Rose of rapture Read online

  The thought of filling Isabella with such sons made Lionel's loins race with excitement. Never had he seen a maid who intrigued him so. Half-woman, half-child, she had bewitched him with her haunting grey-green eyes, her fey, wraithlike grace. He could almost fancy himself in love with the wench, as he knew she was fervently enamored of him.

  Aye, Lionel wanted her. He must find a way to have her— Gilliane Beaumaris be damned!

  "Ye wouldst drive a man mad, 'Sabelle," he muttered, then brushed a strand of silky hair from her face.

  He's going to kiss me, the girl thought, her heart beating crazily in her breast. He's going to kiss me!

  Oh, if only the blood would stop rushing through her veins at such a pace! She was so nervous, she couldn't even think. Her hands trembled slightly on his shoulders; her palms were as cold as ice and yet sweating somehow too. It seemed she had waited all her life for this moment, and now that it had come, she didn't

  know what to do. She swallowed hard, tilting her face up and parting her lips in what she prayed was the right manner.

  Oh, how soft his mouth was, and how it thrilled her, moving against her own gently until she was accustomed to the feel of his lips and had begun to kiss Lionel back with eager shyness, wanting to learn, wanting to please him. Hesitantly, Isabella caressed his golden hair as he wrapped his hands in her own silver cascade, his tongue finding its way inside her mouth to cxptore the sweetness that awaited therein. A warm glow filled her body at the intimate contact, and she pressed herself against him, wanting to make this moment last forever. A low moan emanated from her throat as his hands slid down her back, crushing her to him, and his lips grew more demanding. Suddenly, Isabella was breathless with the wakening of her womanhood. Time stopped and yet flew by on wings, it seemed; and then, without warning, Lionel was drawing away from her, his eyes lowered against her searching, love-filled glance, so she could not read his thoughts. He kissed her lightly once more, then rose and held out his hand.

  "Come, 'Sabelle," he said. "It grows late. We must return to the keep."

  "Aye," she breathed, then, for one moment, ceased to breathe at all as her hand touched his.

  Lionel had kissed many women, but Isabella did not know that. Nor did she know what had caused the brief shadowing of his handsome visage or the agony it foreboded. She knew only that her first kiss was as beautiful as she had dreamt it would be and that she would love Lionel Valeureux until the day she died.

  The great hall was still. Isabella sat quietly, embroidering on the tapestry she had begun, which would chronicle Giles's adventures. The girl was clumsy and impatient with her needle when it came to such work, and her task was made even more difficult by the tears that stung her eyes, blurring the design.

  The trees had shed their leaves. Autumn was upon them, and Giles and Lionel must journey north to join the Duke of Gloucester. Isabella's brother stared glumly into his wine cup, for he knew how their coming departure had saddened his sister. Lionel, morose as well because he had not thought of some means of extricating himself from his betrothal to Gilhane Beaumaris, plucked idly at the strings of his lute.

  He knew that Isabella and Giles both fully expected him to ask for the girl's hand before leaving, and he knew too that he

  could not. His position was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that he could not even explain his dilemma to them. The Ashleys were a proud and honorable family. They had taken Lionel into their home and hearts and let it be known that he would be welcome as Isabella's husband. They would scorn and despise him if they discovered how he had deceived them by wooing the girl when he could not wed her; and Lionel found he could not bear the thought of their contempt.

  "Give us a song, my lord." Giles spoke with forced cheerfulness, at last, to break the silence, slurring his words just a little, for he was half-drunk.

  "Oh, aye!" Isabella cried.

  Anything to break the awful stillness of the chamber! Anything so the two she loved most deeply would not see the tears that threatened to spill from her sorrow-filled eyes.

  Happy to comply, Lionel strummed a few chords on the lovely lute, which was fashioned of mellow wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  "I shall play ye a song I wrote myself just yesterday eve," he informed them, his eyes upon Isabella's face before he began to sing.

  "Scarlet lips hath my lady fair. Soft as silk her flaxen hair. Her beauty lies beyond compare. A white rose is my lady.

  "Dusk-pink the cheeks upon her face. Black-lashed eyes of grey-green lace. Fair is she; I rest my case. A white rose is my lady.

