Page 10 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

Rannulf’s irritation blinded him until after he'd passed Graistan's gatehouse and entered the outer bailey. There was nothing in all his wife’s rich dowry that was compensation for having to live with a nasty shrew. He'd wanted to own her lands and had been swayed to agree by her beauty, but he'd forgotten to check her temperament before purchasing. What price in emotional anguish would he pay for his mistake?

They were well within the foreyard before his vision cleared enough that he could look around him. The byres and barns along the walls were somehow changed. As always, geese grazed near the dovecot and ducks swam in the fish pond. He rode through the inner gate into the courtyard and pulled his bay to a sudden stop.

Jesus God! She'd whitewashed the whole damn keep! Whitewash, all over the lower reaches of a place named for its gray stones. What right did she have to do this?

Despite the shock of white walls, he couldn’t help but notice that the courtyard was neatly kept. The stair rail up to the hall had been repaired. Everywhere, there were clean walls. For the first time in his recent memory, the smell of the stable didn’t compete with that coming from the kitchen.

"My lord," called the stable master as he herded out his underlings to take the troop's horses, "well come! Well come, indeed. It’s good to see you home again."

"Whitewash," was all Rannulf could say.

"Oh, aye." The stable master grinned like a fool. "Your lady’s made some changes. A good lady she is, too, my lord."

Rannulf said nothing, only dismounted and strode up the stairs and into the hall. What he saw at the door stopped him in mid-step. The massive room was almost blinding. Here, too?

Mayhap the paint wasn’t so bad here. The whiteness brought new life to the wall hangings, or had they been cleaned? And, by repainting the sooty ceiling the roof beams once again showed that they'd been brightly painted. No, they had been repainted, for there’d never before been a green one.

As he stepped into the room, the pungent scents of marigold and rosemary rose from the rushes at his feet. Servants surged forward, congratulating him for winning his mock battle with Gilliam while welcoming him home. Despite his growing uneasiness, Rannulf forced himself to respond in kind. Graistan was so changed. He hadn’t expected to feel like a stranger in his own home. And, it was her hand that showed in its every corner.

He lingered in the hall for a moment, waiting for Jordan, but the boy didn’t appear. No matter, it was a short walk to the women's quarters. He made his way to the big room where the female servants stayed and stopped in the doorway. This domain was the only one within his pale in which he wasn’t welcome. The chamber with its many chests and pallets was nearly empty save for two old women working at the looms on the far wall.

"Where is my son?" he asked of one, but she only shrugged and shook her grizzled head.

"Where’s his nurse?" He looked around him. Here, too, there’d been a thorough scrubbing and the room's meager furnishings rearranged. This wife definitely knew the meaning of cleanliness.

"I don't know, my lord," answered the eldest, dropping her shuttle for a moment. "We don’t see much of her any longer since the new lady came."

"Alais is gone?" Rannulf snapped to attention. "Where is Jordan if his nurse is gone?"

"I don’t know," the woman repeated nervously at his angry tone.

Rannulf clenched a fist. She’d promised; she'd vowed before God Himself on their wedding day to accept his natural son. But, she hadn’t promised to let the boy live alongside her.

Rage mingled with a terrible fear. What’d she done to his son? He whirled on his heel and strode back down to the hall. "I want my son," he bellowed, attracting the notice of every soul within the room.

"Rannulf," Gilliam called from the door as he entered. "What’s wrong? Where’s Jordan?"

"What has she done to him?" Rannulf roared.

"What do you mean," his wife retorted smartly as she stepped into the hall from behind his brother, "what have I done to him? I’ve done nothing save what should have been done from the beginning." She placed her hands on her hips in angry outrage.

Rannulf stared at her. Where had she sent him? "And you let her?" he demanded of his brother.

"Let her?" Gilliam looked back and forth between them, his face clouded in confusion.

"Papa!" Jordan cried out from the chapel entryway. "Papa, you’re home." The boy dashed across the room and launched himself into his father's arms. "Did you bring me anything?"

"You see," Lady Graistan snapped. "At last, your son is well-dressed, properly cared for, and receiving lessons as befits his station."

Rannulf hugged the boy close in relief. "Is that any way to greet your papa, by asking what I might or might not have brought you?" He held his son out at arm's length. "Why I believe you've grown in my absence. Did your nurse have to make you a new gown?"

