by Brenda Joyce
Something warm and alive touched her foot.
Ceidre screamed again, jumping up. She attacked the wall with all of her strength. Her nails ripped, warm blood oozing down her fingers, but she was oblivious. She renewed her efforts. They were superhuman—or those of a madwoman.
The advent of dawn carried with it the same potency Rolfe had felt the night before, except the intangible feeling had increased. Rolfe awakened with his instincts keen, as if alerted to and sensing out danger. ’Twas almost as if they were foretelling an ambush. Urgency crackled in the air. “We will not dwell,” he told Guy, and ordered his men to depart.
The feeling of urgency grew. Rolfe pushed his men at a faster pace than they had come, although not carelessly, his gaze attuned to every sight around them, his ears to every sound. He was expecting something thing ominous. But when they finally made camp, way after dusk, no event had arrived to shatter their tranquility. Rolfe could not sleep, tense with foreboding and filled with this urgent need to return to Aelfgar.
They arrived before noon the next day. Rolfe had half expected to find Aelfgar under attack or razed to the ground. The sight of his keep and the village, both intact, relieved him, but, annoyingly, he could not shake the dread apprehension clinging to his soul. Alice, ever dutiful, greeted him in the courtyard, telling him she had already ordered a bath. Rolfe nodded, waving her away, turning to Beltain. He instantly remarked the knight’s somber countenance. “What has passed? What has happened in my absence?”
“Everything has been fine.” He hesitated. “Except that a missive was found in Lady Ceidre’s chamber.”
Guy, a few paces away, straightened and turned at this. “What missive?” Rolfe demanded.
“’Twas from her brother,” Beltain said.
Rolfe felt his anger, hard and boiling, filling him. “That wench will not learn,” he muttered. “Send her to me, and bring me the missive,” he snapped. She had committed treason again. Dread welled to join the anger. It filled every fiber of his being.
“Release her from the dungeons,” Beltain was ordering.
Rolfe whipped around. “You put her in the dungeons?”
“As your wife pointed out, ’twas the only way to ensure she would not escape.” Beltain met Rolfe’s gaze frankly. “I was hesitant, but decided ’twas better to do so and guarantee she would be an imprisoned prisoner when you arrived, rather than an escaped traitor.”
Rolfe did not question his own motivations. He was already striding down the hill, all anger in abeyance, the sense of urgency overwhelming. He was barely aware of Guy on his heels, grim, and Beltain, sober. He raced through the portcullis, almost running now, his strides eating up the ground. As soon as the manor with its dungeon was in sight, he was calling to the guard to open the trapdoor. The man threw the bolt, then lifted the door up. Rolfe reached his side and, without breaking stride, knelt and swung himself lithely down into the black pit.
He blinked, trying to adjust to the darkness. “Ceidre? Ceidre?”
There was no sound, no indication that anyone inhabited this dark, dank hell, and for an instant he thought she had somehow escaped. Then he heard a low moan. His head whipped toward the sound, and he made out a vague form crouched upon the ground.
“Ceidre!”
He reached her in an instant and was unprepared for a hoarse, shrill scream. He bent for her and was met by a feeble attack. Her fingers harmlessly grazed his face as she tried to claw him. Ignoring this, he lifted her into his arms. She was covered with mud and muck and she stank. For a second, as he moved beneath the open trapdoor, she was inert, and then she twisted and clawed at him again.
“’Tis me, Rolfe, stop it,” he said, calling for the ladder.
She did not stop her feeble, very feeble, contortions, trying to wrench away, trying to rake his face. Her breathing was hoarse, ragged, and very shallow. His gut was tight with fear. “’Tis me, Rolfe,” he repeated in a low, firm tone.
“Let me out,” she rasped, her voice a pitiful raw whisper, barely audible. “Let me out!”
“I am taking you out,” he said softly, something sick twisting inside him. “Do not fight me, I am taking you out.”
He slung her over his shoulder, realizing she was too weak to climb up the rope ladder herself, and he caught it with one hand. He balanced a foot on the lowest rung, then, sure of himself, he rapidly climbed up. The guard took Ceidre from him when he was high enough to do so, and Rolfe quickly made his way to the top, hoisting himself easily out of the dungeon.
