Winter's Heat Read online

  Winter's Heat by Denise Domning

  Her time in a nunnery had taught Lady Rowena many things, but not how to be a wife to the powerful Lord who claimed her as his bride. Meeting him on their wedding day, her blue eyes defiantly locked with his, she vowed never to submit to this aloof, mysterious knight whose courtly charm barely concealed his ruthlessness.

  His vast estates -- and his bed -- lacking a Lady, Rannulf, Lord of Graistan, knew this convent-raised beauty brought a dowry he couldn't refuse. But the heat ignited by her touch reminded him that he had been a woman's fool once and would never be again. After one night of sweet consummation, he planned to coldly leave her and ride off to war, ignoring the desire that turned his blood to flame...

  But a tide of treachery was rising around them, mortal danger awaited them ... and their only hope lay in daring to trust, to cherish, and to love unconditionally.

  "DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN, ROWENA, YOU RAISE SUCH PASSIONS IN ME."

  He touched his mouth to hers, his lips moving slightly in a soft kiss. 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, then met his hunger with a very real need of her own. His hand slipped inside the remnants of her gown and caressed her breast. He kissed her cheek, her neck, the base of her throat.

  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 have found her."

  TOPAZ

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Copyright © Denise Domning, 1994

  ISBN 0451404386 All rights reserved

  This book would never have reached print without help, and now is my chance to give credit where it is due. First, I must humbly thank Joan Domning, my mother, for standing over me and pounding writing basics into my brain. To Larena, Sandy, Barbara, and Lisa of my first critique group, and Charla, Dana, Carol, Marguerite, Debanie of my second group: as much as I hated it, you were right. And, finally but most importantly, to my husband, Ed. Without you I might never have known what true love is.

  Prologue

  The convent's high stone walls, walls stained pink by dawn's rosy glow, echoed with the plainsong of the nuns. These simple harmonies floated up into the frigid February air to twine like sweet smoke around all it touched. It soothed and calmed the armed men and war-horses waiting in the courtyard, making the sudden scream all the more startling.

  "Nay, you cannot!" the woman shrieked. "Help me, come help your abbess."

  As the church doors fell open, the horses danced nervously making their masters curse and struggle for control. Shocked nuns and muttering servants seethed into the courtyard only to freeze in terror of an attack.

  A mailed knight pushed through their ranks, dragging with him a small, habit-clad woman who kicked and clawed against his unbreakable hold. Their lady abbess came chasing after him. "You cannot do this to her. Do not take her from me. Not now. I beg you."

  Undaunted, the knight dragged his prisoner toward his waiting men, ignoring the older woman's pleas. The convent dwellers shuffled uneasily into a semicircle behind their lady. The man's captive fought on despite the hopelessness of her position, her eyes wide and her face ashen with fear. "You must stop him, my lady," she begged at last. "Do something."

  At that, the knight hit her. She dropped limp into his arms, and he turned back to the abbess. "Have my daughter's belongings sent to me at Benfield before this day is through. I'll not wait for them."

  "What can I do?" Tears stained the churchwoman's cheeks. "Someone help me," she urged of those who stood behind her.

  Several serving men dared a half step forward, but they halted when the man put his hand to his sword hilt. This was a convent, not a keep. There was no one here to challenge a battle-ready warrior.

  The girl moaned when he handed her up to one of his mounted men. She kicked weakly at him, but he ignored her. "You'll pay with your life if you release her," he warned his man. A moment later he mounted his own steed.

  The abbess sank to her knees in the frigid mud. "May God go with you, my little Wren. Do not let them defeat you. Never forget—" Whatever else she said was lost as the man set spurs to his steed and called forward those who followed him. Their horses' huge hooves dug deeply into the ground, leaving the earth torn and broken behind them.

