Rose of rapture Page 26

  Warrick's arm, however, shot out rapidly to encircle her waist— lovingly, it seemed, to those who watched—but to Isabella, it was as though she had been imprisoned by an iron band: for her husband's grip had tightened wamingly, almost painfully, around her, restraining her impulsive action.

  The Earl smiled wryly at the knight who had delivered the trussed bird, then glanced casually about the great hall.

  "I see that His Grace has not lost his sense of humor during my absence," Warrick said loudly enough for all to hear. A smattering of appreciative laughter rang out but then died as still the courtiers watched and waited, like animals stalking their prey. "Come, 'Sabelle." Warrick rose and offered his arm to her, his eyes cautioning her to do nothing rash. "Methinks the King would like to meet ye."

  Trembling with rage, she stood, her grey-green orbs flashing defiantly; and though she was desperately frightened by the idea of bringing Edward's wrath down upon herself and her husband, she made no move to lay her hand on Warrick's arm.

  Instead, in the breathless silence that had once more fallen over the great hall, she took the heavy plate dish from the knight and set it on the table. Then she drew the dagger at her waist and, crooning soothingly to the hawk all the while, deftly cut the thongs that tied it. The bird stirred and struggled to rise but could not. The girl saw, with fury, that one of its wings was broken. Having, by now, learned how hateful those at Court could be,

  Isabella knew they would not hesitate to mock both her and Warrick unmercifully if the hawk continued to fail in its pathetic attempts to fly. It was not to be borne. She would not have Warrick made a fool of again. Swiftly, she caught the jesses that trailed from the bird's sharp talons and, with a graceful motion, swung the hawk upward to settle upon her wrist. The bird wavered unsteadily for a moment, then gained its balance, its yellow eyes meeting hers fiercely for just an instant, as though in recognition of the bond that had been borne between them. It lifted its head proudly to gaze about the room and gave a shrill sweet cry of victory. A few white rose petals that had clung to its claws drifted down to scatter heedlessly upon the floor, then all was once more still.

  For perhaps a minute more, the great hall was hushed, then suddenly, a wild cheer accompanied by a burst of admiring applause for a deed well done swelled from the courtiers, echoing to the rafters as Isabella raised the hawk high for all to see.

  Flushed with triumph, she turned to her husband and, to her surprise, for she had feared he would be angry, saw his eyes were glimmering with pride and approval instead.

  "Brava, 'Sabelle," he whispered, lifting her free hand to his lips to kiss it. "Brava, my lady."

  And in that moment, Isabella could have sworn he loved her.

  On her husband's arm, the girl walked nervously toward the high table. Whether or not Edward was wroth, she could not tell. She had glimpsed the King and Queen earlier upon entering the great hall, of course, but she had not realized she would be presented to them this evening. She had thought such would take place upon the morrow, at Westminster Palace, where formal Court was held. Anxiously, Isabella bit her lip and glanced down at her gown, wondering idly if it was grand enough for the occasion, though it seemed the least of her worries right now.

  "Smile, 'Sabelle!" Warrick suddenly hissed in her ear, startling her. "Ye look as though ye are on your way to be executed at Tower Green. There is naught for ye to fear. Ye were magnificent, and Edward has shown us both great favor."

  "Marry-go-up, my lord! How? By mocking us before the whole Court by giving us this pitiful hawk on a bed of white roses?"

  "Nay." Again, Warrick grinned sardonically. "That was merely a jest on Edward's part. The real gift was the plate, of course, and it must be worth a small fortune."

  "Oh. Oh!" Isabella's eyes widened as, at last, she understood. "Then—then the King is well pleased with our marriage?"

  "Aye."

  "Well, he certainly chose a cruel way of showing it! My lord Duke of Gloucester would never have been so unkind. Methinks your Edward is not the man his brother believes him to be."

  "Be that as it may, he is still my liege—and yours. Do not be so foolish as to spoil the victory ye have won, 'Sabelle."

  "Nay, my lord. I shall not. But do not ask me to love the King, for I cannot."

  Warrick's eyes gleamed speculatively at that, but he said nothing further.

