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  “I think you quite mad, Rolf de Briard,” Alette answered him. “I have already told you I shall take no man to my bed again. I will not be at your mercy as I was at the mercy of Robert de Manneville!”

  “I think my lady Isabelle gets some of her spirit from her mother, not just her father,” Rolf teased Alette wickedly. “You have the most tempting mouth, ma petite.”

  Startled, Alette blushed, then standing abruptly, she fled the hall for the relative safety of her chamber. Rolf de Briard was too bold, whatever he might say of himself. Yet his words touched her in ways she did not understand. No man had ever spoken to her as he did. Certainly not her husband. Was this what her cousins had called wooing? Her conversations with Robert had been mostly one-sided. He would tell her what he desired. She would obey. He would criticize her for some fault, real or imagined. She would abjectly apologize for whatever it was that displeased him.

  Not once in all the years that she had been married to him had Robert de Manneville said he loved her, that he cared for her, that she satisfied him in any manner. When Isabelle had been born, he raged at her for her failure to produce him another son. He had not thanked God, or His Blessed Mother, for her safe delivery from the perils of childbirth, or for the healthy baby daughter he now had.

  His two sons were little better than their father. William, the elder, seemed, to hold her responsible somehow for his mother’s death, although she had known neither of the de Mannevilles prior to her marriage. William had been eight years old when his mother had died from the complications of a stillbirth—a third son who was buried with her, Robert was forever reminding his second wife. Sibylle had been a woman who knew her duty. William had been his mother’s particular pet, and while Alette knew she could not replace Sibylle in her son’s heart, she hoped at least to be a good mother to him. He, however, would not allow it, and the horrific old woman who was his nurse, who had been his mother’s nurse as well, encouraged the boy in his rudeness, in his misbehavior, in his open hostility to his young, uncertain stepmother.

  Richard, her younger stepson, had been only a littler easier. The second son, he had been no one’s child really. Richard enjoyed the attention Alette gave him, for at five years of age he was yet in need of mothering. Still, the poor child was torn between his kindly stepmother and his elder brother, whom he very much sought to please. In the end his behavior was scarcely better than William’s, until William at age fourteen had returned to Normandy to oversee the estate that would eventually belong to him. Richard, of course, had assumed that Langston would one day be his. His displeasure in learning several years later that it would not, but would rather go to his half sister, was not pleasant.

  “Could you not have spoken up for me?” he raged at his stepmother. “A large dowry would be good enough for Isabelle, would it not? A wench with a fat purse is a respectable match for a landed man. You have worked your wiles upon our father, and allowed him to leave me landless! William warned me! He said that you loved that red-haired changeling you birthed far better than you loved me. I have been cheated. I will never forgive you.” Then he had returned to Normandy, joining his brother at Manneville. Alette had not seen him since, which had actually been a great relief. Such had been her experience with men.

  Now, here was Rolf de Briard, murmuring soft, coaxing words into her ear, setting her heart to beating as it had never before beat, confusing her totally! Men were absolutely not to be trusted. Had life not taught her that, even if it had taught her nothing else? Still, she had to admit that Isabelle had not appeared to be in any distress. If anything, she had had a look about her that reminded Alette of a large ginger cat that had gotten into the cream. Alette had experienced few surprises in her life, but she had to admit that this was one of them. What on earth could have turned her fierce-tempered daughter into a smiling, well-tempered young woman? Had her son-in-law threatened his bride? She had not heard any cries, although she sat up half the night in the hall listening, until Ida had come and made her seek her bed.

  In the days that followed, Alette watched carefully, but she saw absolutely no indication that Isabelle was unhappy. Her daughter, in fact, was beginning to take a strong interest in the household duties of a chatelaine. She asked questions constantly about preserving food, making soap, and all manner of things relating to the running of the house. She also seemed to be the instigator in leaving the table with her husband immediately after the evening meal. Some nights they would not even stay at the high board, but rather take bread, meat, cheese, and wine into the solar, closing the door firmly behind them. Once she heard Isabelle laugh in so seductive a tone that Alette was positively shocked. The sound was positively lustful. Rolf’s eyes met hers and he chuckled.

  “You need not be so smug!” Alette snapped. “He has bewitched her. Like all men, he will eventually show his true colors.”

  “You are being very foolish, ma petite,” Rolf told her.

  Several days later Hugh and Isabelle fell into a raging argument. Isabelle ran to their chamber, angrily slamming the door shut behind her.

  Hugh dashed after her, furiously pounding upon the door to the solar as he shouted, “Open this door at once, Belle! I will not be denied my own bed because of your idiocy!”

  “The door is not locked, you lumbering oaf,” Belle shouted back for all to hear.

  Alette watched in terror as her son-in-law burst through into the solar, banging the door so hard behind him that it shook upon its hinges. Those remaining in the hall could hear the tempestuous uproar going on behind the closed door. There was much shouting. There was the sound of crashing crockery. Then suddenly all was very silent. Alette ran to the door of the solar, frantic, but she could hear nothing.

  Trembling, she whispered to no one in particular, “He has killed her! He has every right. Ahh, Isabelle!”

