Page 11 of Winter’s Heat (The Seasons #1)

Rowena sat bolt upright and pushed her tangled hair out of her face. Light flooded into the bed from the solar's open door. She glanced quickly about. The room was empty; he'd left her sleeping. Why? To prepare in secret for her departure?

With an anxious cry, she threw herself off the mattress, snatched her overgown off its peg and shrugged into it. It revealed almost more than it covered, but fear drove Rowena into the solar. Her personal items lay just where she'd left them. She dashed to the windows.

The courtyard below was bathed in the lazy warmth of midday. No baggage wains stood waiting to be filled with her belongings. No peasants and oxen milled about waiting to carry them away, nor was there a mounted escort ready to send her back to Benfield.

She released her breath in a long sigh, then squinted down at the crowd of stable hands clustered at the inner gate. They peered out into the bailey. She let her gaze shift beyond the inner walls to see what held their interest. It was Jordan astride his new pony.

With a scream of delight even she could hear, he sent the small beast dashing full tilt across the bailey and through a flock of unwary geese. Feathers flew as servants scrambled to catch the fowl. At the far end of the outer yard, Gilliam doubled over in laughter. Beside him stood Rannulf, her husband.

An odd sensation awoke within her at the sight of his broad-shouldered form. The sun burnished his dark hair with copper and gleamed golden on his soft gown. Although Rowena tried from this distance, she couldn’t make out his expression.

Then, as if sensing her interest, he looked up toward her windows. She gasped and stepped back, only to wonder why she'd done so. Surely, he couldn’t have seen her.

"Enough of this foolishness," she scolded herself and threw open the door to the women's quarters. "Ilsa?! Ilsa! Where are you?"

Without waiting for an answer, she stalked back into the solar. At least the maid had thought to lay out a ewer of water and a fresh washcloth. She dampened the square and scrubbed her face.

"Here I am, lady," the old woman said, stepping spryly into the solar.

"Bring the rest of my clothing," she snapped as she pulled off her overgown and tossed it to Ilsa. "Why did you leave me sleeping?"

"Lord Rannulf told me not to disturb you." Her maid turned to gather the rest of Rowena’s garments off the wall peg, then found the chemise in the jumble and handed it to her lady.

"But you know how much I have to do with the feast this afternoon. And," Rowena hurriedly pulled the chemise on over her head, "above all, I missed mass." Following this, she donned the loose white undergown and slipped her feet into stockings and shoes.

"Well," Ilsa said with a nervous laugh, "what is one missed service among so many attended? Besides, you look rested. Perhaps you should sleep late more often."

Rowena shot her a sharp look. "You know what my wishes are. Why did you listen to my lord when I commanded differently?"

Ilsa’s face creased. "My lady, he is my lord. Will you worry me between you like two dogs with a meaty bone until I snap and am useless to you both?" The old woman twisted her hands into her lady's simple blue wool overgown.

Rowena opened her mouth to reply, only to shut it against the angry words waiting to tumble out. If she vented her fears and frustration over her marriage on those around her, she'd soon destroy all the faith and confidence she had so strived to build. "My apologies," she said at last, "I’m not fit to be with this morning."

Ilsa helped her into her overgown and pulled the laces tight as Rowena knotted her belt about her waist. At last, she tied her key ring into place on the belt's long tongue. When she let it fall the four heavy keys jangled at her knees.

"Sit, lady, and let me fix your hair," the maid commanded.

Rowena shook her head. "Nay. Today, I’ll do it for myself."

Again, Ilsa’s face creased. "But it’s my duty to—"

"Go." Rowena’s tone sent the old woman back into the safety of the women's quarters. Rowena dropped into a chair and tore the comb through her long tresses. It would have taken Ilsa a half an hour to do what she could do for herself in only minutes.

Suddenly, the solar's door burst open. "Lady Wren, Lady Wren," Jordan screeched, "you should have seen me!" He was fair dancing with excitement. His hair stood straight up from his head, and his robe was smeared with mud. "You should have seen Scherewind. That’s my pony. I’ve named him Scherewind for he is faster than any other horse."

