Master Of Surrender (9 page)

Angrily, Rohan clasped her by the arm and dragged her back into the hall. His men followed, keeping their distance.

Isabel tried unsuccessfully to remove Rohan’s steely grip on her arm. When they came to the lord’s table, he stared murderously down at her. She had not seen his rage reach such heights. “See to the morning meal.”

Isabel cast a quick glance at Manhku, who lay quietly for a change on his pallet, his eyes never leaving his master’s form. Isabel called for the meal to be served. The knights seemed to converge on Rohan at once, their voices high and their contempt of the noble clear. Whilst she was unnoticed, Isabel slipped from the hall to her chamber, calling Enid along the way.

The maid scampered up behind her, as did Lyn and Mari. Enid threw the heavy bolt into place and stood with her back to the door, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Isabel’s temper flashed when Lyn and Mari grabbed each other in the corner and sank wide-eyed onto a pallet. “Do not sit so pathetically like frightened mice!” Was the world bent on looking to her for guidance? Were they all dolts who could not tend to even the meagerest of actions?

“My lady, the Normans, they scare us, and the one who just left? He has the mark of the devil,” Lyn wailed. Enid bobbed her head like a chicken, and Mari sniffled in agreement.

Isabel softened. She was not angry at them. She was angry that England for the moment was lost to more than one bastard Norman. That her sire and her brother, if they had not lost their lives on Senlac Hill, were dead or so seriously maimed they were not able to send word to her. Isabel was angry that raiders had decimated the village and the villagers. She was angry that the Norman, de Monfort, thought she would drop for him like some trained bitch because he bore a title and his sire had William’s ear. And she was even more angry at his arrogant brother, who went by the name of
la lame noir,
for terrifying her more than any man should.

So if she were afraid, of course her servants were frightened. But as she would, they would have to rise above their fear. Isabel looked sharply at Lyn and Mari.

“Lyn, Mari? Did you not offer yourselves last eve to the Normans?”

Lyn’s big brown eyes widened. “I only pretended to like them, milady. I was afraid if I showed contempt as you did, my face would meet with a fist.”

A loud knock on the door startled them all. Isabel frowned and flung the bolt back to find Russell, of all people, standing at the threshold. “Russell! What are you doing here?” Her eyes scanned him. He stood, slightly listing, wearing a loose-fitting tunic and rough-hewn trewes.

“I am not one to lie about and cry like a woman, milady.”

Isabel smothered a smile. Despite Russell’s mask of manliness, he winced when he moved.

“Aye, you are not. What brings you here?”

“The bastard knight has summoned you to break the fast.”

Isabel’s ire rose anew. “Tell him—” She considered her words carefully. Her impulse was to throw the request in his face. He had no right to ask her to join him. Yet it was her home, and she was lady of the manor. Protocol dictated she invite him. Ha, invite the invader to break bread? Never. Not after his brutal handling of her earlier. And in front of his brother and his men? Nay, she would be no chattel of his.

“I shall present myself when I am ready,” she told Russell. His color drained. Being the messenger of such news would not bode well for the bearer. Yet he insisted on acting the man. ’Twould do him good. “Go, Russ, and make as quick a turn as you can when the last word leaves your mouth.”

When the door closed behind the boy, Isabel turned to her maid. “See me to a hot bath. The stench of Normans clings too tightly to me.”

As Enid poured the last bucket of hot water into the copper tub, Isabel sank into the silky warmth, stealing a moment to luxuriate in the scented soapy water. Normally, she didn’t bathe in the morn, but these were not normal times. Indeed, these times were what nightmares were drawn from. She closed her eyes and dismissed her maid, wanting solace with herself and her thoughts before she must face the beast again. The low thud of the door told her she was left to her privacy.

Sighing deeply, Isabel sank deeper still into the calming water. Her mind swirled with the events of the morn. Henri terrified her in a way his base-born brother did not. There was something much darker that drove Henri. Something not human. His eyes held the cold, empty look of a rabid animal. She shivered despite the warmth of the water. She would never consent to being his lady. Another shiver scraped across her skin. It would not matter if she contested or not. If ’twas William’s will, then it would be served.

What of Rohan’s will? She recognized his claim in front of his men and Henri for what it was. A man’s pride at work. Pure and simple. He laid claim to something his noble-born brother coveted. He would see her ruined as well, of that she had no doubt.