  “More than likely,” Rolf said soothingly, “he is kissing her. It was, after all, just a lover’s quarrel, ma petite.”

  “How do you know that?” Alette demanded as he gently drew her away from the solar door and brought her to sit in a chair by the fire.

  “My lady Isabelle saw Hugh speaking with a very pretty serf this morning. The girl was shamelessly flirtatious, flaunting herself at her master. Hugh was amused. He quite enjoyed her behavior, though he did nothing to encourage her. I observed the lady Isabelle watching the wench with her husband. Have you not noticed that she has been sniping at Hugh all day? The lady Isabelle is jealous. I believe she is becoming quite fond of her husband. They are, I suspect, at this very minute resolving their differences in that age-old negotiation known to lovers the world over. Besides, Hugh is not a violent man, ma petite. It is more likely the lady Isabelle would strike him than he her. Your fears are, as usual, groundless.”

  Alette said nothing, and Rolf believed the matter solved, particularly when Ida came to take her mistress off to bed. Rolf bade her sweet dreams and continued sitting by the fire, watching the flames leap and dance amid the great logs. Then he dozed, waking suddenly at a sound he could not quite identify. Reaching for his sword, he carefully looked about the hall. All was exactly as it should be. He stood up, and when he did, he saw Alette, in her white chemise, crouching by the solar door. With a sigh he went to her, speaking gently in soft tones.

  “Alette, my petite, what are you doing?” Her hair was loose, and her eyes had a wild look to them.

  “I cannot hear anything,” she half sobbed.

  “Because Hugh and my lady are either sleeping or involved in each other, ma petite,” he told her. Bending, he raised her up.

  Alette looked straight at him. The expression in her blue eyes almost broke his heart. “I am so afraid,” she said low.

  He caught her up in his arms as she crumbled into a swoon. For a moment he just held her, uncertain as to what he should do. How could he return her to her chamber without arousing the two serving women who slept with her? They would raise a fine hue and cry. Then Alette’s fears would be known to everyone.
There was no one, Rolf knew in his heart, who could cure her of those terrible fears but a tender lover. He walked swiftly to his own chamber, opening the door without dropping her, and laid her upon his bed. Then shutting the door behind him, he disrobed but for his linen chemise, and climbed into the bed next to her.

  Alette stirred. “Where am I?” she murmured.

  “You are with me, in my chamber,” Rolf said quietly.

  She trembled. “Let me go, my lord,” she begged him.

  “The door is not barred, Alette,” he told her, “but if you stay, ma petite, I will show you that you need not fear a man’s desire.”

  “You would coerce me?” Her voice was ragged as she forced the words out. Then she shuddered again.

  “Never!” he declared vehemently. “I would take nothing from you, Alette, that you would not freely give me. I am not a barbarian, I have told you that before. Because Robert de Manneville was a brute, you believe all men to be brutes, but it is not so. You fear for your daughter, but the lady Isabelle revels, it is clear, in the passion she shares with her husband. If you choose to leave me now, I will, of course, regret your going, but I will understand, and I will be patient. You may not believe it now, but I have loved you from the moment I first saw you. You know I want you for my wife. I will have no other woman if I cannot have you, ma petite.”

  Alette was very silent, very still. It had been many years since she had shared a bed with a man. It had been even longer since she had shared her body with a man. She shivered. She was so cold. She knew she should get up and leave him, yet somewhere, deep within her, a tiny flame of curiosity stirred. She might be frightened, but she was not stupid. Rolf de Briard was nothing at all like Robert de Manneville, and, she suspected, he never had been. Isabelle’s obvious contentment with Hugh Fauconier had made Alette wonder. So had Rolf de Briard’s warmhearted blandishments.

  “I am no light-skirted serf,” she said halfheartedly.

  “You are going to be my wife,” he replied firmly.

  “I will never marry again,” Alette declared.

  “You would prefer to be my leman to being my wife?” he teased.

  “That is not at all what I mean!” Alette cried, confused.

  “I want to make love to you,” Rolf de Briard told her, running a single finger down her nose.

  “Ohhh, I do not know! I am so afraid, Rolf, and yet …”

  He gathered her into his arms and kissed her tenderly. Softly his lips pressed upon hers, subtly beginning his arousal of her. With expert fingers he unlaced her chemise, pushed it from her shoulders, and caressed her full breasts.

  “Ahhh,” Alette cried out, half fearful. She remembered how Robert used to crush and bruise her tender breasts with his cruel, greedy hands; how he had bitten down on her nipples until she screamed with pain. Rolf, however, did none of these things. His hands were gentle, almost teasing as they fondled her. When he bent to kiss the warm flesh, when he took a nipple in his mouth, she tensed in terror, but he merely suckled upon her, sending chilly little ripples down her spine.

  “Ah, my darling,” he told her, his voice fervent with passion, “you have the most perfect, the most beautiful breasts I have ever known!” He rained a firestorm of kisses over her palpitating bosom.

  She was growing quite light-headed with his attentions. This was so lovely. Why had her husband never touched her like this? Was this what Isabelle was experiencing at the hands of Hugh Fauconier? No wonder she was happy.