  Edward Plantagenet, the King, was thirty-eight years old but looked older. He had been but nineteen when he'd won his glorious victory at Towton and claimed the throne for his own. England's tall golden god, he'd been then, a brilliant military commander who had wrested the Crown from King Henry VI and whom the commonfolk had welcomed with open arms and adoration. But Ned's subsequent years of dissolute living had taken their toll on him, tarnishing his splendor. The body that had once been so lithe and powerfully built had thickened and coarsened from overindulgence in rich food and drink. The hand-j some face had grown slack and soft from the easy, careless years of late. The eyes that had been as clear and blue as a summer sky were now bloodshot from too many late nights of carousing with a string of never-ending women. Only the glossy mane of blond hair remained to tell Isabella why England had once looked upon their King as a golden god and taken him so dearly to their hearts. Had Isabella known him then, she might have loved him. But she had not, and so she felt nothing but an odd sense of tragic waste as she knelt before her liege.

  This was Richard's brother, and yet, how unalike the two men were. There was nothing of Richard's sombemess, his kindness, his haunting sadness, about Edward. Nay, just as Dickon was the darkness, so Ned was the light, a dying sun, perhaps, but a sun just the same, a passionate fire that was consuming itself, burning itself out with its own intensity. There was a cruel deviltry in the King's eyes that made the girl shiver slightly as he bade her rise; and she did not miss the way he appraised her body and desired what he saw.

  Her heart gave a little lurch of apprehensiveness, for even at Rushden, rumors of Edward's insatiable lust for women had reached her ears. There were many at Court who, at one time or another, had been the King's mistress; and Isabella had no wish to share his bed.

  "So ye are my ward the Lady Isabella," Edward was saying

  as, with a guilty start at having allowed her thoughts to wander in the King's presence, the girl came back to the present. "I did not realize what a favor I had done Warrick by choosing ye for his wife. Not only are ye beautiful, but clever too." He indicated the hawk that still perched upon her wrist. " 'Twas indeed a deed well done, my lady."

  "Thank ye. Your Grace." Isabella spoke at last, glad the King was not angry with her. "My lord and I are most appreciative of your wedding present and hope ye are well pleased with our marriage."

  "I am, my lady, though I confess a small regret at your loss. Dickon told me ye were quite a taking little wench, but I'm afraid I failed to recognize my brother's taste was more exquisite than I thought. I can see indeed why my courtiers have dubbed ye the Rose of Rapture."

  "Ye flatter me. Sire." Isabella blushed faintly, not wanting to encourage the King, particularly as the Queen was staring at her most venomously.

  Elizabeth Woodville was older than her royal husband but looked younger, for she had taken great care to preserve her cold, haughty beauty. Even now, it was easy to see why Ned had been bewitched by her. Her smooth skin was as fair as cream, and her regal face appeared as though it had been sculpted from the finest of marbles. She shaved her brow, as did most of the Court women, so little could be seen, beneath her hennin, of the famous silver-gold hair that was said to cascade, like a shimmering waterfall, to her knees. But her high forehead set off to advantage her delicately arched brows and wide, pale blue eyes, which glittered like ice. Her straight, classical nose flared proudly above a slightly pouting, rosebud mouth whose lips, at the moment, were thinly compressed with ill-concealed jealousy.

  Isabella knew instinctively that the Queen hated her, for the girl's own silvery beauty rivaled Elizabeth'
s—and Isabella was much younger than the Queen. Elizabeth was barely civil to the girl, and Isabella was glad when, after talking with Warrick for a time, the royal couple allowed the newly weds to depart.

  Much to the disappointment of the courtiers, who had hoped to become better acquainted with the girl, Isabella and Warrick did not remain for the dancing that followed supper but instead sought their chamber. There, Isabella set about at once to mend the hawk's broken wing while Warrick ordered his squire Rhys to go down to the mews and see if a bird perch might be obtained from the King's falconer. Finally, Ragnor, as the girl had decided

  to call the hawk, was settled in for the night; and Isabella turned shyly to her husband.

  She wanted to make love with him, to begin her campaign to win his heart, but she did not know how to make her wishes known. Silently, she took the cup of wine he offered her and sipped it nervously, trying to think of something to say. The words, however, did not come easily to her.

