

Rohan’s soft snore told her he had not heard a word. She pulled a thick fur blanket up around their shoulders. Isabel closed her eyes and dreamed of Rohan taking her in the final way a man takes a woman.

The pounding on the door startled them both awake. Rohan shot out of the bed and grabbed his sword. Isabel moved back against the huge headboard, the fur blanket pulled up to her chin.

“Lazy lout!” Thorin bellowed from the other side. “Your men grow restless while you dawdle in bed.”

Rohan heaved the bolt and pulled open the door. Isabel gasped as he stood naked, wielding his sword before his man. Thorin grinned and looked past Rohan to where she huddled in the bed. He scowled, then looked to the younger man.

Rohan turned away and faced Isabel. Her eyes grew huge. Rohan’s manhood hung heavy and stiff against his belly. “As if it is any concern of yours, Thorin, the maid is still virtuous.”

Thorin looked to Isabel for affirmation. Hurriedly, she nodded. “There are no bloodied sheets for display.”

“You are a stronger man than I, Rohan. We await your pleasure below.” Thorin backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Rohan turned and grinned at Isabel. “Wouldn’t you ease my ache this morn?”

She shook her head and kept her eyes from his glorious erection. Her dreams of him thrusting that weapon in and out of her sheath until she screamed for mercy had her tossing and turning most of the night. Each time she awoke, Rohan slept. She had used the quiet to study him more closely in the firelight. He was a most magnificent specimen of a man. And a bolder one she had never met. Several times she had pressed her hand to him to feel him surge in his slumber.

Finally exhausted, she found sleep.

Isabel climbed from the bed, dragging the fur blanket and wrapping it around her nakedness. Rohan scowled. “Isabel, we have gone beyond—”

She put her hand up. “Rohan, my oath to you is paid. We must stop now before it becomes impossible to do so.”

Confusion clouded his features. “Your oath paid?”

“Aye, for Russell’s life, I gave you free rein with my body except for my maidenhead.”

Rohan poured water from the pitcher beside the hearth into a deep bowl and began to wash. “The terms were free rein to explore what lies beneath your gown. And while I agree that last night I did so”—he pressed the linen to his face, then looked at her—“I have yet to explore
all
that lies beneath.”

“What else is there?” she demanded, suddenly feeling as if she had been duped.

“You will see this eve.”

Frustration flared. “Rohan, I will not be your leman!”

“You already are.”

She grabbed the cup from the table by the bed and hurled it at him. “You bastard! How dare you? I met my part of the bargain, now let me go!”

Rohan strode over to her and grabbed her by the hands. The fur fell to the floor. His erection jutted up angrily between them. “The bargain is not yet met. I will tell you when it is.”

“I will not stand for this!”

He let her go and returned to his bath. “It matters not. I will see you in this chamber tonight. Whether I have to hunt you down or not.”

“I will leave Rossmoor!”

He turned quickly and pinned her with a narrow-eyed glare. “You will not.”

“My betrothed is near, Rohan. He will take me thus. Leave me some dignity!”

He grabbed her again, and this time he shook her. “Betray me to another man, Isabel, and I will personally take the lash to your back.”

I
sabel scowled as she descended the wide stairway. Seated next to Rohan at the lord’s table and hovering over him like a camp whore was the lovely Deidre. Rohan’s eyes rose to meet and clash with Isabel’s. Her back stiffened when a small smile wound its way around those lips that had so recently scalded her skin. As it always did when Rohan scathed her with his attention, Isabel warmed. She dragged her eyes from the scandalous knight to the woman beside him.

Deidre looked up and smiled. The gesture reminded Isabel of one of the stable cats that had just snagged a fat mouse from the hay.

A hard jolt of jealousy speared Isabel, piercing straight into her heart. It felt as if she had been hit in the chest, the reaction was so strong. She nearly missed the second-to-the-last step. And as much as Isabel told herself it was for the best, her heart continued to interfere. As she wrestled with these harsh feelings, Isabel knew that if she stayed at Rossmoor, she would end up heartbroken.