"Nay, it wasn’t Alais," Jordan said, idly kicking his booted feet out at his father as he dangled. "Lady Wren did. You know, Papa, she isn’t a dragon at all. She likes me." He smiled at his stepmother from over his father's arm. "She brought Brother Matthew here to teach me my letters, too, so I might grow up to be a lord like you. She says you’ll find me a tutor, so I may have a sword. Will you?"

Rannulf set the boy down. "I hadn’t thought about it," he said. At his son's crestfallen look, he added, "But I’ll consider it."

"Thank you, Papa," Jordan responded, then hesitated hopefully. "Did you bring me anything?"

"Go ask Temric if he can find it for you," Rannulf told him with a laugh.

Squealing, the boy whirled and started away, but his wife held out her hand. "Jordan," she warned.

Rannulf watched as his son instantly stopped. The lad turned back to his father with a deep sigh. "Pardon, I forgot," he said, simply. "My thanks, Papa. And," he added with a grin, "I’m glad you are home," and raced for the hall door.

His heart torn by jealousy, Rannulf watched his son go. Jordan had always been his alone. He didn’t care to share the boy, especially not with his wife. He turned a hard gaze onto the woman he’d irrevocably bound to him.

She glared at him. "How dare you think me capable of harming that child," she snarled. "And, it was insufferably rude of you to turn your back on the townsmen this day." She started to say more, but seemed to choke on her words.

"If the townsmen complain, I’ll apologize," Rannulf snapped. "I don’t think it’s on their behalf that you rage. More likely it’s that I tweaked your pride."

Her look spit fire at him, and her pale skin flushed. She whirled away and stormed from the hall. Gilliam laughed.

Rannulf whirled on his youngest brother. "What is it you find so amusing, brother," he demanded harshly.

"The two of you," Gilliam said with a smile, then strode away without waiting for a response.

Rannulf clenched his fists in impotent rage: His house was changed, his son was taken, he was the butt of his brother's amusement. "May God piss on you all," he muttered, then commanded in a louder voice, "I want a bath in my chamber and bring me something to eat. And, butler, bring me a big ewer of wine."

"Your lady has already ordered it for you, my lord," It was not the butler who answered, but his young assistant.

"Then," Rannulf ground out between clenched teeth, " I want ale, not wine."

Rowena raged blindly into the kitchen, grabbed a wooden spoon, and slammed it down on the cutting block. The head snapped off and flew across the room. She hit the block again with the remains of the spoon. The shaft snapped in two, and she hurled the pieces across the room.

"My lady," the cook cried out as she reached for a second spoon, "what have I done? Wait, stop, I need that."

Through the haze of her anger, she dimly heard his cry. It was still a full minute before she could release the utensil.

"Pardon," she managed, through clenched teeth.

"Did you come to change the menu we'd planned for our lord's return?" The portly man nearly twice her size almost cringed before her. "There’s yet time if you wish it."

Rowena struggled mightily with her emotions and won. "Nay, it’s not that. The meal will remain as we had planned it. Never mind me."

With that she retreated from the cooking shed and made her way into her garden. The small plot of land that was the lady's garden had been stolen from a corner of the courtyard and enclosed with a tall fence. When Rowena first arrived it had been like the rest of Graistan, neglected and disused, save for the kitchen herbs. Although this area remained still too wild for her tastes it showed the beginnings of order and form. She seated herself on the bench amid the thyme and pinks to stare blindly at the blooming fruit trees espaliered against the walls .

That insufferable, horrible, boorish, hateful man.

The dying sun left behind it a bloody sky. Shadows crept stealthily toward her, turning the rosemary into hulking, tormented forms. Each darkening moment brought her unrelentingly closer to sharing her bed with him. Nothing had changed; it would be no different than the first night. The memory of his rejection made her stomach clench.

"Are you here, Lady Wren? Oh, there you are. I could hardly see you." Jordan trotted through the garden to stand hopefully before her. "My papa has brought me a pony of my very own. Temric says I may ride him on the morrow. Cook says I must ask you before he can give me something for him."

Rowena stirred herself from her bitter thoughts and smiled at her stepson. "How lucky you are to have such a generous papa." How could anyone, even that man, believe she could do this boy harm? "Tell Cook you may have what you wish, although I don’t know what there is save a mealy apple or two."

"My thanks." Jordan gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and hied back toward the cook shed.

Rising with a sigh, Rowena slowly made her way back to the hall. How could she be a dutiful wife to a man so hateful? And what next was she to expect from him? Likely, he’d destroy all she built simply because he could.

Inside, servants gamed and chatted away their idle evening hours while the dogs danced and played around the room. It was all so unfair. Her rage flamed back to life.