  Chapter 1

  Rowena of Benfield stared straight ahead. Beneath soft black brows, her wide-set blue eyes were fixed and unblinking. Neither the irregular jolting of the trotting horse nor the rider's cruel grip disturbed her. A biting wind teased out ebony strands from under her white wimple and stabbed through the thick gray wool of her habit. It stung her cheeks and the short, straight line of her nose until her pale skin burned and reddened.

  Her father had taken her mantle so she'd be too cold to escape and, now, she was frozen through and through. Deep beneath her icy calm she battled to control her anguish. He'd taken more than her mantle; he'd torn from her all her life's hopes and dreams.

  Although the manor house at Benfield was only ten short miles from the abbey, a lifetime separated them. It was the difference between the wealthy, ordered serenity of the convent and the harsh poverty of her birthplace.

  The troop raced past the village's cottages, huts, and hovels, scattering peasants, chickens, and geese. The ancient gate in the tottering circle of the keep's defensive wall stood open in slatternly invitation. They entered at a brisk trot, their horses coming to a welcome halt before the stables.

  The manor house was no more than a simple wooden building grayed with age and disrepair attached to a squat, stone tower stained with moss. Hall, byres, barns, the stable, even the dovecote, all suffered the same moldly thatch for roofing. Neglect lay as heavily in the air as did the smell of latrines left too long uncleaned. In the yard, servants and peasants worked in an uneasy cooperation. They did not use the French language of their Norman masters, rather they spoke their own guttural English as they hastily prepared for the wedding of Lord Benfield's daughter.

  Her wedding. Rowena glanced up at the windswept and icy blue sky. A solitary, hunting hawk floated high above her. She could not even summon up envy for the creature's freedom. Beyond help, beyond hope, she was.

  Her father dismounted and dragged her off her perch, his hand clamped hard upon her arm. His steel-sewn gauntlet ripped into her sleeve. With a jerk, he pulled her through the doorway and into the hall.

  Beyond hope she might be, but there was no man who'd make her go like a lamb to the slaughter. She pried at his fingers and struggled against him as her shoes slid in the fresh rushes that covered the hard earthen floor. As he forced her past linen-covered tables set around the great open hearth, she grabbed at benches, baskets, cups, anything to slow their passage. The dogs yipped and snarled, eager to join the fight and servants scattered to find hiding spots from where they could better watch. But he inevitably wrestled her through the long, narrow room toward the back wall.

  "Stop," she finally cried out, breaking the silence between them. "No farther, not until I know why."

  Lord Benfield whirled on his daughter. "Watch your tongue, girl," he growled, "or you'll feel my fist again."

  Unthinkingly, she put a hand to her face and stroked the alread
y purpling bruise at her slender jawline. Her eyes narrowed. In a hard voice, she asked, nay, commanded, "Why?"

  "Why, why," he mocked. "Is it not enough that I got for you a husband who is a powerful lord with rich holdings? He cares little that you are overage, only that you can yet bear children."

  "How pleasant," she snapped back. "Does he know I have no dowry or have you not yet told him this inescapable truth?"

  "Girl, you have dowry enough for any man. 'Tis you who've inherited all your maternal grandfather held."

  "All? Me?" she said in shocked surprise. "But, what of Philippa?"

  "Philippa?" Her father's laugh was odd and high-pitched. "Her husband can keep what she took with her when they married. To you goes all else, everything I have received through your mother."

  Her eyes narrowed. "If my mother had an inheritance, she would see that I got nothing and her favorite received it all. How can you give me what is hers?"

  "Your mother cannot inherit; her father's will forbids her from ever holding a furlong of what was his." He paused, seeming to savor the thought of his wife so humbled.

  "There is more," she said, eyes hard and voice the whip crack of command. "Tell me. Why are these holdings not divided with my sister? And why can I not have what is mine to buy me my position at the abbey? Why must I marry?"

  "Do not use that tone with me, girl." Her father once again lifted his fist.

  Rowena only waved away his words. "Oh, be done with your threats and your pomposity. I am no child to frighten, but a woman of one and twenty. If you batter me into senselessness, you cannot hurt me any more than you have already done."