"Oh, but I did," she interrupted. "Oof," she gasped as he leapt into her lap. "Have a care with me, my heart. I’m no burly man like your father or your uncles."

"Pardon," Jordan said in the same breath with, "You saw? Was I not the fastest man on horseback you have ever seen?" He waited expectantly for her nod and when he received it yelled in pleasure. "I knew I was."

Rowena laughed. "I also believe we are now short a goose or two."

Jordan had the grace to look sheepish. "Papa says I’ll learn to be more careful if I must help Cook pluck the one Scherewind killed. Do I have to?" he asked, his eyes wide with hope of reprieve.

"Jordan." The stern, hard word made both the child and his stepmother start in surprise. Rowena turned to look. Rannulf stood in the doorway, his fists clenched at his side and a dark expression on his face.

"Why did you come here when I sent you to the kitchen?" Her husband’s voice wasn’t loud, but there was no mistaking his anger.

"But Papa," the boy whined pitifully, "it will be so hard.” Again, he turned to his stepmother. “Must I?" he pleaded.

Instinctively, protectively, Rowena’s arms tightened around his slim shoulders as he burrowed even deeper into her embrace.

Her husband turned his hard gray gaze on her. "Put him down." It was no request. "I'll not have you stepping between me and my son."

Rowena stiffened at the command in his tone, but knew he was right in what he ordered. Although she loosened her hold on the boy, she wasn’t ready to free him. "Jordan, someday you will hold the lives of others in your hands," she said, turning her full attention to this child she loved. "If you don’t learn to accept responsibility for your mistakes, how will they be able to give to you their loyalty?"

"But I cannot do it," he cried. "I am only little."

From his stance, Rannulf loosed a small sound. "Cannot or will not?" he asked his son, a sudden softness in his voice.

Rowena looked up at him. Gone was the tension of the previous moment. He now leaned casually in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. When he lifted a brow in response to her look, his mouth seemed almost to bend in a smile.

"If you are man enough to ride the pony you must be man enough for this. I will brook no further disobedience from you. Go. Do as you have been told. And," he continued, "tomorrow you eat the fruits of your carelessness. Today, it seems we feast. I understand there will even be mummers."

The child in Rowena’s lap crowed in excitement. "Players! May I see them now?"

"You have something else to attend to," his father told him. "Off with you to the kitchen. I wish to speak with your stepmother."

The boy's look was beseeching as he slipped from her lap and started toward the door. "I’ll be more careful of Scherewind, I will, I vow it," he offered, still hopeful.

"I have no doubt you will," his father replied, deaf to the pleading in his son's voice .

Rowena said nothing, only bit her cheek to keep from smiling as the boy hung his head and walked from the room as if he were going to his death. How could father and son be so alike in look and yet so different in disposition? Where her husband was moody and unpredictable, his son was calm and happy. Had Rannulf been like Jordan once, long ago?

When he could see his son no more, Rannulf shut the door then stepped into the solar. "Cover your hair," he brusquely commanded of his wife. "My brothers will be here in a moment."

Rowena’s heart fell at his harsh tone. So, there was no change between them. The softness she’d seen in his face was only for his son. Standing, she pulled her hair over her shoulder, her fingers flying as she braided it. When she glanced up, he was watching her. Her face reddened at his intense look, and she turned away to tie the thong at her braid's end. With that done she deftly fastened on the plain linen head scarf Ilsa laid out for her.

"I saw you at your window not long ago. You weren’t yet dressed." Rannulf’s comment was flat and a little harsh.

Startled, Rowena whirled to face him. "You saw me?" she gasped out. If he had seen her, had others noticed her as well? Once again, her cheeks burned.

His eyes narrowed. "I hope that isn’t your habit, for I won’t tolerate such boldness."

His chiding tone reawakened her anger, chasing away all the shame. "Of course it isn’t my habit," she snapped. "I only wished to see if you were," she caught herself before she spilled the rest of what she meant to say: removing my belongings. No need to borrow trouble.