Rowena drew a deep breath. Nay, this was wrong; anger was always unproductive. She must be calm and rational when next she saw him. More importantly she had to be comfortable. But to rid herself of her finery meant she must retreat to their bedchamber when she wasn’t yet ready to once again confront him.

Even as she hesitated, the need to be free of her heavy garments only made them all the more uncomfortable. There was no choice but to change. Well, she’d commanded that his bath be laid in the solar. There was no reason for him to be in their bedchamber.

She quietly climbed the stair, then peered cautiously into the bedchamber from the antechamber. It was empty. As she entered the room, she glanced sadly about her. What if this was her last night here? How easily she'd become accustomed to the luxury and how deeply she would miss it. She slipped swiftly into the room.

"And you let her?" She froze as Lord Rannulf’s words exploded into the silence around her. "Is there no one in this keep who could say nay to my wife?" He was speaking to someone in the solar. She turned to see that the door between the rooms was ajar.

"Who was I to stop her?" It was Alais's voice that answered. "She took Jordan from me. Had not the dear child begged on my behalf, she’d have sent me from the keep. I’m not allowed any freedom with my charge. I may not naysay anything she tells him. I’m not a good influence on the boy, she says. Now, all I ever hear from his lips is ‘the lady told me this, the lady told me that.’" The nurse's voice grew louder as her complaint continued.

Rowena hurriedly removed her silver chain, placed it into its casket, and put the box aside as she listened. She should close the door, but to do so was to reveal her presence. Then again, she'd be gone in a moment. She unpinned her wimple and released her hair from its tight roll, meaning to replait it once she was dressed.

"You say I should have stopped her? Who am I but a mere servant, or so she told me. Do you think I’m mistaken when I said she'd set me out? It was she who dismissed your butler and set his feet upon yon road without one penny to warm his pocket."

"She did what!"

Rannulf’s shocked tone surprised Rowena, but then he hadn’t witnessed the man's drunken incompetence. Surely, Rannulf would agree that a chance at life was better than death. Rowena seated herself in a chair and slipped off her shoes and stockings.

"Aye, aye," the nurse continued, obviously enjoying her tale now that she understood she’d bear no hurt for it. "She said he drank the best and served the rest, but who would know for sure if it weren't all spit, since we who serve here only drink ale and barley water?"

"But, the man's been here all his life. Where did he go?"

Rannulf actually sounded concerned for the man’s well-being. Rowena’s heart twisted again. Aye, he had concern for a slovenly servant but none at all for his rightful wife.

She removed her fine gowns and folded them away with great care. Dressed only in her sheer linen chemise she reached for her everyday dress that hung from the pole behind the bed.

"I know not. But, you should also know it was at her hands that Master Hugo had his strange fit and died. And she has Lady Maeve locked in a convent as well."

"She's done what with Maeve?" Rannulf raged. "No more!" he bellowed. "Have someone find my wife and bring her to me."

A chair scraped, then footsteps neared the door. Rowena whirled, clutching her gown to her chest. He was coming into the bedchamber!

If he found her here, he would think she'd eavesdropped apurpose. In panic, she dropped her gown. There was no time to dress and no escape without a dress. Instead, she slid onto the bed and took refuge in a fold of the bed curtains.

Rannulf stormed into the room. The door crashed shut into its frame. He wore his shirt, its neck open to reveal his broad chest. His chausses clung damply to his hips and strong thighs. His dark hair lay in moist curls around his face. Rowena eased farther into the shadows as she caught sight of his evil expression. He did not look to be in a mood to listen to any explanation she might give.

He grabbed his cup from the tray on the table and lifted it to his lips. Finding it empty, he held the ewer upside down over the cup. Not a drop fell from lip to cup.

"Damn," he shouted and threw the ewer at the wall. It shattered against the embroidered hanging and fell in wet pieces against the carpeted floor.

She gasped.

More quickly than she could catch her breath, he was at the bedside. He reached into the bed and caught her by the arms. "You were listening by the door." His words were hard as flint.

Rowena struggled in his grasp. "I was not. Until you say otherwise this is still my chamber as well as yours. Nor were you trying to keep the conversation private."

Since resistance was useless she relaxed and let him pull her off the bed. To her surprise once her feet were upon the floor, he released her.

"Did you dismiss my butler?" This was a hard demand.

Rowena held up her head. "I did. He was a drunkard who did more harm than good." She met his stony gaze with an icy look. "Better that than reduce him to a pigherd."

