Rose of rapture Read online

  "'Sabelle, my love."

  His words reassured her. She needed so to hear them. Then his lips found hers, kissing one quivering comer lightly, tracing, with his tongue, the outline of her mouth before claiming the whole of her lips softly, tentatively, at first, as though she were a young maiden, needing to be coaxed and wooed with gentleness and restraint. Tenderly, he kissed her mouth, then parted her lips to taste her. His tongue darted forth to explore the honey within,

  making her shudder with sudden desire as an electric shock of anticipation jolted through her body, causing her loins to quicken sharply. Lx)w in her throat, Isabella moaned a little. She reached up to fasten her arms around the Lord's back, laid one hand against the nape of his neck, where his hair curled in thick rich waves. She pulled him closer, clung to him with her mouth, wanting him, needing him so desperately. It was from him she drew her strength. He was her guiding light, her port in every storm. There were no ghosts when he was with her.

  Her tongue met his own, entwined about it with an intimacy that made her heart begin to thud wildly in her breast. Swirl for swirl, she followed where his tongue led, his lips sucked, his teeth nibbled, until she felt as though she were drowning in a molten sea—and she did not care. Feverishly, she kissed him back until they were both gasping for breath, and she could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her as his body half-covered her own, and his hands began to move upon her flesh. Blindly, he tore his mouth from hers, his lips burning their way across her smooth countenance, seeming to scorch her face like a brand. His kissed her eyes, where her incredibly long black lashes made dark, crescent smudges upon her cheeks. He murmured love words in her ear, his breath warm where he blew faintly, his tongue just brushing the small, curved shell, making her shiver with delight and wanting. He wrapped his fingers in her hair, buried his face in the long, silky strands, inhaling deeply the sweet rose fragrance of her. Roses. Always roses. White roses.

  Only white roses for Isabella.

  They had named her for them. The Rose of Rapture, the courtiers had called her and sought to claim her hand. A thousand white bouquets had strewn her path, had been flung at her feet in homage, but the Lord alone had won her in the end.

  The triumph of that knowledge spurred him on. Hotly, his mouth traveled to the pulse beating rapidly at the hollow of her slender throat, that sensitive place upon the curve of her shoulder, and then her breasts, which swelled softly, round and full, at his touch. Possessively, he cupped them, fondled them, taunted them until they ached with passion. Their tiny pink buds flushed and hardened, begging to be touched, tasted, taken. His lips closed over first one, and then the other, sucking gently before his teeth nipped lightly the rosy little buttons, held them in place for the flicking of his tongue as it tormented them to even greater heights. Isabella inhaled sharply as she felt the heat of her flesh begin to

  emanate from her body in waves of excitement. Once more, a broken moan escaped from her throat.

  "My lord, my love," she breathed.

  "'Sabelle," he muttered hoarsely in response.

  The Lord lingered over her breasts, as always, for they enchanted him. He thought they were the most beautiful spheres he'd ever seen. They were so pale, he could see the barest shadows of the blue veins through which her life's blood flowed. They filled the palms of his hands as he caressed them; the hollow between them sloped like a gentle valley as his mouth crept down it tantalizingly, then enveloped her nipples once more. Again, his tongue titillated the small, rigid peaks, swirling around them deliciously in a way that sent sparks of fire radiating from them in all directions. Isabella felt the ripples of pleasure that coursed through her flesh, and she strained against him, hungry for more.

  The Lord's lips began to sear their way down the length of her lithe body. TTiere was no part of her he did not already know but want to discover yet anew: the sides he often tickled mischievously in the mornings, the slender waist, the thighs that trembled and opened for him of their own accord, the backs of her knees and the swell of her calves... her ankles... her feet.

  He raised one dainty foot to his mouth and kissed her instep. He sucked her toes, which tasted of the tall sweet grass and wildflowers upon which she had trodden earlier. For a moment, his gaze rested eagerly, intrusively, on her face. Her head was flung back; her eyes were closed; her mouth was parted slightly in exultation. For the barest instant, the Lord's heart stopped beating, then started to thump rapidly in his breast. The sight of her countenance, naked in its expression of desire, aroused him fiercely, possessively. That look was for his eyes alone. No other man would ever see it. The Lord would kill any man who even dared to try. Isabella belonged to him—and him alone.