"If I was what?" Rannulf snapped back. "Still within these walls?"

Rowena frowned at him. What in the world was he talking about? Where else would he be?

Sighing in frustration, she reined in her emotions. There was no need to provoke him again. "It’s nothing but a woman's foolishness," she said with a small smile. Within her heart, she prayed she was right, that she'd been foolish to believe he might send her away.

He watched her, his tension again easing from him, softening the set of his shoulders. With startling suddenness, he grinned. "So, you admit to an occasional foolishness, do you?"

The question so took her aback that she could only stare at him. When she said nothing, he laughed and seated himself in the chair she'd left. With his long legs stretched out before him, he looked only marginally more comfortable than Gilliam had in the same chair.

"What you said to Jordan," her husband offered a moment later, "it was good. I only told him that he had to do the chore. You told him the why of it." His voice was almost choked, as if it cost him to say the words.

Rowena’s surprise grew. Was this a compliment? "He’s a good lad," she said quietly.

"What is this name my son calls you?" Rannulf peered up at her, his expression neither hostile nor friendly.

A self-conscious laugh left her. "Oh, that. When I first came to the convent one nun mangled my name so badly it came out Wren and so it stayed these many years. It’s silly I suppose, but I’m accustomed to it and it’s easier for Jordan." Her voice trailed off into silence. She was babbling like a fool.

"Wren," Rannulf said softly as if to try the feel of the name on his tongue. "It seems a flippant name, and one that hardly suits you."

There was a tap at the door. "Come," they said in unison.

"Good day, my lady," said Gilliam as he entered and came to stand before the hearth. Temric silently followed his youngest noble sibling and took up his place beside his lord's chair.

"We’re here as you requested, brother," Gilliam went on. "Now, what was it you wished to discuss?"

Graistan’s lord shot a swift look at his wife, then turned his attention on his youngest brother. "I wish to know why the Lady Maeve was sent from my walls with no word to me of your intentions. She’s my ward, and I am responsible for her. Unless you can show me good reason not to, I must bring her home."

Rowena’s heart sank. Gilliam blanched. "Nay," he protested, his voice weak.

"My lord, don’t bring her back. She wreaked havoc here," Rowena tried, her heart falling even further. Maeve was right. Lord Rannulf would bring her home. "She’s well cared for as a guest in the convent at Hazelbrook, more than fulfilling your duty to her as a warden."

Rannulf released an irritated and confused breath, his glance moving from his wife to his brother. "Will one of you tell me what happened that caused you to send her there?"

Rowena fairly leapt to answer him. "We discovered it was on her behalf that Hugo raided your treasury. "

"Of that you have proof?" her husband asked softly.

"Hugo confessed," she started to say, but Rannulf waved away her words.

"You’re no priest. What if Hugo sought to ease his own guilt by dragging an innocent down with him?"

"If only you’d seen his pain," Rowena protested, torn between disappointment and outrage at Rannulf’s defense of that horrid woman. "If you had, you couldn’t believe it other than the truth. Besides, what did he do with his stolen wealth if not give it to her? What he took is well and truly gone."

Rannulf frowned as if in annoyance. "That’s a different issue. I accept you believe her guilty of this theft, but that still leaves the question of why no one requested my permission before sending her away from my walls."

Rowena shrugged, the gesture covering her own guilt. Each time she'd sat to write for that permission her pen refused to form the words. Maeve had been so certain she would return to Graistan. One day’s delay became two, then three and four, until it was too late to write. "We received your message saying you'd soon be home, so we waited," she tried.

"Don’t bring her back here," Gilliam pleaded quietly. "She only seeks to hurt those around her. She can do you no credit here."

"Surely you’re mistaken," Rannulf retorted, the annoyance he’d shown his wife softening into confusion as he looked upon his brother. "She’s lived here two years, and never have I witnessed any misbehavior on her part. No doubt she has her faults, but so do we all. I cannot see that she has ever done any harm. "

Between his obvious dislike of her and the growing certainty that Maeve would be returned to Graistan Rowena’s emotions took flight, releasing all control of her tongue as they went. "Harm!" she sputtered. "Ask your servants what she's done. Ask the assistant cook who lost a finger at Maeve's hand. Ask the mother of the girl over whose head boiling water was poured as punishment for clumsiness."