  "How do you dare?" he gasped.

  Rowena cut him off before he could continue. "I dare because I am already dead. Aye, Father, this marriage of yours will kill me as surely as the summer's heat withers a spring blossom. Now," she continued, her words clipped and cold, "you will tell me why I am suddenly your only heir."

  "And to think that I pitied you," Lord Benfield ground out.

  "Pitied me?" She choked on a soundless sob. "If this is your pity, God have mercy on my soul. Father, how well will your pride withstand the blow when my new husband curses you for what you've done to him?"

  "How so? What is this awful defect?" he sneered. "Before me stands a maid who, even though she is dressed in an ill-fitting, coarse habit, is both comely and shapely enough to turn a man's head. Where is your defect?"

  "Here, Father," she returned, touching a slender finger to her temple. "Here. Because Philippa was your eldest, I dared not dream of marriage. Is it not still true today, in the Year of Our Lord 1194, that a second daughter is convent bound?

  "But I was not defeated. And, Sweet God in heaven, how I worked. I learned to read and write and tally up a column of figures in a moment's time, knowing that if the convent would be my life I would be more than a simple nun. Pride is my sin, for I coveted the power the Church could give me. 'Twas to this end I humbled myself and bit my tongue when the nuns taunted me because you would not allow me to take my vows. I bid my time patiently, because I knew—" She swallowed hard, then lost all pretense of calm. "Now," she screamed, "you tear from me everything I desire and tell me it is for pity's sake! I say you lie. Why are you doing this? I will know why."

  "Oh, spare me your venom." Her father smiled a hard smile. "What foul words you spew will not stop this wedding."

  Rage exploded free of her control. "Damn you!" She swung a vicious foot at his shin. Her shoe rebounded from his mail-clad leg. "Kill me, kill me now and have done with it. Better that I die than wed and bed any man. It is better to be dead than be your heir. Damn you, damn you to hell," she raged, and grabbed his mantle at the throat as if she could force him into honesty. "Tell me why."

  Her father easily plucked her hand away, then held her at arm's length from him. "Because," he said, then repeated in a sudden, strained voice, "because, Philippa is your mother's bastard. Ha—" he threw his head back and laughed. "At last, I've said it. The truth wins out. The old man's dead, and there's no reason for secrecy any longer." His grin was cold and cruel. "Philippa's no spawn of mine, and I did not accept her when I married your mother. She cannot inherit. You," he said, with chilling emphasis, "are my only legitimate child."

  He turned on his heel and dragged Rowena to the back of the hall. There at that wall was a door, the only one within this manor house that sported a lock, his own bedchamber. He tossed her inside as if she were no more to him than a sheaf of wheat and slammed the door. The key scraped at the lock, which gave a rusty groan.

  Stunned, Rowena lay amid the dry and dusty rushes for a moment, then came slowly to her feet. In disbelief, she threw herself against the heavy door, but she achieved only spent rage and bruised fists. It was in hopeless calm that she finally sank to the floor and indulged herself in an ocean of pain.

  She stirred. Had it been hours or minutes since she'd arrived? From outside came the thunder of hooves, the jangling of harnesses, and hoarse cries of men. The noise pried her steadily from her pain-dazed state into alertness. Someone had arrived, no doubt her husband. Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry. All the tears she shed would no more free her than they would stop her wedding. A shattering sigh shook her to the core.

  "Enough," she demanded of herself. Pity was only self-indulgent. It depleted energy without resolving the issue. How long had it been since she'd last given way to it? Too long ago to even remember.

  In the wall was a narrow window covered by a simple wooden shutter. Rowena threw back the plain panel to reveal a thin slice of sky and let day's light tumble past her to chase heavy shadows from the dusty corners. Although the air was still light, she guessed it was a good three hours past midday.

  So, it was hours that she'd been locked in here without so much as a cup of ale or a bite of bread. She breathed deeply. This February had been a harsh one, and the still freezing air cooled her hot face and eased the ache in her lungs.