"And his brother?" Again, Rannulf made this a harsh command.

"Is still your master falconer. I’m not a fool," she ground out, crossing her arms before her. "I wouldn’t punish a family for the actions of one member."

"And what of my wardrober?" Lord Rannulf took a threatening step forward.

Rowena refused to be intimidated. "His own guilt killed him. He raided the treasury for the Lady Maeve's sake."

Her husband caught his breath as if in pain, and whirled around to lean against the hearth wall, his back to her. "How much," he managed in a strangled voice.

"Forty marks in coin. If jewels are missing, I cannot say, for I am not familiar with what was there. Neither do I know what he gained from the sale of our stores," she said, sitting back onto the bed. "He said he stole for the love of the Lady Maeve, and that she used the knowledge of his thievery to force him to take more still."

A moment passed in silence. Rowena risked much and spoke on. "I understand how you might be upset with me, my lord, if all you hear are the tales brought to you by one jealous servant. Don’t listen solely to her, speak with all your people. They’re well content. I’ve tried to be a good wife to you."

He jerked around, his eyes hard. "A good wife?" he spat out. "I return to find you dressed in jewels when you tell me my keep’s impoverished. I see you’ve spared no expense in glorifying this keep when our king demands yet another round of knights' fees from me. God's teeth! I had to pay double for the dubious privilege of wedding you."

Outrage drove all sense from Rowena. She leapt to her feet. "Dubious, indeed," she snapped. "I beg you to remember that my father will pay half that fee. These gowns were mine already, and the chain only borrowed from your treasury. Restoration of the keep cost you nothing, save for my hard labor and that of your servants. Our only expense has been for the supplies I bought to feed us because the storage bins were bare. Should we have starved?"

"But you’re not content to simply beggar me," his sharp complaint overrode hers, "you must also trespass into my family. Do you leave no part of my life as mine alone?"

"You gave me your leave to become a part of your life the day after our wedding. I offered you my skills and my devotion to duty. In return, you said your servants were at my disposal. I have only done as you commanded," she retorted.

His eyes narrowed. "You’ve stolen my son from me." His words were hard.

"Stolen your son?” Her voice was strident in denial. "How foolish, of course I haven’t stolen him. He’s in the stable feeding the pony you brought him."

"And when did you decide that I wasn’t properly caring for him?" her husband demanded, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Who knows better when a child is ready for book learning or swordplay, the child's father or a convent-raised vixen who's barely even borne a man between her thighs much less a child?"

Rowena’s arms tightened over her chest. May God damn this man for his arrogance. "I may not have borne a child, but I can recognize need when I see it. Were you aware that the Lady Maeve had convinced Alais that I meant to kill the child? That stupid cow would have kept him in a barren tower room with only a single meal each day in order to protect him from me. Or, perhaps I’m mistaken in thinking it Maeve's order. Perhaps, that’s how you intended him to be treated. If so, what kind of parent are you? I’d not let the meanest scullery lad live like that in my keep."

Her husband moved more swiftly than Rowena expected. She yelped in pain as he again grabbed her by the arms. This time his hands bruised her.

"Vicious bitch," he breathed, his voice low and dangerous.

"Let me go," she demanded, fear creeping in behind her outrage.

Rather than release her his mouth tightened into a hard line. "Mayhap pain will reach you where reason cannot. This marriage of ours is a mistake of the worst sort. Well, no longer. I'll not share my life with a nasty shrew whose tongue is sharper than my sword. Say farewell to Graistan this night, for on the morrow I will see you returned to Benfield."

Rowena sneered. "On what grounds? You made very certain our marriage was consummated. What of those sons you need? You’ll hardly get sons from me if I’m at Benfield."

"Aye, we are wed," Lord Graistan returned coldly, "unfortunately and truly wed. I'll not contest that. As for sons, I have one. Take your pretentious airs and be the fine lady of Benfield, for I'll not have you here."

Rowena’s heart exploded in panicked rage. He meant it. He’d take it all from her. With all her might she kicked out at him.

"You dirty son of a sow," she screamed. "I’ve nearly killed myself to bring this keep to its present state, battling hostile servants and a cruel woman without you at my side. It’s not enough for you to force me into marriage, but you must belittle me before the entire town of Graistan. You say I left no part of your life untouched? Well, what of mine? You took all my hopes and desires that day. You'll not steal this from me. I will not go!"

She threw herself backward. Beneath his crushing grip, the fine linen of her sleeve tore. As the fabric gave she freed her arm from his grasp. But, his hand on her other arm was an iron band. His face was black with rage. He raised his hand.