  "Cupid hath let his arrow fly. I love this maid, I'll not deny. To kiss her lips, I'd gladly die. A white rose is my lady.

  "To thee, fair maid, a troth I'll plight. If thou knowest of the try sting site. Meet me there in pale moonlight. A white rose is my lady."

  The plaintive notes of the lover's lament died away slowly. Isabella lowered her eyes to her embroidery, her heart pounding with anticipation. The meadow! The meadow in the woods where

  the swing hung. Lionel wanted her to meet him there, tonight! She was sure of it. And there, he would ask her to marry him. Tears filled her eyes again, but this time, they were tears of joy.

  It seemed as though Isabella had waited forever, but at last, Rushden Castle was quiet. In the small antechamber of the girl's room, old Alice was snoring gently; and farther down the corridor, in his own chamber, Giles was deep in wine-steeped slumber. Lord Oadby and Lady Shrewton had retired hours ago to the Countess's room and had not reappeared. Silently, Isabella rose, pulled on her robe, then, on stealthy, hushed feet, tiptoed downstairs to the great hall, where Sirs Eadric, Thegn, and Beowulf lay sprawled upon pallets on the rush-strewn floor. Half-consumed tankards of ale sat beside the knights, and a pair of dice was thrown carelessly to one side amid a scattering of coins. The girl breathed a sigh of relief at this evidence of the men's earlier activity, for she knew they too had passed from drunken stupor to a sleep from which they would not easily awaken. Normally, the three knights, who had taken to guarding her, would have been roused by the slightest disturbance and leaped to their teet, swords in hand. But tonight, they didn't stir as Isabella crept over them.

  Still, the girl's fingers trembled as she lifted the heavy wooden shaft that barred the front doors, and for an instant, she froze, her heart thudding horribly in her breast, as Eadric snorted suddenly in his sleep and rolled to a more comfortable position. Then she was out into the darkness, her bare feet flying over the cobblestones to the postern gate.

  The night was as still as Rushden had been, the silence broken only by the faint sigh of the wind that rustled the dying leaves of the trees and sent the tall wet grass rippling, scattering the dewdrops so they glistened like prisms beneath the stars. Above, the frosted moon shone down like a halo, lighting the path that led to the meadow.

  When Isabella had reached the place, she paused, glancing around expectantly for Lionel.

  "Lionel?" she whispered, but there was no response.

  Her heart plummeted in despair, thinking she had misunderstood the words of his song after all.

  "Lionel?"

  "Enchante, demoiselle," he answered softly, grinning as he stepped from the shadows.

  "Oh, my lord! Ye—ye frightened me," Isabella said, exhaling

  with relief at the sight of him, then giving a small, nervous laugh and putting one hand to her breast, where her heart was beating rapidly.

  "Forgive me, my dearest heart, but I wanted to be certain 'twas ye and not some other who didst seek our trysting place."

  The moonlight shone down upon his golden hair, making him seem like some young god in the darkness as he took her hands in his, and she thrilled to his words of endearment and caressing touch. She could hardly believe he was hers, that this handsome man who stood so boldly, so gloriously, before her would someday be her husband, that they would pledge their troth to each other here and now, for always.

  Isabella gazed around the mead
ow, wanting to engrave its every detail upon her memory: how the moon streamed down like glowing mist through the branches of the gnarled trees; how the grass sparkled as though a thousand diamonds lay upon the earth; how the swing, hanging from the old oak, moved gently in the wind, which was crisp and clean with the smell of autumn. The girl could almost imagine fairies dancing in the darkness, for the clearing seemed suddenly mystical and filled with the magic of love.

  '"Sabelle," Lionel breathed. '"Sabelle."

  His voice was low and thick with passion, and he kissed her with an urgency she could not deny, did not want to deny. Feverishly, she clung to him, her breasts pressed against his chest so she could feel their hearts pounding as one, even as their mouths met; their tongues entwined; their bodies embraced. Isabella could taste the wine he'd drunk earlier, sweet upon his lips, and smell the fragrant trace of sandalwood soap upon his skin; and she knew, from this moment on, that she would always associate those things with Lionel and this night, just as the meadow would forever be their special place.