  She turned away to stare once more around this room. The poverty of Benfield had not stopped outside this thick door. The master's private chamber was barely more than a storeroom with a hearth set in the corner. Neither straw matting nor an embroidered wall hanging was in evidence to keep the winter's chill from seeping in. A single trunk squatted beside a solitary chair. The only sign that it was not a nun's cell was the huge bed, which dominated the room. Thick, spiraling posts jutted up from each of its four corners to support a wooden canopy draped with heavy bed curtains. Drawn back to each corner of the bed, these curtains revealed the soft mattresses and thick blankets that filled its dark, cavernous interior.

  The lock groaned. She whirled to face the door as a woman carrying a basket entered. No taller than she, her visitor's tawny hair was bound in a thick braid and concealed by a wimple of homespun. Simple garments of green and gray clung close to a girlishly slim silhouette. Her features were beautiful, but bitterness deeply etched the set of her mouth, and her green eyes were dull and lifeless. It was a moment before recognition occurred, then Rowena gasped. Her mother.

  All at once she was five again. She crouched, tangle-haired and frightened lest she be seen and sent away, before the door to this very room. Inside sat her mother. And Philippa.

  Philippa, the golden-haired child, petted and cherished. In her recollection, her sister wore a clean and pretty gown and sang to their mother a playful, happy tune. Every so often her mother's sweet voice rose to intertwine with her sister's, and in that moment, the child Rowena knew what sounds angels made in heaven.

  How many times had she streaked, barefoot and unkempt, from this hall while her sister and mother loved each other? Memory after hurtful memory tumbled through her, one upon the other. Enough, she cried to herself. She turned and slammed the shutter closed. The room plunged into dimness.

  "Why did you do that?" The Lady Edith of Benfield's voice was toneless and flat, the voice of an old woman, not one in the midst of her third decade of life. She pulled the door shut behind her, th
en moved gracefully to the hearth and brought a fire to life upon it. The room brightened only slightly.

  Rowena's hands clenched at the pain in her heart. "Have you nothing to say to me? No greeting? Not even a 'How do you fare'?"

  "What would you like me to say? We both are well aware, as is every other soul in this keep, of how you feel."

  Her mother turned and brushed cobwebs from the chair at the wall, then seated herself. "I am to supervise the maids as they prepare you for your wedding. There is not time for a bath, but I have ordered a basin of hot water so you may wash." From the basket she carried, she took a piece of needlework and picked an imaginary speck of lint from its surface. She calmly pushed her needle through the linen stretched within the wooden frame.

  Rowena's rage outstripped her pain as her mother's needle flew. "I have suddenly remembered what I must have worked so hard to forget. I have not even the smallest place in your heart. Please forgive me, but it has been fourteen years."

  "Leave me be, Rowena." The words were short and clipped.

  "Leave you be? I would like nothing so much as that, but I seem to be trapped here. Be gone with you." Sarcasm lay thick and heavy in her tone.

  Her mother shot her a sharp glance. "And I thought the nuns would have taught you to curb your headstrong ways and sharp tongue. Lord Graistan has just arrived, and your father has some last-minute details to discuss with him. I am here because I was sent here."

  "Thank the heavens," Rowena snapped. "For a moment I was worried lest you actually meant to spend time with me."

  "You rage like a spoiled child." Lady Benfield took another stitch.

  "Oh, that I most certainly am not. Anything but that could be proved by the shameful way I am being married." She ticked the items off on her fingers as she spoke. "Without warning, I am dragged from the life I love, held prisoner in my birthplace, and forced into marriage against my will. Do I guess wrongly in thinking that no lord, other than my father and my new husband will break bread at my wedding feast? Nor, if I am right, will any noblewoman save my mother witness my bedding. Could it be that the village priest will be the one who condones this horrid deed?" She stared at her mother who looked away. "I see I have guessed correctly. But, then, I have always known I was not the favorite."