Domning, Denise (39 page)

"Now," Rannulf said, slightly juggling the sword in his hand as if unconsciously taking its measure, "this foul bitch has asked a question that I will answer for her. She wishes to know whose child my wife bears." Maeve threw her head back in startled disbelief as this news caught her unawares. "That's right, bitch. The child is mine."

"Nay, I do not believe you." The fair woman let the words fly in desperation. "It is a lie. This woman is all hard words and commands. She has done naught, but defy you and challenge your rights at Graistan. She does not even understand how to be your lady. The stupid twit dresses like a servant and behaves like some merchant's wife." The despair in her voice sounded almost true. For a moment Rowena knew a sort of pity for this woman. Was it possible that Maeve had loved Rannulf, at least to the best of her twisted heart's ability?

But her husband only smiled grimly. "You offered me a sweet face and pretty poses, and your attitude promised much. But even deep within my mourning, I believe I sensed your rottenness, for I could not bear your touch." Maeve stiffened at this pronouncement, her eyes flying wide. But Lord Rannulf was not finished yet.

"Would that I could blame you for this havoc you have wrought, but it lays only upon my shoulders. I needed you to ease my guilt and let you run amok among my own people and now, here, again at Ashby. It is time I put an end to this foul mummery of yours. As is my right, I pronounce on you a sentence of death for your crimes. You, there"—he pointed to the third man who stood a little aside from the lady—"run into the church and fetch the priest. Once he is done with her, she will be executed."

"Kill me, then," Maeve said, slumping as though in hopeless despair. She fairly leaned against one man's shoulder as a minute passed. It was this calm of hers that made her captors less vigilant against her sudden surge forward.

She tore free from their grasp. "But, I will take her with me," she screeched out. Her face was alight with hate as she threw herself at her lady. Rowena had no time to scream. She was shoved brutally from the flimsy stool, Maeve's hands around her throat. "Graistan was mine," the woman screamed.

Gasping for breath, she pushed at her attacker even as Rannulf roared above them. Maeve's enraged expression flattened in surprise. Then she was lifted by the back of her gown. Rowena's husband tossed the woman aside as if she were no more than a child's doll. He whirled after her as she fell, Gilliam's sword flashing in the air as it followed her descent. It embedded into her flesh with deadly ferocity.

Rowena lay on the ground, dizzy with pain and stunned by her fall. The new, horrible cramp within her ended suddenly with an explosion of warmth between her thighs. Rannulf was beside her, lifting her, crying out when he felt the wetness of her skirt against his arm. Blackness circled in on her. If she were to die, he needed to hear it from her one more time. "Rannulf," she gasped out, leaning her head against his chest, "I love you."

She sighed.

She had hovered just beneath wakefulness for a long while, but the effort to awaken took more strength than she could muster. There was something warm beneath her palm. She moved her fingers just a little. The warmth closed in, enfolding her entire hand. Somehow, this made it possible to open her eyes.

Above her there was only a dark and smoky roof. She frowned. That was wrong. Where was her bed, the wooden ceiling, the hangings? Slowly, for it took all the energy she had, she turned her head.

"Rannulf," she breathed. More was impossible.

His face was hollow with worry, his eyes so soft and gray, but filled with pain. Then, he slowly smiled, his free hand reaching out to stroke her cheek. When he spoke, it was to answer the questions in her eyes. "You are in the midwife's house at Eilington. It is loss of blood that makes you weak, but you are young and strong and will soon be well."

She frowned. Within her gaped an emptiness where once there had been life. Even as she willed it to be otherwise, tears filled her eyes.

"Aye, my love, the babe is gone. Ah, do not mourn so. Let me keep you to myself for a little longer."

She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. He had called her his love. Her fingers tightened around his. "Home," she murmured.

"When you are stronger." There was a jostling beside her, then she was lifted into his arms. He sat on the pallet and cradled her to him as he rocked her gently in his embrace. Against his broad chest, with her head tucked into the curve of his neck, she felt the steady beat of his heart, as if it were her own.

"I thought I'd lost you," he breathed. "I thought you would die before you heard me tell you what I hold in my heart for you. Ah, Wren, I love you so. Without you, I would be nothing but an empty shell, the way you found me. That you could nearly die without hearing me say these simple words—I cannot believe I was so careless with your love for me."

But they were not simple words at all; they were like a magician's spell, creating a wholeness between them that made them one. This new sense closed over her to heal the aching rend left by the babe's departure. It reached further to touch what remained of the solitariness that had always lain at the core of her being. Loneliness fell away in shivering splinters to be replaced with warm contentment.

She lay easy in his arms for some time. Mayhap she slept, for when she stirred again, she felt refreshed and stronger. "Rannulf, am I your one, true love?" It was the question she had asked him on their wedding day, although then the words had been hard and twisted with sarcasm.

There was the low rumbling of muted amusement in his chest. He, too, remembered that day and her words. When she raised her head, it was to look upon the charming, handsome man who had so intrigued and worried her.

Bitterness and anger were forever banished, and he would hide no more behind them. "Aye, Wren, you are my one, true love. Am I yours?"

"Aye, love, you are." She lay her head against his shoulder once again.

"I love you," he murmured again, as if enjoying the feel of the words on his tongue.

Rowena smiled against the fullness in her heart. Had her father known? He had done far better for his daughter than he could ever have imagined. Aye, he'd planned that she should have a proud home and a grand life. But had he known he was also giving her a husband to love, one who loved her more than life itself?

Historical Note

When I was in college, studying archaeology, I had absolutely no interest in the dull and boring Middle Ages. I mean, what did those folks do except sing plainsong and hack each other to pieces for honor's sake? When this story arrived and insisted it could only be written in 1194, I decided I had to learn more. My research revealed a highly sophisticated society whose complicated social behaviors developed in spite of, or perhaps because of, their primitive technology. I hope I've succeeded in letting my characters reflect the respect I have for this remarkable era.

A few notes for the purists: Ashby appeared before I knew there was a royal fortress by the same name. Since I was already accustomed to the name, it remained as it was. Graistan keep was originally modeled after a beautiful Castle Rising in East Anglia. And Rannulf is spelled as it is because that is how he spells it. I had nothing to say in the matter.

I was ten before I'd realized the cosmos had played a terrible joke on me. I was in the wrong century! While everyone else studied computers and listened to rock music, I wrote a history assignment in Egyptian hieroglyphics and spent endless hours designing ball gowns for Marie Antoinette. I taught myself what every
true
lady must know: how to sew a fine seam, to embroider skillfully, and to play an instrument (piano, and nothing later than Beethoven, thank you). My husband and eldest son, Adam, gracefully accepted that I was an anachronistic sore thumb with a compulsion to costume them and drag them to the Renaissance Faire. My younger son, Justin, wants you to know he loves the Faire and thinks ancient music is cool. Anyway, it all changed the night I had a startling dream about two people who demanded I tell their story. Now writing is my time machine and words recreate the vitality of an era where I feel at home. I am blessed. Not only do I experience the drama of their time, but I do so with indoor plumbing. Enjoy!

Winter's Heat
is DENISE DOMNING's first historical romance. She lives with her family in Scottsdale, Arizona.