  She sensed his searching stare; her eyelids fluttered open. Their eyes met, locked. Time was caught, held suspended. Their breathing ceased, then continued raggedly as she turned away, made vulnerable again by his prying.

  She is so shy, he thought. She would hide her innermost thoughts from me, but she cannot. Even the very essence of her being is mine

  The Lord reveled in that victory as his hands swept up to part her flanks. Slowly, slowly, he trailed his fingers along the insides of her thighs, then, with a low groan, bent his head to the downy curls that twined between her legs. He pressed his lips to the

  honeyed moisture of her womanhood, his tongue seeking, probing. Isabella gasped at the intimate contact. A burning ache seized her, where his tongue darted hotly, and began to build, spreading through her body like wildfire. The need to have him inside her was overwhelming, blinding her to everything but him.

  Sensing her need, his fingers slipped inside her, easing her desire momentarily with their languid, fluttering motion. Again and again, he stroked her, filled her, tongued her until he could feel the tiny tremors that started deep within her, then burst forth uncontrollably as she suddenly arched against him, her hands wrapped in his hair to draw him even closer as she stiffened slightly, inhaling sharply once more, then gave a soft sweet whimper of ecstasy that held him spellbound until she relaxed beneath him. Then lingeringly, he kissed his way back up to her mouth and drew her near, breathless with expectation, as tentatively she began to explore his body as he had hers.

  Isabella worshiped the Lord, as he had her, for he had suffered too in the past. Aye, once, they had been halves, searching blindly for that which would make them whole. They had found it in their love, and they cherished it more deeply for that, taking their time with each other, giving as much as they received—and more.

  Caressingly, half-marveling, her hands moved slowly over her husband. She was filled with wonder and awe that this handsome man belonged to her and her alone. Her palms brushed lightly across the mat of hair that covered his sun-bronzed chest. She loved the feel of it, soft and silky as it rippled through her fingers, in sharp contrast to the hardness of his firm flat belly, scored here and there with battle scars that shone whitely against his flesh. Deliberately, tauntingly, her hands slipped lower still, to his thick, muscular thighs and his manhood. The Lord shivered with pleasure as Isabella teased him tormentingly, her fingers trailing up and down his flanks before, at last, she grasped his shaft and began the motion slowly. After an eternity, it seemed, her lips closed over him, and her deliciously swirling tongue made him gasp aloud with joy. And then there was nothing for him but her and the things she was doing to him.

  Finally, he could bear no more. He caught her tangled mass of tresses, and as she lifted her head to look at him, he moaned,

  "My love..."

  She smiled at the words as he drew her up, rolled her over on her back, and parted her thighs. Urgently, his maleness probed between her legs, found her, entered her, penetrating her slowly,

  plunging down into the warm, inviting pool of her with a sudden assault that made her catch her breath, then cry out with delight. Just as languidly, he withdrew, then spiraled down into her once more. Then, without warning, the Lord grabbed great bunches of Isabella's cascading satin
mane, twisting her mouth up to meet his own. Forcefully, demandingly, ravishing her now, he drove into her. The violence of his passion exhilarated her. Isabella thrust her hips upward to receive him again and again, faster and faster, until his hands caught hold of her buttocks, lifting her, crushing her against him as he took her savagely, bringing her rapidly to climax. His own release followed swiftly. He shuddered and was still.

  Their bodies throbbed against each other, gliding slowly back to earth as their rasps for breath mingled and filled the air. The Lord brushed a strand of hair from Isabella's face, then kissed her.

  "'Sabelle, my love," he said.

  It was enough. She sighed with happiness, snuggling within the cradle of his arms and laying her head upon his shoulder as he moved from her. The ghosts that had haunted her earlier were gone. There was only the Lord, her husband, now.

  She nestled quietly in his embrace, listening to the gentle sounds of his breathing as he slept, one arm about her to hold her close. The intimacy of the moment filled Isabella with as much contentment as the Lord's lovemaking had done. There was something so warm and comforting about lying next to him while he lay sleeping, vulnerable to her now as she had been to him earlier.