Taking a deep breath, she smiled. Let Rohan find succor in another woman’s arms. It was how it should be. There was no future for them together. Yet the vision of Rohan’s dark head buried deep in Deidre’s ample bosom made her sick to her stomach.

Isabel looked past Rohan to Manhku, who sat quietly in his chair with his leg hiked up on another one. He nodded silently to her. Her eyes traveled around to the rest of the lord’s table. As one,
les morts,
rose as she approached. Isabel was relieved to see Rohan had the decency to stand in her presence as well. And despite her resolve to steer clear of him, she had some small feeling of victory when he took her hand and seated her to his right. Though she had no appetite, Isabel sat.

With her presence, the morning meal commenced. Grateful that Rohan separated them and feeling the need to lighten the mood, Isabel asked the Viking who sat across from her, “Where do you hail from, Sir Thorin?”

He smiled, the crinkle at his one eye deep. “In truth, milady, I have no place to name.”

“What of your people?”

Thorin shrugged and stabbed a coddled egg with his table knife. “’Tis hard to say.”

Isabel nodded, realizing the man had no interest in speaking of his family.

But despite his short answers, the Viking laughed. “My lady, would your curiosity be satisfied if I told you I am the product of a coupling between the late Hardrada and a Byzantinian gypsy?”

Isabel was surprised at such a revelation. She cocked her head and looked at the man in a different light. On second thought, mayhap she should not have been so surprised. Thorin’s regal bearing and aristocratic features melded in a ruggedly handsome harmony with his gypsy mother’s exotic lineage. Despite his injury and the black leather eye patch, Thorin was a striking man. Taller than Rohan, which was no small feat, and as muscled, he was no doubt as experienced on the battlefield. When Thorin rubbed his chest as she had seen Rohan and Wulfson do, her heart thawed more for these fierce warriors. Their suffering was unimaginable, the scars only a glimpse at what they must have endured.

Isabel smiled and nodded, understanding that had the coupling been sanctioned by the church, Thorin would be sitting not among them but upon a throne somewhere in a distant land.

“How fortunate for us a royal prince sits amongst us,” Deidre said, the scorn lacing her words almost indiscernible. Isabel’s rancor with the women was on the rise.

Thorin smiled grimly at the displaced Saxon. “A royal bastard, Deidre. A distinct difference.”

Isabel choked on the piece of braised meat she’d just chewed at Thorin’s blatant insult. Had he held any respect for the lady Deidre, he would have addressed her as such. That he did not gave Isabel a supreme sense of satisfaction. And to further confirm why Deidre did not deserve his respect, the woman blundered on. “What of your mother?”

“She is dead,” Thorin said softly. Isabel gasped. And while he did not say it in such a way that asked for pity, she felt her heart swell for this man.

“How?” Deidre persisted.

Gwyneth, who had just a moment ago batted her lashes at the Viking as she set a large platter of meats before him, gasped at the audacity of Deidre’s question.

“Methinks, Lady Deidre,” Isabel began, “it would be more courteous if you minded your own affairs.”

The entire table fell silent as if waiting for a cat fight to ensue. Before Deidre could stick her foot further down her throat, Isabel looked across to Thorin, who seemed unaffected by the line of questioning. “My apologies, Sir Thorin. Such subjects are better left unsaid.”

The proud Viking smiled. “My thanks for your concern, Lady Isabel, but I assure you, the topic, even so baited, does not cause me pain.”

Isabel nodded her head but knew he lied. The look of fury that had crossed his face when he spoke of his mother’s death did not escape her. And while Isabel was intrigued by this mysterious Viking’s story, she had the good manners to let it rest.

Feeling the need to set Deidre further back on her heels and quell the woman’s barbed insults once and for all, Isabel asked, “Does your mother still ail, Deidre, or does she find the company here not to her liking?”

It was Rohan, Wulfson, and Rhys’s turn to choke on the food they were chewing. When Rohan could not catch his breath, Isabel pounded him on the back until he raised his hand for her to stop. She poured him a full cup of milk from the pitcher and handed it to him. Gratefully, he drained it. Isabel looked over at Deidre, who looked as if she had just drunk a goblet of vinegar.