  Lionel's mouth left hers to travel across her cheek to her temple, to the silky strands of her hair. He buried his face in the cascading mane, inhaling the deep rose scent of her as he crushed her to him; then suddenly, he swept her up and whirled her about as though he heard some wild and poignant melody played for them alone. Isabella found she was laughing and crying at the same time, the tears streaming down her face as she smiled down at him, caught up in the bittersweet ecstasy of the moment.

  "Oh, Lionel, my love," she said ardently when, at last, he had released her, and she could breathe once more. "'Twill be like dying when ye leave me."

  "I shall come back, 'Sabelle," he told her earnestly. "Never doubt that, my dearest heart."

  Then, perhaps moved by the wine and the headiness of the night, he yanked his sword from its scabbard and plunged the blade into the ground dramatically. It fluttered there gently for an instant, bright and gleaming like a molten silver cross where the moonbeams struck it, sending lambent rays in all directions. Lionel dropped to one knee, laying his hands upon the hilt.

  "Aye, 1 shall come back, 'Sabelle, and I shall make ye mine or die trying. By all that is holy, this I swear."

  She gasped at the seriousness of the vow, touched to the very core of her soul, as he had known she would be. The laughter left her countenance, leaving only the tears glittering like raindrops in her wide grey-green eyes. How he must love her to make such a pledge! A strange chill of foreboding possessed her. Twas tempting fate to love like that!

  Isabella sank to the earth before him, placing her hands over his and looking up raptly into his deep blue eyes.

  "Oh, Lionel. Lionel! Take it back! I wouldst not hold ye to such a vow. 'Tis wrong! Take it back!"

  "Nay," he refused, his golden visage suddenly hungry and defiant. "Tis done. Oh, God, 'Sabelle!" he cried, flinging the sword aside. "Thou hast bewitched me!"

  Then somehow, they were lying upon the grass, and he was loosing the lacings of her robe, pulling at the straps of her shift. She shivered as he bared her breasts, and the cold night air touched them. For a moment, she was startled, for no man had gazed upon her so; and she was young and afraid.

  Lionel seemed to sense her uneasiness, for he muttered, "Christ, ye are so beautiful." Then he groaned, "Oh, 'Sabelle, I cannot wait to have ye. I have tried— God knows, I have! But each day with ye has but made me more determined to have ye. Say ye will be mine... now... tonight!"

  Isabella quivered in his warm embrace, uncertain, frightened, yet wanting him so.

  "I—I am a maid," she whispered.

  "'Sabelle"—his voice was urgent in her ear—"I do not know when Gloucester will give me leave to come again. God's wounds! Ye have stirred my blood all summer. Ye cannot deny me now! Have I not pledged, on my oath, my troth to make ye mine?"

  "Aye, oh, aye. But I am afraid, so afraid. Oh, Lionel!"

  "Do not fear, my dearest heart," he murmured reassuringly. "There is naught to fear. I shall be gentle with ye."

  His hands wrapped themselves in her tangle of silvery tresses as he kissed her deeply once more, his tongue parting her resisting lips savagely until they yielded to him. His fingers swept down to cup one firm, budding breast, and then it seemed his hands were everywhere, touching her, setting her body ablaze with a hot flame of desire as she writhed beneath him. His mouth left hers to cover the rosy tips of her breasts with sweet caresses of moisture. His tongue flicked the rigid little peaks lightly. Isabella stirred in his grasp and moaned, trembling with slowly awakening passion. Her body arched against Lionel's. In minutes, she would be his

  A cloud passed across the face of the moon, and somewhere in the distance, a lone hawk screamed in the darkness, startling them.

  Frightened again, Isabella wrenched herself free and sat up, clutching her garments to her naked chest. To her fanciful nature, the momentary shadowing of the moon, followed by the bird's piercing cry, seemed an ill omen. She shuddered, and the magic spell of the night was broken. Lionel inhaled sharply and shook his head, trying to clear it of the madness that had possessed him: for surely, that is what it had been. Dear God. He had nearly seduced the King's ward! To take Isabella now, under false pretenses, would be to dishonor her for all time and bring Edward's wrath crashing down upon his head. The girl was a marriage prize, and until she was wed, His Grace would not look pleasantly on the absence of her maidenhead—or the man who had taken it. Not until Lionel was free of his betrothal to Lady Gilliane Beaumaris could he dare to dream of making Isabella his.