  Gently, Isabella kissed the Lord's mouth, then rose quietly so as not to disturb him. As she looked down tenderly at his sleeping figure, she smiled softly to herself How she loved him. He was her fate, her destiny for all time. She had known it from the very first moment she had ever looked into his eyes. Her mind drifted back... back to the beginning. How many years had come and gone since then? she wondered. How many years had passed since that day the Lord had come riding up to Rushden, and she had first beheld his handsome face?

  The sky was growing grey, as though it would soon rain; but Isabella paid no heed as she made her way to the moors that once more beckoned to her. The breeze soughed plaintively, rippling across the tall grass and rustling the leaves of the old oaks and yews; but Isabella did not hear the wind's faint whisper. She was

  lost in thought, far from the heaths upon which she walked, remembering.

  In her mind, it was springtime at her brother's keep, and she was just five years old—

  Chapter Two

  Rushden Castle, England, 1470

  THE TWO SMALL OCCUPANTS OF RUSHDEN CASTLE, which had been the home of the powerful Ashley family for centuries, huddled anxiously upon high stools and peered intently through the peep that looked out over the great hall of the fortress. The younger of the children, Isabella, had her tiny hand tucked securely within her brother Giles's for comfort, the only measure of solace she was brave enough to seek. She longed to cling closely to him to lessen the apprehension she felt this day, but she dared not risk crushing the stiff brocade folds of her newly pressed gown. She had been strictly warned of the consequences that would follow the wrinkling of her attire, and she had no wish to discover whether or not Alice, her nanna, had meant the dire threats uttered so tartly earlier that mom.

  Despite her attention to the peep, which she took turns sharing with her brother, the girl occasionally glanced fearfully over her shoulder to see if anyone had spied their presence, for the children had been ordered to remain in their chambers until sent for. But no one came. Everyone was too busy preparing for the arrival of Lord Perceival Renfred, Earl of Oadby.

  Isabella choked down a ragged sob of panic at the thought and, with one tightly clenched fist, rubbed her eyes fiercely to brush away the stinging tears of grief that had suddenly filled them. Oh, if only her father and mother had not died! But Lord and Lady Rushden had succumbed to the dreaded sweating sickness that had swept the countryside, leaving Isabella and Giles alone in the world. As the sole heirs to the very rich Ashley estate, the two youngsters had subsequently become wards of the King; and their fates, from this day on, would rest in the hands of the nervously awaited Lord Oadby, the man appointed by His Grace to serve as their warden and whom Isabella was certain would be horrid and mean.

  Why she felt this, she could not have said. She was a fanciful creature, and her imagination was vivid; and as no one had taken the trouble to inform her of anything about her shortly expected warden except his name, she had wildly drawn the most frightening conclusions about him. He was such an ogre, she had determined, that all were too scared to speak of him. The nervous flutter of activity of the servants below only served to confum the girl's fears. Her stomach churned so badly, she was afraid she would be ill. That would be disastrous, for she would surely spoil her gown.

  Her parents had been laid in their graves scarcely a few months past, and this new and alarming twist of destiny was more than Isabella's aching young heart could bear. Her whole world seemed to be crumbling down about her, and she was helpless to prevent it. She understood nothing of the customs and politics involved in the appointment of their warden. She knew only that a horrifying stranger was coming to take charge of their lives.

  "Oh, Giles, what is to become of us?" she asked plaintively, gently squeezing his hand to reassure herself that he was real, that he had not been taken from her too.

  The boy, though he wanted to offer his sister the words of comfort she so desperately craved, was as apprehensive as she and did not know how to answer her.

  He shifted slightiy on his hard stool, taking care to be certain his silk doublet, neatly belted at the waist, looked as crisp and clean as it had when he'd donned it. Giles also had been sternly warned against disarranging his garments, and, being a lad well versed in his duties, mindfully heeded his tutor Master Jaksone's counsel.

  "I do not know, 'Sabelle," the boy replied at last, his face as grave as her own.

  "Tis awful... this waiting," Isabella said with a sigh.