He froze, then cried out in horror.
Ceidre was covered with mud as she crouched panting and shaking where the guard had deposited her. Her hands and forearms were streaked with blood— there was even blood on her face. His gaze flew back to her hands, to see that they were raw, the nails torn, some missing. But worse, much worse, was the wild, crazed look in her eyes, as she huddled blinking in the light—like a frightened, maddened animal.
He approached her instantly; she recoiled. Something huge and incredibly tender rose up in him, and very slowly, he dropped to his knees beside her. “Ceidre, ’tis Rolfe, you are freed now … everything will be fine.”
She looked at him, blinking rapidly, wary and afraid, reminding him of a trapped fox, tensed and ready to bite. He had the urge to weep. With a slow, trembling hand he reached out to her, not touching her. “Ceidre?”
He saw the moment of flaring recognition. She dropped her head with a sob. She was panting harshly, head hanging, fingers embedded in the ground. Rolfe touched her shoulder and felt her shudder. But there was no shrinking, no resistance. He gently took her into his arms.
She clung.
His embrace tightened as he rose to his full height. His expression was a rigid mask, to hide the real agony he was feeling. She buried her filthy face in his neck, and he felt the wetness of tears. He was keenly aware of her thundering heart, her harsh, rapid breathing, and it worried him. And he felt her hold tightening, tightening, until she was almost strangling him. His answering grip was nearly as fierce and, somehow, impossibly tender.
He recollected his men and turned a livid blue gaze on Beltain. His knight, he saw, was stricken with horror. “I am sorry.” He gasped. “I had no idea …” Beltain turned to Guy. “I am sorry. I am sorry!”
Guy nodded. “She lost her mind,” he said matter-of-factly. “You could not know she would do so. I’ve seen it before, grown men made crazy when imprisoned beneath the ground.” He turned to Rolfe. “Shall I take her, my lord?”
“No,” Rolfe managed, not trusting himself to speak to Beltain, whom he could murder easily if he let himself. With long strides, he carried Ceidre to the keep and into the hall and up the stairs. He gently laid her down upon his bed. She clung to him like a monkey, weeping, refusing to release his neck. Rolfe found himself sitting, holding her, stroking her tangled, mud-encrusted hair. She sobbed into his tunic front, still trembling violently. He ran big, firm, yet soothing hands over her back, again and again, stroking her, caressing her. “Shhh,” he intoned. “Hush now, sweeting, hush now, chérie, I am here, and all will be well.”
She began to babble. She began to tell him of how she had almost died, how she could not breathe, how the ground had tried to swallow her up. How she had screamed and begged to be freed but no one had answered, how she had tried to climb up the walls, until her nails were torn and ripped raw, how she had tried to tunnel out, until she fainted. Her voice was a bare whisper, practically inaudible from all the screaming she had vainly done.
“Do not talk now, sweetheart,” he whispered back, his large hand cradling her head. “Do not talk, you must let your voice heal.”
She went still and quiet for the first time, her face still buried against his chest. He began kneading the back of her skull. Her breathing was slower now, though not yet normal, and her trembling was a shadow of what it had been. Relief overwhelmed him, and with it, he became distinctly aware of a murderous fury.
And he became aware of som
ething else, someone’s presence. He turned his head without moving, still stroking her, soothing her, and saw his wife. Her face was glazed with hatred and malicious triumph, but at the sight of his blazing blue wrath, the expression was instantly replaced with fear. She stepped back.
Rolfe was so enraged that his voice, when he spoke, was low and calm and even. “Get out,” he said. “Await me in the solar, and do not move from it until I come.”
Alice did not need to be told twice. She fled.
He was shaking. He got a grip on himself and looked down at Ceidre’s head. Covered with mud and muck, like an animal. He trembled again. Then, very gently, he shifted apart, because he wanted to talk to her, he wanted to look at her, he needed reassurance that she was sane again. But she whimpered in protest and went with him, clutching him desperately. Firmly but so gently, Rolfe slid his hand from the back of her head to her chin, his thumb stroking along her jaw in little wisps of movement. He felt her relax anew and lifted her face up so he could look into her eyes.