"No," she cried out and lurched back. If he struck her now he’d surely kill her.

In desperation, she threw herself against him. As long as she was against him, he couldn’t lay blows. Her free arm clutched around his chest. He gasped in surprise and released her.

Instantly, she wrapped her other arm around him. Only then did she see her error. He grabbed her by the shoulders. How long before he pried her away?

"Don’t kill me, my lord," she cried against his chest.

His breathing was shallow, his heart raced. She could feel its beat against her cheek. She prayed for any sort of heavenly help.

"Please," she whispered hoarsely, meaning to say more, but her voice broke; she wasn’t accustomed to pleading.

Rannulf released her shoulders and set his hands against her waist. "Let go," he said, but the muscles of his chest were still tensed as if to strike.

She resettled her grip, pressing herself even more tightly to him. "You’ll hit me" was all she whispered and cursed herself as a coward.

"Let go," he repeated, his words rumbling against her ear. "I’m calm now. I’ll not hurt you."

A moment passed and, then, another. Still, she didn’t move.

He gently stroked her hair. "Let go." The palm of his hand cupped her cheek. Despite her resistance, he lifted her face up from his chest. She kept her eyes shut and tensed for the blow that must surely follow. His fingers lay warm against her jaw. She bit her lip to stop its trembling.

When he sighed, she opened her eyes just a little. The madness had left his face, although anger remained. She saw it in the muscle that twitched along his jaw. His thumb moved slightly across her cheek. Then, his gray eyes clouded and the harsh contours of his face relaxed into something akin to acceptance.

Slowly, her arms loosened. She stepped back. Her legs trembled.

"You tore my chemise," she said, her voice quiet, awed by the height of his rage.

"And lost my mind as well," he replied with a crooked grin.

She blinked, fighting sudden and unexpected tears. Her knees buckled, and she began to fall. He caught her to him.

"I was afraid," she cried softly, her head cradled against his shoulder, her fingers soft against the hard contours of his chest. "I thought you would kill me."

His lips touched her forehead. "Never, never goad an angry man," he murmured, his mouth moving softly against her brow as he spoke. He leaned his head against hers.

For a long moment, they stood in silence. She knew the warm silkiness of his skin against her hand and the strength of his shoulder against her cheek. Beneath her palm she felt the steady beat of his heart.

His lips touched her cheek in a gentle kiss, then he released her and stepped back. She looked up, sorry he’d moved and ended the moment. She memorized the arrogant line of his straight nose, the curve of his mouth. His cheekbones jutted high over the strong line of his jaw and chin. Dark auburn hair lay in fine curls against the strong column of his neck.

Under her watchful gaze, his eyes darkened to blue and filled with an odd sadness that seemed to beg for her touch. She raised a hand to the newly shorn hollow of his cheek. His skin was rough, yet soft beneath her palm. He shut his eyes and leaned into her caress. Her fingers traced the line of his mouth. When he kissed her fingertips, she caught her breath and would have withdrawn her hand had he not taken it in his, lacing his fingers between hers.

"Dear God in heaven, never have I been in such a rage," he breathed, slowly drawing her nearer. "You raise such passions in me."

He touched his mouth to hers, his lips moving slightly in a soft kiss. She clung to him and let the gentleness of his kiss wash over her. He wanted her. Surely that meant he'd not send her away. Still, if she wished to secure her place at his side, she'd have to make him hers, just as she had made his home hers. Her mouth moved in response to his as her arms slipped around his neck.

As she drew herself up against him, she gasped against the searing heat that filled her. Her skin burned against his as she felt the strength of his chest against her breasts, felt his hard thighs touching hers. In dizzying response to these sensations, she forgot about walls and keeps, halls and servants. Instead, she caught her breath when his kiss deepened in defiance as if he expected her denial. But she met his hunger with a very real need of her own.

His hand slipped inside the remnants of her gown and found her breast. He kissed her cheek, her neck, the base of her throat. Lost in the wonderful, terrible need that consumed her, Rowena ran her hands over the broad planes of his chest until she felt the soft linen of his braies. He made a quiet sound of pleasure when her fingers played along the drawstring waist.

There was a tap at the door. "My lord," a servant called out, "we cannot find your lady. Shall we begin a search?"

He straightened. She stared up at him. Slowly, slowly, he smiled, his look fierce with desire .