Rannulf shifted swiftly in his chair to look at her. Shock colored his expression and shook his head in disbelief. "How can this be true? If these things happened beneath my own roof my folk would have come to me with their complaints."

Rowena could only stare helplessly at him. It was a question she’d asked herself often enough. Her husband’s care for his home was obvious, as was the care of his folk for him. Why didn’t they go to their lord?

"Because, you were too caught up in your own grief to listen to your servants." Temric's quiet words filled the silent room, his usually harsh voice unexpectedly gentle. "You let the past blind you here, Rannulf."

"Temric," his noble brother complained, now shifting to face his master-at-arms, "you know better than any that my folk have never feared to come to me. Now you say I’ve been a blind fool and mistaken an evil vixen for a helpless widow, then let her torment my people? You know that’s not true."

His bastard brother stood unswayed by the assault. "Do I need to remind you that Maeve came here because she’d impoverished her dower property? Such a woman cares nothing for the folk she uses. I think you know that as well as I, although you long refused to see it. You have a wife now, Graistan has its lady. Leave Maeve where she is."

Gilliam's face twisted. "If you return her to Graistan, I pray you release me from my oath to you so I may seek my fortune elsewhere. I cannot be under the same roof with that woman."

That brought Graistan’s lord to his feet with a start. "What?!" he demanded in shock. "But you’ve only just returned home. Where will you go?"

"To King Richard in France. It will be one less knight's fee you must pay." Gilliam tried for a jaunty smile and failed.

"I cannot believe this," Rannulf cried, throwing up his hands in frustration. "My older brother lectures and my youngest brother threatens to leave home all because of one helpless woman. What is wrong with you two? By God, my wife is near believing the woman a witch!" His shoulders tightened until Rowena feared his bones would crack, then he whirled and strode to the door to slam his fist against the wood. The sound of the blow reverberated in the quiet room, tangling with the rasping sound of his angry breathing.

A moment later and Rannulf turned to look back at those in the chamber. His face was dour, his eyes like hard steel. "So, to keep you happy, she must go," he ground out. "But what of me? Will any man trust me again if I break my word and send one so defenseless from my hall? So, tell me, if I’m to save my honor what can I do with her?"

Rowena gave a quick, sarcastic laugh. "Just like a man to forget that women have but two choices in life, the Church or marriage," she whispered to herself.

Her voice wasn’t low enough. Rannulf whirled toward her, his eyes wide in astonishment. He loosed a relieved breath. "Aye, and I know the man. Was not John of Ashby just telling me how he despaired of finding a wife he could afford? I’ll offer him Maeve."

"Wait," she protested. "Nay, I spoke only in jest. She's fit for no man. Leave her to the Church."

Her husband paid her no heed as he spoke over her words. "Of course, how foolish of me not to see this for myself. I can give her no dowry, but I’ll lower the amount of foods and goods Ashby owes Graistan for Maeve’s life span. Aye, and I'll give him a bigger portion of the bridge tolls."

"Not the tolls," Rowena cried out. "That’s too much value for one of her stature."

Rannulf roweled around to glare at her. "It seems a small price to pay to rid you of her," he snapped back. "Are you so greedy?"

Rowena eyed him for a moment. It was writ on his face for her to read. No word she uttered would change his course. Indeed, any protest she made would only goad him to the opposite course.

"Nay, my lord, I misspoke," she replied, stepping back to the solar’s wall in defeat.

Across the room, Temric's eyes narrowed in consideration. "But will Ashby agree? The woman’s hardly a prize." As he spoke his usual guarded expression dissolved, leaving Rowena to at last see his resemblance to his brothers. It lay in his strong, angular cheekbones and stubborn jaw line.

"What say you?" Rannulf retorted. "She’s a handsome woman with graceful manners."