They were full of pain, but lucid. He knew it was not physical agony, but emotional, and it hurt him even more. Her gaze, though, was wide and grateful—and trusting? And so vulnerable. Not even seeing her dirt, not even smelling her stink, Rolfe’s own lashes fluttered down and he gently touched his mouth to hers.
Her lips were soft and passive, but not unyielding. Rolfe felt choked with tenderness and despair, with pity and paternal protectiveness. His mouth plied gently, his tongue touched her lips and retreated. Bolder now, he increased the pressure, parting her, touching her teeth. And he retreated again.
His lust had arisen, so immense, he thought he might explode in his hose.
Shaken by the overwhelming need to bury himself in her, to comfort her this way, and with the giving to take his own comfort, to reassure himself with her responses that she was still Ceidre, still his, he rose, separating himself from her. This time she did not make a sound of protest, but her gaze was glued to him. She lay exhausted and still. He noted, gladly, that she was breathing normally at last.
He walked to the door and bellowed for the hot water for his bath. He paused there, afraid to go near her again, seeking control, afraid of the terrible depth of need he had just experienced. He felt her riveted gaze and turned to see her staring with the same wide-eyed look. There was apprehension mingled with the trust, and he saw that her fists were clenched upon the bedcovers.
“I am not leaving, do not worry,” he said huskily, correctly understanding why she was anxious. He noted that her palms relaxed, some of the tension left her gaze.
He came back to her. “Are you all right now, Ceidre?” She did not answer. “Talk to me. Please.”
She looked at the floor. “I was so afraid.”
His hand found her hair. “I know.”
She choked on her fear, an unshed sob. “I prayed,” she whispered. “I prayed you would come.”
He swept her back into his arms. “I did come, I did come, but not soon enough, and I am sorry.” She clung, and he almost didn’t hear the knock upon his door.
He watched the servants bring in the hot water, filling the tub. When they had finished he ordered them out. He returned to sit next to Ceidre, pulling her upright. His hands were already loosening her girdle. She did not protest. “You will feel better once you bathe,” he said.
He tugged her onto her feet, between his thighs. She was weak and she clutched his shoulders. He stripped her of her gown, then her undertunic. He tried not to look at her naked body, at her small waist and full, shimmering breasts, at her lush hips, at her femininity. He carried her to the tub and gently placed her in it. She sighed, closing her eyes.
Rolfe knelt beside her. He watched her immerse herself under the water, watched her come up with a sputter. She floated loosely and turned her head to stare at him.
The water did not cover her big, beautiful breasts, and her long nipples were hard and pointed. He was undone, throbbing and needing release, needing to bury himself inside her. But her gaze was still dark with her phobia of the dungeon and wide with her childlike trust of him. He picked up the soap and handed it to her. His hand trembled; his entire body shook.
“No,” she said, closing her eyes. “I am too tired. Tomorrow….”
So he washed her hair himself. There was no question of calling a maid. Then he washed her feet and legs, only as far as they were covered with mud, to just past her knees. When he picked up her raw hands she whimpered, when he gently soaped them she wept without fighting him. He did not touch the rest of her body—she trusted him, but he did not trust himself.
He wrapped her in clean linen and carried her to his bed. As he placed her in it, she said, “Do not leave me,” in her raw, tortured voice.
“I will not,” he promised.
“Hold me.”
He hesitated, then was lying beside her, and before he could embrace her, she was crawling into his arms. She fell instantly asleep. He did not.
Rolfe left Ceidre sleeping soundly on his bed, curled up in a tight ball, like a child.
His strides were hard and determined as he crossed the hall and swung open the door to the solar, with such force that it clapped like thunder against the wall. Alice, seated in bed, watched him approach with wide, frightened eyes.
He did not pause. As soon as he was close enough, he hit her, hard, across the face, the blow making her scream and fall back onto the pillows. He had used enough force that the slap would leave an ugly mark, but not enough to crack her jaw. Shrinking from him, she whimpered. He stood over her, panting with his rage.
