Master Of Surrender (8 page)

Isabel stiffened. “I wish to retain my innocence, sir.” Her tone left no room for banter. It was a statement as well as a heartfelt request.

Rohan smiled, and she knew she had lost. And in the next minutes, she would lose more. “My Lady Isabel, you jest if you are to believe I think you innocent.”

“Lout!” she hissed, and pulled her hand from his grasp. It was not to be so. He tightened his hand around hers and pulled her toward him, his lips returned to her skin. His tongue slid across the palm of her hand, and she nearly swooned. When he sank his teeth into the fleshy part of her hand, she cried out. But not in pain.

His gaze burned molten, and his nostrils flared with the increase of his breath. “What say you about the way you pressed that wanton body of yours against me earlier?”

Isabel opened her mouth to retort but found nothing to say. How could she argue against the truth?

He laved her palm again and suddenly released her. “As I suspected. You crave me.”

Humiliated to her core, Isabel did what any innocent maid would do to an arrogant boor. She slapped him. In a flash, he grabbed her to him, his cock poking her in the belly as he pulled her against the hardness of his chest. He groaned at the contact and surged against her, then pressed harder into her hips.

“Remember how that feels, Isabel. You will beg me for it one day soon.”

She raised her free hand to slap him again for his crudity, but he caught it and thrust her away from him. He pointed to Manhku. “Thank him for your reprieve this eve. As it is, I tire of your prickly temper, and the night grows longer. I need my sleep to tend to you warring Saxons on the morrow.”

As he walked away from her, Isabel called, “Indeed, sir, we shall see in the end who wins the day!”

Rohan turned full to face her. “Rue the day I find a traitor in my midst. He shall die a traitor’s death. By my own hand.”

Isabel silently chided herself for her outburst. She held her tongue, not wanting to thwart this man or give him further reason to suspect an uprising. She had said too much already.

“Pray, Isabel, you do not fall into that trap. I would hate to mar such beauty as yours. But fear not. I would.” He slid his hand around her neck and pulled her to him, the force of his movement nearly lifting her from her feet. His lips hovered just above hers. “But be sure, first I would take what you so churlishly cling to.”

Isabel’s lips parted as she struggled for breath, and his mouth dipped closer to hers, almost touching. Her blood quickened, and her body went limp in his hold. Her breasts ached with a now familiar feel. She licked her lips, the tip of her tongue touching his bottom lip. She felt his arm tremble and his body stiffen.

“Jesu,” Rohan cursed, thrusting her so hard away from him she nearly fell into the fire. He grabbed her wrist, preventing the fall, but his features gathered like storm clouds on his face. “Be gone with you, witch, before I take you here and now!”

Isabel didn’t ask where she should be gone to, she just ran past him up the stairs to the solar, flinging the door closed and bolting the heavy oak door.

I
sabel woke to the sound of thunder. “Open this portal, wench!”

Wiping sleep from her eyes, she threw a tunic over her shift, then pulled back the heavy bolt. The door was flung open from the outside. Rohan’s stormy face boded bad for all. “My man is awake and screaming for God knows what. Tend him.”

Guttural bellows from the hall reached her ears. Other voices attempted to calm him. The more they tried, the angrier the giant’s foreign words became. Rohan grabbed her arm and hauled her from the chamber. “Hurry before he destroys the hall.”

A snide smile played along her lips as she was pulled along the hallway and down the stairway. It amused her to see this bold and terrible knight so far out of his controlled ways. She almost laughed when she saw the others standing helplessly about like nervous brides.

Isabel’s mien changed to serious as she came nearer to the giant. He had pulled off most of the dressings and all of the leeches. The poultice lay in a hunk on the rushes. Anger spurred her forward.

As the African moved to stand, she called out in a sure and steady voice. “Halt!” She spoke in French, doubting he understood English.

Scores of eyes followed her voice, watching her and then the giant for his reaction. Her mood was sorely prickled by her rude awakening and then by this man who would disrupt her healing efforts.