His master-at-arms only shrugged. "If you say so. Then, shall I send a messenger to Ashby with your offer?"

"Aye, but I'll have royal approval before I see this wedding done. No accursed fee this time." Lord Graistan smiled wryly. "Ready your fastest messenger to leave for Ashby this night. By mid-May I'll have his approval and have Oswald draw up their contract. By month's end, we'll have the crown's agreement as well. Mark my words, this one'll not be the morass mine has become. We'll see it easily done."

Temric gave a short laugh. "So marked," he replied.

Then Rannulf's brow creased in consideration. "But, here’s the perfect opportunity to introduce my wife to my vassals and castellans." When he looked up, his smile was broad and relieved. "Aye, we'll throw Ashby the finest wedding ceremony possible and invite them all. A rich celebration will ease the sting of having missed my wedding, such as it was."

His words struck Rowena like blows, leaving her fair reeling. "But my lord, we’ve barely enough to keep Graistan until the harvests are in. And, when we do have the harvest, we need everything to rebuild our own stores. Where am I to find food for guests?"

Her husband's grin slipped. "You’ll do as you have done before. Buy what is needed."

"But we have so little," she started, pleading in earnest now.

"If you desire to keep my accounts, you’ll find the resources," her husband raised his voice to override her protests. "Graistan has never been tightfisted before, it won’t start now."

Rowena opened her mouth to argue him into understanding, but Temric intervened. "Perhaps it’s best to save planning anything until Ashby has said yea or nay. Have you anything else for me? No? Then I’m off. Good day, my lady." He bowed briefly in her direction and strode out, surprising the serving woman who had just tapped at the door.

"My lady, Cook would speak to you before you give the command to begin serving. Otherwise, all else is in readiness," she said, then exited.

"Good, for I’m starving," cried Gilliam, leaping away from the hearth wall. He hurried across the room, and out of the door with such speed that it was obvious he meant to give his elder brother no chance to stop him.

"Gilliam," Rannulf called after him to no avail. "What’s wrong with that lad?" he growled out, glaring toward the doorway, then turned his harsh gaze on her. "And what’s wrong with you? Do you know no better than to contradict me before my family? If I say we eat on golden plates, we eat on golden plates, damn the expense."

Astonishment roared through Rowena. He would leave them starving over the coming winter for appearance’s sake?! Outrage followed. "If it’s golden plates you want, my lord," she snapped, "then best you find yourself an alchemist, for your gold must come from lead."

Surprise flattened her husband’s expression, then his face darkened. "Damn your tongue," he bellowed at her. "I am lord here and you’ll not say me nay!"

Nearly lost in her own anger Rowena opened her mouth to retort, only to catch herself. His mouth was twisted into a thin line, and the muscle in his jaw was tense once again. Goading him further was no way to solidify her position here .

She drew a breath and fought for calm, then bowed her head. "You’re right, my lord," she offered in a quiet voice, "I shouldn’t have spoken so before your brothers. I beg your pardon. Being a wife is something very foreign to me, but I seek to learn. I not only admit to an occasional foolishness, but my mouth tends to be a mite hasty as well." As she admitted this, she dared to lift her head a little and send him a small smile.

He blinked. The rage ebbed from his eyes. His shoulders relaxed and his fists opened. "Truer words were never spoken," he replied.

Daring much, Rowena sent him a mock frown. "You needn’t agree so quickly," she shot back.

That teased a short laugh from him. There was new warmth in his gray eyes. "My pardon," he replied. "Now, as to this matter of my treasury, I think we must needs discuss the matter. I need to know the truth."

A wave of possessiveness washed over her. Not his treasury, hers. She wanted no interference in her plans for Graistan. An instant later she caught herself. So, now where was the difference between herself and Hugo? She nodded. "I am at your convenience, my lord."

His eyes warmed even further at her easy acquiescence. "Since this feast of yours will keep us for the rest of the day, we’ll have to find another time."