  "Warrick, I—I—" She broke off abruptly, biting her lip.

  "Aye?" he asked, raising one eyebrow as though amused.

  Suddenly, she knew he knew what she wanted. She stiffened a little, squaring her small shoulders proudly, believing he intended to mock her. The soft, pleading light in her eyes died, and she turned away, a sharp stab of anguish piercing her heart. It was no use. Even if she succeeded in putting Lionel from her heart and mind, she could never win Warrick's love. The shell he had built around himself was too impenetrable, and he was too afraid of being hurt ever to let down his guard and invite her inside the walls that protected him from the world.

  "Nothing," she whispered. "Twas naught."

  She set down her chalice and moved toward the antechamber of their room, intending to summon Jocelyn or one of the other maids to help her undress. But Warrick stopped her, coming up behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders.

  "I do not believe 'twas naught, 'Sabelle," he murmured in her ear, running his hands down her arms caressingly. "If ye want me, ye do but have to speak the words," he told her. "There is no shame in desiring your husband. And ye do desire me, 'Sabelle, do ye not?" he queried softly, turning her around to face him.

  "Aye," she breathed at last. "I do not understand how or why, but ye have wakened something in me that has made me want ye."

  "'Tis called passion, 'Sabelle." His voice was low and husky; his golden eyes were dark with hunger and gleaming with an odd light. "It pleases me that ye want me," he said. "Go, and tell your maids ye will have no need of them this evening."

  When she returned, she found her husband had blown out most of the candles and stripped down to his shirt, which hung open to reveal his sun-bronzed chest matted with dark hair, and to his hose, beneath which she could see plainly the evidence of his desire for her. Slowly, he walked toward her, taking the stecpled cap from her head, allowing her hair to fall in a shining silvery stream to her hips. Then languidly, he began to strip the garments

  from her body. When finally she stood naked before him, he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her to the bed. Briefly, he towered over her, watching her as he cast away the remainder of his clothes, then joined her.

  Already, Isabella could feci her body trembling with anticipation, and she knew her husband could feel it too. For a moment, he studied her intently, one hand drawing tiny circles on her belly.

  "Why didst thou come to me this eve, 'Sabelle?" he inquired curiously, for though before, after the first few nights of their mating, she had received him willingly enough, this was the first time she had sought to initiate their lovemaking.

  "I—I wished to please ye, my lord."

  "Why?"

  "Because—because although I had not thought it possible, ye are a good husband to me, Warrick. And much as ye dislike our marriage, ye are trying to make it work. It seemed I could do no less."

  "I see." He was silent for a moment, then, "And what of Lionel Valeureux, madam?"

  "He betrayed my love for him, my lord. I—I try to think of him no more."

  "If what ye say is true, then ye have pleased me, my lady, for I wouldst have your loyalty—nay, I demand it."

  And my love, Warrick? she wanted to cry out. Wouldst ye have that too if I can ever find it in myself to give? But she did not ask the question. It was enough, for now, that Warrick believed she had put Lionel from her heart and mind. She must go slowly and give their relationship a chance to grow if there was to be something more than desire bom of it.

  Gently, she touched her husband's face.

  "How could I refuse to give ye my loyalty, my lord? Ye saved my life, Warrick. For that alone, I wouldst give whatever ye asked of me."

  "Would ye?"

  "I—I wouldst try, my lord. I am trying."

  "Then put your arms around my neck, and make love with me, 'Sabelle."

  Slowly, she moved into the circle of his warm embrace and met his lips eagerly, if a trifle shyly. Her mouth quivered vulnerably just a little at the intimacy of the kiss, for Warrick's tongue parted her lips demandingly, possessively, as a man who knows it is his right. Savagely, he sought the sweetness that

  awaited within, pillaged her mouth until her lips clung desperately to his, craving still more. Almost cruelly, he wrapped his hands in her silver-blond tresses, which billowed out over the pillows, as though to draw her even nearer while he went on kissing her deeply, fiercely, setting her aflame with passion. His tongue darted hotly in and out of her mouth, ravaging her, tracing the outline of her lips searingly until she knew they were bruised and swollen with desire. But she did not care. More boldly now, Isabella followed where his tongue led, licking, caressing, entwining, as she tasted the inside of his mouth, exploring it just as he had done her own. Warrick moaned with pleasure, the low sound mingling with her own whimpers of delight as their mouths pressed feverishly to each other; their breathing became as one.