The entire table stared at Deidre, as if daring her to speak against the lady of the manor. When she bent to her single trencher, Isabel sat back in her chair, satisfied that for now the wasp would keep her stinger retracted.

The conversation turned lighter and concluded in that tone. As Isabel moved to see to Manhku, she felt Rohan’s heated gaze on her back.

“How fares the leg today, sir knight?” she asked.

At Deidre’s sharp gasp behind her, Isabel bristled. Was the woman bent on alienating herself from everyone?

Manhku nodded, a small smile twisting his lips. Isabel pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “Let us have a look.”

Several minutes later, the wound lay exposed. Isabel smiled and looked up to Manhku, who looked expectantly at her. She smiled wide. “You are healing very well. If you promise not to exert yourself, you may join your men at the table for the next meal.”

This time, Manhku smiled wide, revealing his sharp teeth.

“Blessed Mother!” Deidre gasped from the table. “To what lengths will you go, Isabel, to save yourself from the slightest of hardships?”

Isabel stiffened, Deidre’s words biting hard into her pride. That she shared a bed with Rohan was bad enough, but to insinuate that she did it to escape hardship was a crueler blow.

Isabel scowled and turned to the woman, who was there only by Isabel’s goodwill. Rohan stepped between Isabel and the wanton. He laid a hand on her shoulder and softly squeezed it. The warmth sent a shiver through her body. Isabel set her jaw, not knowing whom to concentrate her anger on, the waspish Deidre or the knight beside her.

“Your healing skills are admirable, Lady Isabel. My thanks for saving my man. Will he ride again?”

She did not look up at Rohan, or over at Deidre, or to anyone else but Manhku, who fairly stewed in his chair. She sighed. She did not regret saving this man’s life. “Mayhap. But as I explained to your man, he may be up and about in a day or two with the aid of a sturdy stick.” Isabel scowled at the Saracen. “But be warned. If you overexert yourself, you may cause further damage. Damage I do not have the skill to heal.”

“Why do you have this heathen amongst Christians?” Deidre boldly asked, coming to stand beside Rohan.

Rohan tore his gaze from Isabel and frowned down at the woman. “I do not answer to anyone here. Do not ask questions on subjects that are of no matter to you.” He brushed past her and said to his men, “Let us survey more of this promised land.”

As the men stood, the dreaded shout from the lookout pierced the morning tension, hiking it higher. “Smoke, four leagues south of the crossroads!”

In less time than it took Isabel to blink, the knights stormed out of the hall. Isabel let out a long breath she had held. She faced Deidre. The woman was an awesome sight in all of her fury. Her black hair and green eyes sparked with fire. Isabel stiffened.

“You may find yourself his favorite for now, but when it comes time for him to take a wife, he will not choose a soiled dove such as yourself but a woman of pure virtue.”

The words struck deep into Isabel’s heart. For while she had no dreams of marriage to the bastard knight, she knew he would want a wife pure. And if what had happened between them last night was any precursor to what he intended to do to her later that eve, she was doomed to find herself no longer a maiden.

“Deidre, that you have not been prey to a Norman thus far is a miracle in itself. For your sake, I pray your good luck continues.”

“I do not throw myself at the first Norman who strides through my door, as you seem to have done.”

Isabel smiled and bowed her head. “That I have a door is another miracle.”

The barb hit home, and Deidre sneered. “I would never trade my virtue for a manor.”

Isabel continued to smile. Aye, nor would she, but she would for the life of a squire who sought only to protect her from the very thing she offered for his life. And as she remembered her sacrifice, Isabel no longer felt ashamed. She looked closer at the woman. Aye, even for the surly Deidre, Isabel would make the same sacrifice.

Without further adieu, Isabel moved past the woman and into the kitchens to see about opening the stores to the villagers. When she returned to the hall, she felt Manhku’s eyes on her. She poured him a cup of ale and took it to him. Silently, he took it and drank deeply from the cup. “Keep watch over the hall, Manhku. I have much to do in the village.”