The bastard! How dare he use her to bait his enemy? How dare he play with her feelings? How dare he take from her what was not his to take?

She sat upright in the tub, no longer content to relax. The minute the cool air touched her warm skin, her nipples hardened. But it wasn’t because of the chill of the air. Isabel drew in a deep breath and locked eyes with the tawny ones across the room. Rohan stood propped against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“Do not stop on my account, damsel. I am enjoying the scenery.”

“Look all you wish, Norman, for it is all you will get.”

R
ohan grinned at her words. They both knew they held no truth. As his grin died, the heat in his loins flared at the sight before him. He remained motionless lest any movement make it disappear. She was enchanting. He was not a man of many words, but even if he were, the vision before him would hold him speechless.

Rosy skin flushed under his gaze. Full, ripe breasts he ached to touch trembled just below the waterline out of sight. Blood coursed hotly through him. He had seen enough to know what lay hidden beneath the translucent barrier.

The rush he encountered each time he laid eyes on the Saxon maid unnerved him as much as it excited him. The feeling was the same when he entered battle. Every sense, every instinct, every inch of his body and thoughts were open and aware, anticipation whetting his appetite to ravenous.

Then. Engagement.

And finally. The thrill of victory.

As Rohan saw himself poised and ready to plunder the maid’s willing body, Henri’s caustic laughter infiltrated the scene.
William gives her to me, brother. Step aside so that I might claim what is mine.

For a moment, fury clouded Rohan’s vision. The depths of his hate for his younger brother stabbed at him with the clarity of a sword plunging into his gut. He blinked, willing the toxic emotion to recede. He focused back on the sight before him. Aye, she was far more pleasant to look upon than any vision of his jealous brother. He and his men were William’s most trusted knights. Even Henri could not say it other. Their loyalty was without question. As was William’s to his loyal subjects. He pushed Henri’s words from his head. He would have this hall, and he would have all that came with it. Including the lady Isabel.

Rohan dropped his arms to his sides and walked slowly toward her, a hunter with his prey clearly in sight.

“Halt,” she whispered.

“I am not Manhku.” Rohan stepped closer, her scent wafting in the air, tempting him more. As she sank lower into the tub, he walked around her, wanting to admire her from all sides but also to throw her off balance. It would do him no good for her to have his moves clearly in her sights. He smiled, warming to his game. She was as anything he desired but resisted him. A challenge to be had, then used until some other challenge struck his fancy.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Isabel twisted in the small tub, casting a wary eye on him. He grinned wider as he squatted beside her. Her pulse flicked furiously in the vital vein in her neck. He reached out and trailed a finger along the smooth dampness of her collarbone. Her body shivered, the sensation traveling from her body to his. His cock swelled with anticipation. His grin nearly split his face.

“Admit it, damsel, you are curious. You want me to extinguish the heat you feel for me.”

She smacked his hand away, the gesture buoying her breasts for a brief moment. Quickly, she covered herself again. Her eyes sparked fire. He would give his left arm for her to spark like that in desire for him.

“I want nothing from you but to see your backside as you sail home to your country.”

Rohan was undaunted. It had been too long since his last woman. And in the very recesses of his mind, Henri’s challenge spurred his possessive nature.

He straddled the tub with his long arms, causing the shy maiden to squirm, the movement sending water sloshing over the sides and onto his thighs and the floor. “Until I do, you are mine. Now, lie back and drop your hands. I want a taste of what I shall feast upon this eve.”

Isabel’s eyes widened. She turned her body as far away from him as she could in the confines of the tub. “I would do no such—”

Rohan slid his hands into the water and wrapped them around her waist, pulling her toward him as he stood. She shrieked and squirmed in his arms, her skin slippery from the soap. He held her tighter. Her breasts plumpened against his chest and her gyrating hips as she sought to kick away from him ignited his fire to blazing. He drew her up, no longer able to curb his hunger for her. Turning her in his arms, Rohan lifted Isabel and clamped his mouth onto an impertinent nipple.