The giant’s black eyes widened, then narrowed to dangerous slits. His lips drew back from teeth as sharp as a wolf’s, obviously honed to an unnatural point. He growled low and menacing. Undeterred by his posturing, Isabel’s temper flared.

She moved toward him and slapped his hand away from the dressing he had nearly removed. “Foolish man! Sit back!” When he did not move, she pressed her verbal attack. “I gave up one of my finest shifts to save your leg, I went to the bog in the middle of the night for leeches, and I lost much sleep last night and this morn.” She unwound the tattered dressing, her movements quick and jerky. His damage was thorough. She would need all new linens and to pack a fresh poultice. She raised her gaze to his. “And you reward me this way?”

If she were not so angry, she would have laughed at the shocked expression on his tattooed face. He was not used to being treated thus, she was sure. Isabel looked over her shoulder at Rohan, who stood in equal shock. Her eyes moved from him to his surrounding men. Each of them stood in stunned silence. Ignoring them all, Isabel turned her attention back to the giant and frowned at the gathering storm on his face.

Hands on her hips, she asked, “Do you wish to walk without a tree stump to assist you?” Dark purple lips pulled back from the sharpened teeth. A low growl rumbled deep in his chest. “I will take that as a nay. Now, lie back so that I may repair what you have destroyed.”

When he made no move to follow her direction, Isabel expelled a long breath, hiked her skirt, and moved toward him. Placing both of her hands on his chest, she heaved him backward. He resisted. She shoved him harder, nearly sitting on him to have her way. Soft snickers floated around her ears. She glanced up at Rohan, who stood rooted to the floor, his face solemn, his eyes amused. She turned to face his knights, who stood now in eager anticipation of what they assumed was her impending defeat.

Her rancor rose. “You are not honorable men, and I for one look forward to the day you ride off never to return!”

She turned back to the grumbling giant and dug her elbows into his chest. “Give me your word you will not interfere with my work.”

His eyes narrowed. A lesser woman or perhaps a fool would have backed off. But Isabel was neither of those women. She was in a most unladylike position on a known slayer of Saxons, amongst battle-hardened knights. When he refused to answer, Isabel changed her tactic. Nodding, she moved off him. “Very well.” Once completely off the brute, she extended her hand to Rohan. He raised a brow. “Your ax, sir.”

The men behind her chortled, and the giant growled. “What plans have you for it?” Rohan asked, amusement twisting his tone.

“I wish to sever the leg from this most ungracious body. The cause is lost, and I have my own people to attend to. I have no time for an unwilling patient.”

Rohan had the good grace to scowl. He looked down at his man, and the giant growled again, attempting to sit up.

“Milady?” Thorin said, stepping forward. His deep hazel eye glittered in the morning firelight. Her gaze traced his scarred face. She wondered what other scars lay beneath the leather patch. She thought of the pain he must have endured as recipient of such a wound. She looked past Thorin to the others, wondering again what horrible experience bound them.

“Sir knight?” she asked.

“Shall I hold the brute whilst you chop?” he asked with the straight face of a man bent on serious business.

Manhku shot upright and called out to Thorin in rapid, strangely accented French. “Viking scourge!”

The knights doubled over in laughter, breaking the thick tension. Isabel stood, calm, not understanding the camaraderie of men. “You jest with this man’s leg.” She wiped her hands on her dress. “And so I will leave you to tend him yourselves. I am done with it.”

“Riders approach!” the tower lookout called.

Excitement lurched in her chest. Was it her sire come home?

As they were already mailed and belted, Rohan and his men instantly scrambled to attention. Isabel wondered if they slept thus. She warmed as she remembered Rohan’s barely clad body last night. Mayhap they did not. As Isabel moved to follow the knights, to see who came to Rossmoor at such an ungodly hour, Rohan turned to her. “Stay in the hall, and see to Manhku.”

Frustration strangled her. How dare he command her?