  "Aye, but it cannot go on much longer, dear sister. Do ye not hear the sentries heralding Lord Oadby's arrival even now?"

  "Aye, but I wish I did not," she told him, her lovely little countenance rapt once more with dread. "Oh, Giles, why must he come here? Why can we not go on as before?"

  "Because we are wards of the King."

  "But I do not understand why. There are other children at Rushden whose parents died from the sickness. His Grace has sent no stranger to care for them."

  "They are crofters, 'Sabelle," Giles reminded her gently, "and of no importance. We are nobles, dear sister," he stated, as though this would explain everything, as indeed it would have, had Isabella been older. "I am the Lord of Rushden now, and ye are its mistress."

  It seemed odd to think of herself in her beloved mother's place, and the girl cried out against it fervently, with all the conviction of youth.

  "Well, I wish I were poor and common!"

  There was no time to say more, for just then, the stout oak doors of the keep were flung open wide, and Lord Oadby entered amid the servants' bows and curtsies. On his arm was the most startling woman that Isabella had ever glimpsed, and for a moment, her earlier misgivings were forgotten as she stared with shock and suspicion at the gaudy creature whom her mother would never have allowed to set foot inside the fortress.

  The woman, Lady Beatrice Biggs, Countess of Shrewton, was clothed in the most appalling dress that Isabella had ever seen. A brilliant pink in color, it was cut so low across the bodice that not only did the Countess's small high breasts threaten to spill from the d6colletage, but the crests of her dark brown nipples could definitely be observed. She wore a vibrant green surcoat, edged with gold lace, and a gold mesh girdle adorned with a vulgar display of emeralds. Around her throat and wrists were a necklace and numerous bracelets set with the same jewels, which also sparkled in the earrings that dangled heavily from her ears. Atop her elaborately coiffed black curls perched a high, steepled pink cap from which trailed yards of billowing wisps of pink-and-grecn material. Closer inspection revealed that Lady Shrew-ton's face was not extremely pretty but had been carefully painted to give the appearance of being mysteriously attractive. Her flashing dark eyes seemed to slant seductively, being expertly outiined with black kohl and s
hadowed with pale green powder. Her thin,

  pink rosebud lips pouted at the comers, and her nose lifted haughtily as she tossed her head and gazed about to be certain her entrance had been accorded the proper amount of attention. Upon perceiving that it had, she glanced down at Lord Oadby (for she was a head taller than he) and, with just a slight hint of a smile, struck him playfully with her fan.

  "Lud, Percy," she trilled, "the place is as dark and gloomy as a dungeon."

  Both Isabella and Giles gasped and stiffened at hearing their ancient home referred to in such terms. Why, Rushden Castle had stood since the time of William the Conqueror and was one of the finest keeps in all of England!

  "Begging your pardon, my lady"—Sir Lindael, the master-at-arms, spoke up, deliberately misunderstanding the woman's meaning—"but we are still in mourning for the late Earl and Countess of Rushden."

  The woman looked surprised for an instant, then, recovering, eyed the grizzled old knight with disfavor and replied, "Oh, aye, of course," before turning away coldly, as though guessing that Sir Lindael found her charms lacking, which indeed he did.

  The master-at-arms was not at all pleased with the warden appointed by the King and thought Lord Oadby's mistress. Lady Shrewton, even less enchanting. Not for the first time since the deaths of the late Earl and Countess of Rushden did Sir Lindael wonder what was to become of Isabella and Giles. The minute the master-at-arms had entered the great hall, he had spied the two youngsters peering through the peep, and he knew they were filled with dismay at the sight of their warden.

  Lord Oadby was so different from the children's father, they could not help but compare uncharitably the former to the latter. The late Earl had been a big, handsome man, whose generosity toward his family and his tenants had known few bounds. He had ruled his domain and all in it with the greatest of kindness and understanding, and though he had been stem, he had also been just. He had treated his yeomen fairly and their women with respect. No woman at Rushden had had to fear rape or abuse while the old Lord had been alive. He had loved his wife dearly and had never strayed from or stmck her, even in anger; and those who had not accorded their own wives the same measure had soon found themselves unwelcome at the fortress.