With his reminder of the feast, Rowena’s own need to have him acknowledge her as his wife before their servants swirled up within her. Aye, to ask him to do it might well remind him that he’d threatened to send her from Graistan. Torn between her need for caution and her need to make this place hers even in her husband’s eyes, hasty words fell from her tongue. "I hope you’ll remember how hard everyone has worked to make this a day of rejoicing. Your folk are proud of all they've accomplished in the past several months. It would do you no harm to offer them praise for their efforts." Rowena nearly groaned when she heard what she had said. Just as she expected his jaw tightened anew, his gaze hardening against the affront she’d done him.

"You’ve no need to lecture me on my duties," Rannulf retorted. "I have been lord here for nearly a score of years and have learned a thing or two in that time."

"Pardon, I didn’t mean to chide. I only meant," her voice trailed off into silence before she could beg him to confirm her position as Graistan's chatelaine. She told herself she could forgive him for forgetting to do it. It would destroy any hope for their future peace if he refused her outright. She swallowed her fear. All in all, it was better to wait and see. Again, she bowed her head to him, the submissiveness of the movement galling her.

"Pay me no mind, my lord. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the kitchens. I’ll meet you at the table."

Receiving his nod of dismissal, she hurried from the room. After assuring the cook everything was just as she desired, she returned to her chambers. Her husband was gone. She donned a dark green overgown. Although simple and plain, it was a rich samite and a goodly step above her workaday dresses, sufficient for a family celebration. With a fine wimple and a necklet of garnet, which she wore at Ilsa's insistence, she was ready.

When she entered the hall, she looked about with a critical eye. The room appeared right festive beneath brightly glowing torches. Its freshly painted walls gleamed, seeming even whiter against the bright colors in the hangings and on the rafters. The many tables, all covered in white cloths, were hung with garlands woven from flowering branches and willow withes. Her every step brought with it the scent of sweet herbs. It was with pride that she made her way to the high table where her husband sat with Sir Gilliam at his left.

The young knight lifted a filled wine cup in her direction. "Sister," he cried, using his knife to spear a smoked eel off the small tray set at his place. "All this for me? I can’t believe you remembered!" His gaiety was as forced as the grin on his face. Because of that it was no surprise to Rowena that as she made her way behind the table Gilliam set down cup and knife to catch her hand. "Thank you, my dear and most beloved lady for pandering to me."

That he should so overplay the role of a fool told Rowena he struggled to hide his uneasiness over this morning’s conference with his brother. These past months had taught her just how to set him at ease. She laughed, then gently slapped at his restraining fingers, playing along with his game. "Let me go, you big oaf," she chided, smiling at him still.

Gratitude took light in his gaze as he released her. Still seeking to ease him, Rowena took her seat at her husband’s right, then leaned forward to once more address Gilliam. "How could I ever have forgotten to serve eels when for weeks you’ve reminded me how much you like them."

Gilliam only laughed, then looked at his elder brother. "You’re fortunate to have such a good listener for a wife," he teased.

Rannulf but grunted in response, glancing between the two of them. Rowena lifted a hand, signaling that the meal service should begin. They dined on venison seethed in wine and herbs, and lamb in a richly flavored sauce. With the season still so new, there was little in the way of fruits, but spring vegetables were offered in both soup and stews. As each new dish was presented for her husband's approval, she glanced surreptitiously at him to gauge his reaction.

There was nothing for her to see. When he spoke to her, it was only to offer her morsels of food in a polite but distant manner. It was nearly the hour for Vespers when the cook finally brought out the honeyed sculpture that indicated the meal's end. His assistants carried the masterpiece slowly around the room for all to see. And masterpiece it was. The cook had built Graistan in all its splendor, from green tinted grass to tall walls colored white.

The newly-promoted butler, now the keep's highest-ranking servant since Hugo's death, stepped forward. It was he who made a pretty speech on behalf of all the castle folk welcoming their lord home once again. When her husband stood to respond, he was careful not to forget a single soul in recounting the changes he'd seen and expressed how grateful he was for their efforts on his behalf.