  They gasped for air as Warrick's lips left Isabella's to slash like a whip across her cheek to her temple and the damp, silky strands of her hair. He buried his face in the cascading mane, inhaling sharply the fragrant rose scent of her. Hoarsely, he muttered in her ear, his warm breath sending shivers down her spine.

  "Witch!" he snarled, then, more gently, '"Sabelle, sweetheart."

  She thrilled to the words and flung her head back in exultation; her eyes closed; her mouth parted slightly as his lips slid down her throat, his teeth grazing lightly the pale slender column offered up, so bare and trustingly, to him. He laid one hand there, fingers tightening momentarily, possessively, before both palms swept down to cup her breasts.

  His mouth found that small, soft, sensitive place on her shoulder and teased the spot tormentingly with teeth and tongue while she writhed beneath him, her blood like quicksilver as it pounded through her veins. He could feel the pulse beating crazily, jerkily, at the hollow of her throat and her nipples growing hard and rigid as his fingers played with them, his thumbs brushing the flushed little peaks.

  He lowered his head, pressed his lips to the swollen crests, first one, and then the other. He sucked the ripe buds deliberately, took them between his teeth, his tongue flicking the rosy tips rapidly, swirling about them tauntingly so they stiffened even more with excitement. Tiny electric tingles rippled like shock waves through Isabella's body as she cradled Warrick's head in her hands, stroking his hair gently as his tongue continued to titillate her nipples, his fingers to fondle her breasts.

  Something soft and warm stirred in her as she opened her eyes to watch him, and for a moment, she longed for a child of his

  making to fill her belly, suckle at her breast. Then his mouth began to travel even lower still, and the feeling passed to be replaced by one even more primitive.

  Somehow, he had his wine cup in his hand and was pouring the liquid over her; she could feel it trickling down between her thighs, intertwining with the soft curls and folds of her womanhood, where, even now, his lips were kissing her, his tongue was tasting her, lapping at the wine
and honey of her. She trembled uncontrollably at the sweet sensations he was arousing in her, opening the gentle swells of her valley, caressing her rhythmically until she was wet and warm where he touched her, and she yearned for him to fill her deep inside.

  His fingers slipped in to stroke the length of her with small, fluttering movements that made her loins quicken unbearably. The little flower of her secret place budded beneath the heat of his tongue, its tiny petals furling and unfurling until suddenly it blossomed wildly, the bursting of its bloom making her arch her hips frantically against his hand that cupped her. Over and over, she cried out with wanting as the throbbing tremors shook her; then, momentarily content, she sighed and breathed deeply with pleasure. She was sated but not yet satisfied. It was she who had wanted to do the taking this eve! How could she have let him sweep her away so utterly when 'twas she who had wished to conquer him?

  Her hands sought her husband, drew him up so she could kiss him, taste the moist, musky scent of her that clung to his lips. He moved to enter her. but she denied him, her small palms pushing against his chest until he lay upon his back beneath her, gazing up at her curiously. He started to speak, but she put her hand over his mouth, silencing him.

  "Be quiet," she told him softly. "And let me do my will. Ye will not regret it, 1 promise ye."

  Gently, she wrapped her fingers in his hair and kissed him tenderly, at first, as though she were yet a shy maid, who had not Iain with him before. She kissed his eyelids and his nose and his mouth. Lightly, very lightly, her eyelashes swept, like butterfly wings, over his cheeks, exciting him in a strange way with their feathery touch, for Warrick had never experienced such before. Then her lips were upon his ear, parting as she breathed a low sigh into the curved shell. Her breath was warm and made him tingle with desire that quickly sharpened as she nuzzled his lobe and bit it gently with her teeth.

  His loins stirred, raced. This was an Isabella he had never seen