"Never mind," he said, his gaze trapping hers as he eased the torn gown off her shoulder. The garment fell into a pile around her ankles. She wore nothing beneath it. He drew a quick breath. "I’ve found her."

Deep in sleep, Rowena pulled at the bedclothes. They were caught somewhere near the end of the bed. It took a moment to open her eyes. She peered hopelessly toward the foot of the bed, but the darkness was nearly absolute, as they'd let the fire die and forgotten to light the night candle.

Her outstretched hand found her husband's shoulder. He shifted slightly at her touch. The memory of their bed play made her shiver. At the center of her being awoke a throbbing need she knew only he could ease. She bit her lip and mentally recited a prayer of protection for her heart. Would this time be like the last? In the morning would he once again be the cold, hard man he'd been after their wedding night?

Dear Lord, but he might still send her away. She clenched her eyes shut on that thought. Didn’t he realize that this was now her home, too? Perhaps, as he understood and saw all she’d done for him, he’d like her better. Aye, if she guarded her tongue and did as he bid until he'd grown accustomed to her, he’d accept her.

She crept from the bed and brought a burning splinter back from the solar and set it to the wick of the thick night candle. Even though it stood near the head of the bed its meager flame was enough to show her the bedclothes bundled near the bottom of the mattress. Its pale illumination touched her husband's face. She smiled. The resemblance between him and his son was remarkable. Surely, it couldn’t be so hard to care for the father when she already loved the son.

Her smile faded. The very thought of losing Jordan broke her heart. Even if rejection and pain were the price she paid, her husband must never send her away. Graistan must be hers for all time. Resolved, she slid back into the tall bed forgetting to retrieve the bedclothes.

Her husband opened his eyes just a little later. "Why did you leave?" he murmured.

"I was cold and couldn’t find the bedclothes in the dark," she whispered back, sliding down beside him.

"Impossible." He grinned slightly. "There is nothing cold about you."

"Don’t tease me," she whispered in shy embarrassment. He only chuckled and put his arm beneath her to draw her nearer. When he nuzzled her ear, his warm breath set her skin to shivering. Her arms slipped around him when he set his lips to the spot behind her ear, and she eased downward until their hips met. His shaft moved in new life. She caught her breath as her body answered with its own desire. There was great pleasure in knowing she could wring this reaction from him.

"Who’s the tease now," he said hoarsely against her ear. His free hand slipped into her hair to cradle her head and turn her face to his. Their lips briefly met, then he rolled back down against the mattress as if to escape her. Rather than release him, Rowena came to rest on her side against him.

He sighed. She didn’t yet know him well enough to read his expression, yet she knew a troubled man when she saw one. He combed her hair with his fingers as though distracted.

"Why did you lie with me?" he asked after a moment. "I’d threatened you with violence. Why—" He seemed ready to ask more, but his whisper died into silence as his fingers descended the peak of her breast.

"I," she started, barely breathing the word as his hand left her breast, and his fingers drew curving lines against her stomach. "I," she caught her breath as his hand slid lower still to find her soft woman's flesh between her thighs. "I, oh, I cannot think when you do that." She kissed his throat, needing to touch him somewhere to release the lovely pressure he awoke.

"That," he said with a smile, his fingers once again teasing her breast, "is answer enough."

She shivered in response, then lay back in the mattress. It took only the slightest tug to convince him he should lie atop her. When she lifted her hips in invitation, he made her wait an exquisitely long time before he finally accepted.

Rannulf was awake long after his wife had dropped into contented slumber. She lay in the curve of his arm, her breathing even and peaceful, long strands of her hair falling across his chest. In all his life, he’d never once raised his hand in anger toward a woman, not even Isotte. Until this night, he hadn’t believed himself to be capable of such violence. But this spit of a girl had goaded him until he’d near destroyed her in his rage.

Not only had she taunted him, her rage had met and matched his. As her anger, so her passion. He closed his eyes as his body reacted pleasurably to that thought.

On the heels of pleasure came doubt. If she were still the innocent she'd been on their wedding night, she should have cowered from him after he'd threatened her very life. Instead, she'd met him willingly, even wantonly, as though she truly desired him. Was this simply passionate innocence or something more calculating? If so, then for that purpose did she seek to use him? Could it be she was already with child and could now claim the babe his, but born too soon?

Rannulf closed his mind against these painful thoughts and eased his arm out from beneath her. Deep within him there was a longing to believe what his senses told him, that she desired him for no other reason than himself. Yet, the past had taught him he could so easily delude himself. How was he to know the truth? Rannulf rolled away and lay sleepless for hours.