“Your ill will toward your sister has gone too far, Alice. You are confined indefinitely to this chamber. You are not to leave it under any circumstances, do you understand me?”
She looked at him, crouched on her hands and knees now, her small bosom rising and falling rapidly, eyes wide.
“Do you understand me?” he ground out.
Her mouth opened. “My lord,” she said, and her tone was thick and husky. Her gaze was on his mouth, and then it moved to his groin. “My lord,” she breathed, and the tone ended on a low, sexual moan.
He recalled her begging him to thrust harder and hurt her in his bed, and he was overwhelmed with disgust and revulsion. He turned abruptly, leaving. He heard her chasing after him and was so stunned when she threw herself at his back that he froze. She groaned, pressing herself against his buttocks. He twisted around and shook her off, too late realizing, as she gasped, moaning from the floor, that he was arousing her, not frightening her. He left, slamming the door behind him.
A quick glance into his own chamber showed him the Ceidre was still soundly asleep, untortured by dreams. The sight of her was enough to make him linger, that odd swelling feeling bubbling again in his heart. He forced himself to turn and go downstairs.
The hall was empty save for Guy, Beltain, and Athelstan. Although it was the latter who asked how Ceidre was, Rolfe saw the agonized look in Beltain’s eyes— and the steady one in Guy’s. “She will be fine,” he said grimly. His look was utterly cool as it lanced Ceidre’s husband. “You do not inquire after your wife?”
Guy flushed. “Of course I do.”
“She is asleep—in my bed.”
Guy said nothing.
His anger was impossible to swallow. “Do you want to wake your wife, after her ordeal, and remove her to your own chambers? She is welcome to stay where she is. I will take a pallet in the hall.”
Guy shifted uneasily. “I do not want to disturb your comfort, my lord.”
“You do not disturb me,” Rolfe said quickly. “Fine, she may stay.” His tone dismissed Guy, and he turned his gaze upon Beltain.
His captain immediately dropped to one knee, unsheathing his sword and laying it at Rolfe’s feet. “I am at your command,” he said levelly.
“Sheath your sword,” Rolfe said. “If I had not seen, twice now, the sincere regret in your eyes, I would strip you of your command. The dungeon is no place for a lady.
Yet that you considered her cunning does not escape me. You could not conceive of her fear of the pit. Therefore, take up your sword, rise, and learn from your mistakes.”
Beltain stood lithely, his expression level. “Thank you, my lord, for your clemency.”
Rolfe dismissed him with his hand. Beltain did not know how close he had come to being murdered just a few hours ago. He realized he was alone with Athelstan, and he frowned, anxious to go back upstairs. His gaze wandered where his thoughts had gone, and Athelstan followed it.
“You had best send the lady Ceidre to Dumstanbrough as soon as she is well.”
Rolfe gave him a look.
“You cannot bear this situation, my lord, and you know it well. Guy is not jealous, which is good, and he trusts you, which is better, or you would lose a fine captain and a truly loyal soul.”
“You think I do no know this? And what do you suddenly care for my dilemmas?”
“You are a just man, a good leader,” Athelstan said softly. “It is a shame that ’tis war, not peace, which brings you to us.”
“Dwelling on what should be is for fools and poets.”
“Send her with her husband to Dumstanbrough,” Athelstan urged. “If you lose your best man, you will come to hate her.”
“I am Rolfe de Warenne,” Rolfe said softly. “I am Rolfe the Relentless, the king’s best man. You think I cannot control a mere passing fancy? Think again. Yes, the witch is enchanting, but never will I forget she belongs to another. Now go to bed, old man.”
“Gladly,” Athelstan said, turning. He paused. “Passing fancy or obsession, my lord?”
“To bed!”
“And which bed will you go to?”
Rolfe did not reply, watching him leave. The old Saxon had more nerve than most men. Obsession? ’Twas not an obsession. He would not allow it to be such.
Ceidre awoke and was instantly aware of whose bed she was in.
Her memories were harsh—and tender.