What if it were kin come for refuge? Isabel turned back to look at the abandoned Manhku. “Mayhap I will give you a second chance.” She glanced back to the half-open portal. “But first I will see who approaches.”

Flanked by his men, Rohan stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword as the score of Norman knights approached. The crimson and black standard bearing the image of the boar flapped arrogantly in the chill of the English winter wind. The same coat of arms caught the morning sunlight on the lead rider’s shield.

An anger he had thought long buried rose from deep inside Rohan’s belly. He gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly he could no longer feel his fingertips.

“Your brother rides as if he is due the crown,” Thorin said from beside Rohan.

“Aye, and if there is a way, leave it to Henri to find it.” Rohan stepped down into the courtyard, as one, his men followed.

Henri’s big bay destrier skidded to a halt inches from Rohan. He remained motionless. In an arrogant show of confidence, Henri pulled his red plumed helmet from his head. A face much like Rohan’s stared back. The one defining difference, at least on the surface, was that Henri bore no scars. His face was clean, and Rohan knew how he would appear had he been the one born to a couple wed in God’s eyes.

Henri’s contemptuous gaze swept past Rohan to each of his men alongside him before coming back to rest on his brother. In another great show of confidence, Henri dismounted. As his feet landed on the cobblestone, he sneered. “Whores’ sons, all of you.”

“Take care who you call a whore, Henri. While I have no great love for the woman who bore me, William dotes on his aunt.”

Henri scoffed and looked past Rohan to Rossmoor. His eyes scanned for a good long time the impressive edifice. “So, as the bastard’s henchman, ye think ye have the right to land?”

“I do my liege’s bidding,” Rohan answered.

Henri sneered, the twist of his lips so much like Rohan’s turning the angled planes of his face into jagged ridges.

“Your liege will see his way to delivering lands and titles in this sodden piece of turf to his nobles, not by blow who have only a sword and horse to call upon.”

Rohan pulled his sword and held it high. Sunlight danced off the honed edges. “My Blood Sword has seen well to my needs thus far, Henri.” Rohan gestured with his sword to the dark knights flanking him. “While I have grown immune to your insults, my brethren have not. Tread lightly lest you find your tongue a tempting morsel for the hounds.”

“Would you threaten me, bastard?”

Rohan stepped closer, the point of his sword pointed directly at Henri’s heart. “I never threaten, brother. You of all people know that small fact about me.”

Henri slapped at the blade and made as if to move past. Yet the blade barely moved in Rohan’s steady hand. His men closed ranks. Henri’s men shifted nervously in their saddles.

“It would not sorrow me if you pressed the point.”

Henri retreated a step. “I would not argue with you, brother. Besides, this manor is a hovel. There are more worthy lands of a more worthy noble. One whose blood runs true in his sire’s line. I’ll leave you to pretend, brother, but mark my words. You will not find yourself lord here or—”

Henri’s eyes widened, and he looked past Rohan. In that instant, Rohan knew what captivated his brother so. Not trusting the noble-born son, Rohan stepped back and moved toward the open door where Isabel stood. Anger flared in his belly. “I told you to stay in the hall.”

“I chose to ignore you.” Isabel darted past him to where Henri stood. She looked from the grinning knight back to the scowling knight. “You look to be twins.”

Rohan moved forward to obscure her from Henri’s lecherous view. But his brother acted swiftly. He took Isabel’s hand and bowed regally. “I am Henri de Monfort. Second son of the Comte de Moraine and Belleview and Lord of Moreaux. I am at your service, damsel.”

Isabel curtsied. “Lady Isabel of Alethorpe, eldest daughter of Alefric Lord of Alethorpe Wilshire, and Dunleavy. It would please me greatly if you would champion my honor.”

Rohan grabbed her from his brother’s grasp. His men came to arms. “Go, Henri.”

The noble was not to be gainsaid. “What does the lady speak of?”

“Nothing that concerns you.”