Isabel cried out and went rigid in his arms. He tightened his grip, bringing her closer. A hot rush of desire tore through his limbs, crashing into his loins. His cock thickened to painful. As her body arched against him and her hands pushed against his shoulders, Rohan’s lips suckled her like a starving man. Desire clashed with his anger, not only at Henri for trespassing here but at Isabel for being the object of his desire. His fingers dug into her hot skin. It was so smooth and soft it rivaled the silk of the finest robe. His lips left the one turgid nipple for the other, giving it equal attention. He rubbed his face between her generous cleavage, his teeth nipping her mounds as his hands molded over her derriere, his fingers digging into the succulent flesh, pressing her hard against his erection, wanting the succor she was not willing to give but he was willing to take.

Her body heated against his, he could feel it. His right hand slid down her flat belly to the soft mound below. Isabel expelled a harsh breath and loosened in his fierce embrace. He smiled.

Surrender.

He lifted his head, to tell her he could not promise gentleness. But words lodged in his throat. Her fist smashed into his jaw, the blow stunning him in its unexpectedness and, for a woman, its strength. His arms loosened a mite, and it was all her slippery body needed to disengage from him. Like a rabbit, she hopped out of the tub and ran to the door.

“My men will enjoy the sight, damsel.”

Isabel turned at the door, more than cognizant of her lack of clothing. The heat of her body warded off the chill of the room. She tried to cover herself, her arms and hands ineffectively shielding her from the tall warrior’s hot gaze. It raked her from head to toe, then up again, leisurely stopping at her hips and the breasts that still burned from the brand of his lips.

He smiled slowly, rubbing his jaw where she had struck him. She had no choice; it was the only action a man like him understood. And with that understanding, another realization dawned. He was a warrior, a mercenary, a man paid to kill, a man paid for his allegiance. Other than coin, he respected only courage.

Isabel drew herself up to her full height, slight though it was, and dropped her hands to her sides. Her breasts trembled as they thrust toward him, but she was determined to stand toe to toe with this knight. He may be able to overpower her by his brute strength, but he would never overpower her will or her heart.

It gave her great satisfaction to watch his expression change from enjoyment to wariness. “What ploy do you seek now, wench?”

Isabel shook her head, the damp tendrils of her hair sticking to her back. “I have no ploy, sir. You have proven to me, and your brother’s words confirm the fact, that you are the lout of your reputation. You are no noble knight but a mercenary whose loyalty is purchased. So take what you will from me, and know it will never be freely given. For you could not pay me enough to welcome your touch.”

“Were I of noble birth, would your opinion be different?”

Isabel caught herself at his question. “The measure of a man is not if his parents are wed in the eyes of God and king. The true measure of a man is drawn from his deeds.”

Rohan scowled and sauntered toward her. Her chin rose higher. And Lord help her, but a hot thrill coursed through every inch of her. That strange feeling had sprung to life between her thighs when his lips touched her breasts in the tub. When he suckled her and dug his hands into her bottom, she—Isabel squeezed her eyes closed.

When she opened them, Rohan stood only a hand’s breadth from her. He reached out an open hand and placed it on her right breast. Her heart lurched against it, and she knew he felt it as solidly as she. As if that were not enough, to her complete mortification, her nipple puckered. He smiled softly. “A body doesn’t lie, Isabel.”

He slipped an arm around her waist and brought her hard against his chest. Her legs trembled, and had he not held her so tightly, she would have crumpled to the floor.

“Make no mistake, the only exchange between us when I take you will be mutual satisfaction.” He dropped his head to her throat. Pressing his nose softly against her skin there, he inhaled deeply. “Your scent will ride with me this day as a reminder of what is in store for us both this eve. Make yourself available.”

He released her and left.

Isabel held her breath, clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Her entire body trembled as if several hands grasped her arms and shook her back and forth. She turned to look at the door Rohan had just walked through and knew with a sinking heart that she was a marked woman.

When she entered the great hall a short time later, forgoing the rest of her bath, Isabel was met with several stares. With her damp hair and high color, she did not have to guess what was on every man’s mind. Especially since Rohan’s clothes were equally as damp as her hair,

Heat washed across her skin as their eyes clashed. Rohan stabbed a piece of cold meat with his dagger and casually munched it as he stared her down. Isabel threw her shoulders farther back and ignored him. Instead, she stared down his knights, finding for the most part that they were as stubbornly rude as their leader. Every last one of them, including Rorick, met her challenging gaze before turning back to their meal. She turned to find the African’s keen eyes watching her raptly.