She opened the great doors to the manor and stepped outside, stopping short to find Wulfson’s dark scowl on her.

She scowled in return. “Why are you here?”

“I am relegated to tiring woman today.”

Isabel laughed while Wulfson’s scowl deepened. She placed a hand on his mail-clad forearm and tried in vain to suppress her merriment. “The honor is all mine, Sir Wulfson. A fiercer maid I cannot think of.” She laughed louder and stepped past him. “Come, let us go pick posies and chat and giggle of things maids find so consuming.”

Wulfson glowered down at her, a low rumble in his chest. Isabel smiled as she looked up at the sun. It had begun its rise in the cool, crisp morning air. Not a cloud hung in the clear blue of the sky. The village teemed with activity, and as Isabel looked around, it occurred to her that more villagers had returned from the glade. Some even were new to her. Her heart swelled. Word had begun to spread.

And so the morning progressed until after a rather lengthy conversation with Mildred on the different locations of different healing herbs, Isabel stopped in mid-sentence to find Wulfson’s dark green eyes, the color of fresh moss, narrowed at her. Isabel regarded him as scrutinously. “Does something ail you, Sir Wulfson?”

He shook his head and grumbled. Isabel smiled at the reticent knight but ended her conversation with Mildred, who gladly scampered off.

Whilst Wulfson was certainly not bashful when it came to the maids in the village, he was quieter than most. His dark bay-colored hair hung in the same fashion as that of all of the Blood Swords, long like that of the Vikings. She noticed that Wulfson’s hand continually fondled the hilt of his broadsword. Unlike the other knights, who did the same, Wulfson had double scabbards attached to a vest of sorts on his back. The blades were nearly as long as a regular broadsword but thicker. When he had drawn them in honor of Henri’s visits, her blood had curdled. He wielded them expertly, and she could only imagine the carnage they created.

She further regarded him. Aye, these knights of Rohan’s were a suspicious lot. Like great wounded beasts who held no trust for mankind. Her limbs trembled in the chill of the late morning air. Her imagination was rampant with thoughts of what these men had endured.

Isabel scrutinized Wulfson more closely and decided he reminded her of a troubled angel. The golden flecks in his green eyes pulsed. While he sported the same crescent-shaped scar as the others, his face was free of other scars. Her heart did a slow tumble. He was a man a maid could get into trouble with. His dark and brooding face posed a challenge to any woman.

“Sir Wulfson, your name is Saxon. Why do you ride for a Norman?”

He scowled. “I am of Norman extract.” Isabel raised a brow. He bowed and clicked his heels together. “Wulfson of Trevelyn, at your service.”

For the second time that day, Isabel hid her surprise. “Trevelyn? Is that not—?”

“I was raised in Wales by foster parents. I took their name.”

Isabel pressed her hand to his forearm. He stiffened beneath her touch. “I do not bite, sir.”

Wulfson growled low, obviously not comfortable with the conversation. Isabel enjoyed knocking these men off balance. So controlled were they in every facet of their lives except this one. “Did you leave a lady love behind in Normandy?”

When he only scowled in answer, Isabel continued to question him. “Did your sire recognize you?”

His scowled deepened. “Cease your prattle.”

Isabel returned his scowl with an exaggerated one of her own. “’Twill be hard, ’tis what women do.”

“’Tis why I avoid them.”

Isabel laughed. “Do not tell that to Lyn and Sarah.”

Wulfson looked past her shoulder as if something interested him more than their conversation. Isabel looked closer at the troubled knight. She had been correct with her first impression of him. Troubled angel was an apt description. Like Stefan, he was dark and brooding. “Did you escape the prison with Rohan and Manhku?”

Wulfson hissed in a sharp breath, and his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword. His green eyes flashed. Isabel instantly regretted prying, but she had a burning hunger for information regarding Rohan. And knowing that these men had been to hell and back together, she hoped through them she could better understand the man who had changed her entire world.