  Slowly, Lionel helped the girl reassemble her nightclothes, then brushed the twigs from her hair, each knowing the moment of her surrender had been lost.

  Chapter Six

  LORD OADBY'S BEADY, RED-RIMMED EYES WERE glazed with lust as he watched the two lovers from the shadows. How fortunate that he had seen Isabella slipping from her chamber and had stealthily followed her—the little slut. Now that he had learned of her willingness to lie with the first handsome courtier who had come along, the Earl felt less apprehensive about his own plans for the girl. After all, she could hardly protest against his taking of her maidenhead when, like a common serving wench, she had been ready to give it away to Lord Lionel Valeureux, a mere, inexperienced youth who had flattered her with a few pretty phrases. Lord Oadby smiled sourly. The boy had bungled things badly, carrying on with his sword in that ridiculous fashion instead of simply taking Isabella before she'd a chance to consider the full import of the act. Virgins always hesitated unless one dealt firmly with them, paying no heed to their outcries of fear. Thank God, the Earl was not a romantic fool, bothered by stupid notions of honor and property. He would know how to handle the girl, and she wouldn't be running to the Duke of Gloucester with any tales now either. Christ's son, but she was beautiful. Just the thought of how her pale, naked breasts had gleamed in the moonlight was enough to make Lord Oadby's

  manhood harden rapaciously once more. He had been stirred earher by the sight of Isabella's rosy nipples and had eased the ache in his loins with his hand, but there had been little satisfaction in it. Now, the Earl was so excited, he was trembling. He could scarcely wait to make the girl his. Greedily smacking his lips together with anticipation, he hurried after the two lovers as quietly as possible.

  Oh, what luck! Providence had indeed smiled upon Lord Oadby tonight. Some animal in Isabella's menagerie had mewed piti-ftilly, and instead of returning to the keep, she was heading for the stables, parting from Lord Lionel with a few whispered words and a brief kiss. The Earl could hardly believe his good fortune. Surely, his possession of the girl was meant to be. He pushed the last of his qualms about the Duke of Gloucester from his mind and, suppressing the desire he felt to chortle aloud with glee, slowly swung open the stable door.

  He glanced about eagerly, then frowned with puzzlement. Isabella was nowhere to be seen, and yet. Lord Oadby knew, with certainty, that he had indeed observed her entering the stables., Then the low sound of her
voice crooning softly reached his ears, and he realized she was in the loft. He cursed silently to himself, for he would have to climb the ladder that led to the upper story of the stables, and his painful gout would make that difficuh. Nevertheless, the throbbing bulge in his hose drove him on. As best he could, he clambered up the rungs, huffing and puffing until, red-faced from exertion, he attained the top. Once there, he paused momentarily to regain his breath, then staggered toward the girl.

  Isabella gazed up with fright as, without warning, the Earl's fat figure loomed toward her menacingly from the shadows, and for a moment, she was so stunned, she couldn't move. She had thought Lord Oadby in bed with his mistress. To suddenly see him lurching toward her so purposefully, his intent plain, was a shock that took her some minutes to absorb. Then, with a small cry of terror, she pushed the whimpering kitten she'd been soothing from her lap and leaped to her feet, frantically searching for someplace to run to. But there was nowhere to hide, and the Earl was standing between her and the ladder. She was trapped. Wild-eyed with panic, the girl cast about desperately for some sort of weapon, then seized upon a nearby pitchfork. She turned, wielding the tool threateningly.

  "Get away," she warned her warden, whose evil pig eyes were blinking rapidly with surprise. "Don't come near me, or I'll use this, I promise ye."

  "Now, my dear," Lord Oadby wheedled, "there's no need for such hysterics. I did but see the light"—he indicated the torch that Isabella had lit upon entering the stables—"and come to investigate to discover whether or not there was aught amiss here. 'Tis my duty, ye know, as your warden to be certain all is well ^t Rushden."