He scowled when she cocked an eyebrow at him, daring him to add insult to her injury. Haughtily, she strode past him and into the kitchens. When she emerged several minutes later with a modestly filled trencher, she found the one called Warner poking at Manhku’s bandages, the same soiled ones he had ripped off earlier. The African grumbled and pushed the man away.

“God’s teeth, man, the bindings stink! Shall I separate your leg from your arse now, or will you allow me to tend it?”

Rohan laughed and stood, coming to stand next to his knight. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder as he stood and backed away from the giant. “Mayhap he needs to see the edge of your blade, Warner, to know you mean to help.”

“He would cut the wrong leg!” Manhku tossed back.

Warner shook his head and pointed to the maimed limb. “Tend it yourself, then, heathen, and be glad. Like the lady Isabel, I no longer have an interest in you.”

Warner strode to Rohan’s other side. Isabel continued to the end of the only vacant table in the hall. Unfortunately, it was also the lord’s table and the one closest to the hearth. And Rohan.

He turned and glowered down at her as she nibbled a piece of hard bread. “My man needs his dressings changed.”

Isabel shrugged and slowly chewed. She glanced at his hand, then up at his face, her gaze resting briefly on his swelling jaw. “Your jaw may be broken, but it appears your hands are in good order. Do it yourself.”

Warner slapped Rohan heartily on the back. “Ha! Smote by a woman!”

Rohan rubbed his swollen jaw. It was obvious he had been struck. He grinned, his humor restored. “She wields her lips as expertly as I wield my sword.”

Isabel gasped, choking on the piece of bread she chewed. “I did no such thing!” She coughed.

Rohan made to approach her, but she waved him off. Valiantly, she managed to catch her breath.

“A man approaches!” The shout came from the tower.

Rohan hesitated as Isabel continued to collect herself. She nodded and took a long draught from his cup. Rohan moved past her, accompanied by the scraping sound of leather and metal as his men followed him out into the courtyard. Isabel sat still for a moment, praying the man would have good tidings of her father and her brother. She did not know how much more bad news she could consume without becoming like Lyn and Mari.

Taking a big gulp of air, she inhaled and slowly exhaled and moved quickly to the courtyard. With each step, her heart raced, hoping and praying it was her father or her brother come home.

Instead, the sight that greeted her was truly horrifying. Abel, her father’s bailiff, torn, bloodied, and his right arm a stump, stumbled into the courtyard, then fell to his knees in the dirt before planting himself face-first in the hard stone.

“’Tis Abel!” Isabel cried, pushing past the massive shoulders to the man. She dropped to her knees and with Rohan’s help turned him over. A white death mask drew his color. His arm, though bound, bled. Emotion washed over Isabel. Abel had been a loyal man. “Abel,” she whispered, touching her hand to his blood-and dirt-encrusted brow. “How came you by your wounds?”

His eyes fluttered open, and with a strength that surprised her, he grasped her hand to his chest. “The raiders, milady.”

Isabel gasped. “Where, Abel? Where?” He lay quiet, but breath stirred against her hand. She grabbed his tunic and shook him. “Where?” she screamed, her voice on the edge of hysteria.

“The glade, near the river,” he murmured.

Rohan stood. “Do you know of this place?”

“Yea, ’tis several leagues from here.”

Rohan turned to his men. “To arms.” As they set about readying their mounts, Rohan turned back to Isabel. “Tell me of these raiders.”

She swallowed hard and bent back to Abel. “They came almost a fortnight ago just after we received word of Harold’s fall. They seem more bent on destruction than anything else. They take what they need until they need again. Two days before you came, they were so bold as to come to the edge of the village and attack. They may have been the same who befell your man.”

“Do they bear a coat of arms?”

“Nay, they cover their faces with dark hoods, and they fly no standard. I think mayhap they could be Vikings from Stamford Bridge looking for revenge.”

“They will find themselves revealed this day.”

Isabel stood and grabbed his arm. “Allow me to show you the way to the glade. I have a sturdy mare.”

Rohan’s eyes widened in surprise. He almost smiled. “You never cease to amaze me, damsel. I will see you stay here.”

“But there are several glades. I know—”