Henri studied his brother closely. Rohan’s temper simmered. It would be just like the noble-born to find a noble reason to take the lady from his care. Yet he knew Henri would use her harshly, then turn her over to his men for more of the same. Isabel knew not whom she temped with her wiles.

“I should petition William on her behalf, brother. He will not take it lightly that his knights,
his most trusted knights,
who have sworn to protect the weak, especially a titled lady, would handle her with less then noble hands.”

“Crow to William all you wish, Henri. The maid is in good hands here.”

Henri looked at Isabel and smiled. “Do you have other kin?”

“My brother Geoff and my sire, sir.”

“Do they reside in the hall with you?”

“Nay, they have yet to return from Hastings.”

Henri’s eyes softened. He made to move toward Isabel, but Ioan blocked his way. “Irish scourge, move aside!”

Wulfson growled and lunged past Rohan, his double swords poised for attack. Rohan grabbed the younger man’s forearm and pulled him back. “He is not worth it, Wulf. Would you waste good steel on a blackguard’s heart?”

Rohan pressed his sword to Henri’s chest for the second time. “As is your way, you have created a storm in your wake. The lady is no doubt the heiress to this shire, but since it now resides under William’s standard, it is not up to us to decide what he will do with the manor or the lady. Until he makes his decision, brother, do not return here. For if you do, I will not curb my men.”

Henri stepped back, his bold gaze raking Isabel. The full breeze pressed her garment full against her body, leaving little to the imagination. Her nipples were clearly outlined against the pale blue fabric of her tunic. With her hair unbound and her bare feet peeking from beneath the hem of her garment, she made quite a fetching sight. Rohan’s blood warmed. He glanced at his brother. The look on the man’s face had the opposite effect on his mood. Rohan’s blood cooled to frigid. Henri wanted Isabel for any number of reasons, the foremost as a way to smite Rohan. And Rohan knew Henri would, as he had always done when Rohan set his sights on something, resort to whatever means were necessary to take it away from him.

Rohan grabbed Isabel’s arm and pulled her to stand beside him, making his claim official. “She is my property, Henri. Find your own wench to pass the winter nights with.”

Isabel stiffened beside him, and he clasped her arm tighter to keep her from an outburst. He held his breath, praying she would heed him this once.

Henri remounted his horse and turned to look at Isabel. He gave her every opportunity to deny Rohan’s claim on her. She must have sensed the darkness that lived in Henri’s heart, for she said nothing.

Finally, Henri returned his gaze to Rohan and spoke. “I have not forgotten, you still owe me for Eleanor, Rohan. Had you?”

Isabel trembled beside him. From the cold or from Henri’s words, he did not know. “You cry foul for an imagined misdeed. I owe you nothing,” Rohan answered.

Henri laughed as he secured his helmet. “Aye, you owe me my heir, brother, and for that I will exact a stiff price.” He saluted Isabel and smiled. “We will meet again, Lady Isabel.” He turned to his brother. “As to you, brother? I have laid claim to Dunsworth and Sealyham on behalf of Monfort. I hold the nobles as hostages for William. I have no doubt he will bestow the titles on me. I will be in need of a titled bride. And since our father has sent considerable levy to the duke to aid his cause, I am sure he will allow me my pick.” Henri’s eyes swept to the lady Isabel. “I will pick the fairest flower in all of England, brother. Keep her safe from the likes of yourself until I come for her.” He reined his horse and thundered off into the cold morning fog.

Rohan stood rigid as fury infiltrated his body. Henri had a way of making Rohan feel, for all of the achievements in his life, that he was not worthy to clean his spurs. He turned to look down at the lady Isabel. Her cheeks flushed pink. Her full pouty lips parted, her warm breath frosted in the chill of the air. He looked into her big violet eyes as she looked up at him as if gauging his brother’s lies. His blood quickened. Henri spoke in half-truths, but it mattered not. She might end up Henri’s lady, but she would see his bed first.