Save her. Not once did Graistan’s lord mention his new lady. It was as though she didn’t exist. Heartsore, Rowena glanced out over the hall. If any of their folk noticed her omission, no one commented upon it.

Once the meal was done the entertainment began. The hours passed, but Rowena neither heard nor saw what went on before her, so deep was her depression. Pray God that he had only forgotten. To think he would hold her in so little regard might well destroy her.

When she could bear it no more she turned toward him. "My lord, might I retire?" she whispered.

He looked at her. Odd, but Rowena thought she saw the reflection of her own pain in his gaze. "Aye, and I’ll come with you. I slept poorly last night and am tired to the bone."

Disappointment ate at her heart. The last thing she needed right now was more time with a man determined to spurn her in all things. She hid her emotion behind a tight expression and nodded her agreement.

He stood and held out his hand. When she laid hers upon his, his fingers, long and graceful, closed gently to trap her hand into the square strength of his palm. His fingers moved ever so softly against hers.

Despite her emotions a shiver of reaction to his touch rushed through her. She glanced up at him. He stared back, his eyes half-closed and his mouth bent in a small smile. It was the promise of bed play she saw in his expression. Much to her surprise her pulse leapt.

"Good even, all," he called out to the hall, leading her away from the tables. She didn’t resist him. "I thank you for your welcome and bid you to stay and enjoy the entertainment."

Together they climbed the stairs and, a moment later, he closed and latched their bedchamber door. The silence in the room fair deafened after the noise of the hall. Somehow, this privacy only aggravated her hurt, dulling her senses, until she couldn’t react when he drew her into his arms and kissed her. Yet, when he released her, she keenly felt his loss and wanted his arms around her again .

"So, that's to be the way of it, eh?" His gray eyes were cold. "You’re too naive to know that one night will not convince me."

She turned away, confused as much by her erratic emotions as by his words. Her keys clattered loudly as she twisted her hands in her belt. The raucous noise reminded her she'd vowed to make him hers. Pushing him away surely wouldn’t help her in that end.

"Take those damn things off," he snapped, "and call a servant to bring up some wine." He threw himself down in a chair and sullenly studied the leaping flames on the hearth.

She did as she was told and used the waiting time to silently scold herself for her attitude. Thus, by the time the wine arrived she’d slipped out of her clothing and wore only her chemise. She filled his cup and came to stand behind his chair.

"My lord?" She handed it to him from over his shoulder; he took it without a backward look.

There was something alluring about standing so near him when he couldn’t see her. The dark gold material of his gown stretched taut across his powerful back, almost binding against the curve of his upper arms. She laid her hands on his shoulders. He started slightly. Beneath his gown and shirt, his muscles were corded with tension.

Touching him made her fingers tingle. She studied the way his hair curled slightly against the collar of his gown. How odd that it should look so brown now, yet glow red in the light. Lost in her musing, she idly shaped one strand to lay around the curl of his ear, pressing it in place with a light touch.

He caught her hand in his and, with a swift tug, pulled her around the chair to sit in his lap. "Is it yea or nay?" he demanded, then raised a brow when he noticed how little she wore.

Yea or nay? Rowena stared at him in confusion, still trapped in the sensations of the prior moment.

"If you’ll not say, then I will simply take it," he said, somewhat harshly, then bent his mouth to hers.

This time her body burst into lively response to his kiss. She laid her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him. Cradled in the strength of his embrace it was easy to forget hurt and let the moment be all that was important.

Rannulf let desire wash away his suspicions. Once again, her reaction to him stunned him. When she first refused him, he assumed she'd left the bedchamber for refuge in the women's quarters where even he could not go. In that moment he'd been certain what waited for him. There would be weeks of coldness after which she’d announce she was with child. Everyone would comment on how swiftly his seed had taken root. Some might even believe it.

Yet, she stayed with him, even served him. When she touched him, chills of longing shot down his spine at her play. Whatever her reasons, her body offered him much pleasure, much pleasure indeed. He forgot to be cautious. Instead, he indulged himself in the incredible sensations she woke within him.