  “Does my touch give you pleasure, Alette?” Rolf murmured into her ear, kissing it with a tender little kiss.

  “Yes!” she said. Pleasure. It was pleasure she was feeling. She had never before felt pleasure at a man’s touch.

  Rolf grew bolder. Slowly, carefully, he pulled the chemise down and off her beautiful little form. She neither resisted nor begged him to cease, but he could feel her tensing as if for a blow. Patiently stroking her, Rolf sensed Alette finally begin to relax within his gentle embrace. He drew her lengthwise across the bed, then bending his blond head, he began to kiss her body with tiny, warm kisses. She vibrated beneath him.

  “Ahhh, dear God!” Alette sighed fervently.

  Rolf smiled in the dim light of the room, which was lit by just one candle and a faint waning moon outdoors. Nuzzling up her torso, he slid his hot, wet tongue between the valley separating her full breasts. Then he drew his tongue back down her belly, burrowing into her navel with it.

  Ohhhhh! Ahhhhh! Ahhhhhh!” moaned Alette, whose head was spinning with a variety of sensations, all of them utterly and absolutely wonderful. She was afire with a longing she had never before felt, had never even known existed.

  He gathered her back against him. Her head fell back, blond hair cascading over his arms. Once again his kisses burned into the flesh of her straining throat, found her wildly beating heart, brushed across her breasts, which were now swollen hard and aching. His mouth closed over first one nipple; sucking, teasing it with his tongue; and then the other. Laying her back, he began a more intimate exploration, first touching the insides of her thighs, then touching her Venus mont. His fingers sought out her cleft, pushing through, finding her little pearl, beginning her awakening, kindling a heat such as she had never experienced.

  Why am I letting him do this to me? Alette wondered hazily. She knew she must stop him before it was too late, before he finally threw off the mask of the lamb and became the fierce lion he really must be. She had to stop him. Her legs fell open as he stirred her to her first peak. She had to stop him! He was atop her. Her hands reached out to push him away, but instead they slipped about his neck to draw him closer. What was the matter with her? Oh, God, she could feel his weapon at the mouth of her channel. He was pushing into her! He was filling her full! He was moving with tender passion upon her, and she wanted him! She wanted him! She sobbed hungrily, her nails digging into the thick muscles of his broad shoulders. He was moving faster and faster upon her. Her body was responding wildly, pushing up to match his fierce downward thrusts. And it was wonderful!

  His mouth came down upon hers, cutting off her cries of joy. Never, Rolf thought hazily, never before have I felt such sensation. Her fingers kneading at his back, her nails raking him. The tension was building within him until finally he could bear no more, and his passion exploded within her sweet body, his love juices overflowing her womb. They lay gasping in the fiery afterglow of their spent energies. Then together, clasped in each other’s arms, they wept softly.

  “Marry me,” he begged her. “Can you doubt that I love you, will cherish you, will never abuse you? Marry me!”

  “No,” Alette said low.

  Rolf swore, frustrated. “Why not?”

  “I have told you,” Alette said quietly, “that I shall never again allow any man to have control over me. But I will be your leman, for you have shown me how sweet passion can be between men and women.”

  “I will end by killing you,” Rolf groaned.

  Alette laughed. “Nay,” she told him, rising from his bed. “You can only kill me with pure delight, my dear Rolf de Briard.”

  “Where are you going?” he demanded of her as she put on her chemise and walked toward the door.

  “To my own chamber,” she answered him. “If one of the servants should awaken and see I am not in my bed, they will raise a great hue and cry. It would hardly do for them to find me in your bed, would it? No one would ever expect such a thing of me.”

  “You are enjoying this,” he accused her, and she laughed again.

  “Good night, my lord,” Alette said, feeling happier than she had ever felt in her entire life, except when Belle was born.

  “Stay,” he begged her. “Your Ida will not waken, my love. Her snores can be heard throughout the hall. She sleeps heavily.”

  “But Agneatha does not,” Alette told him. Opening the door, she slipped through it and was gone.

  “Damn, Agneatha,” Rolf muttered softly. Why the hell was Isabelle’s maid still in Alette’
s chamber? If her own mistress was not ready to have her sleep in the solar, then let her sleep in the attic with the other servants. Then Rolf had a wicked thought. Agneatha was a fine, strapping girl, and he had noticed she had an eye for his squire, Giles. Giles slept in the attic. If Giles encouraged the girl, she would be willing to take her place with the other servants above the hall, thinking to seduce Giles, or be seduced by him. Then he could take his own pleasure with Alette, whose servant, Ida, slept so hard once her head touched the pillow that not even the archangel Gabriel’s trumpet would awaken her.

  He needed to be alone more with his ladylove that he might rid her of this foolish notion she had about marriage. Rolf tossed restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position. “Damn Robert de Manneville and all his kind to hell!” he said grimly. Had the man been even half decent to his wife, Alette would have been eager to remarry. What kind of man needed to hurt a woman before he could gain his pleasure? Certainly the man had been a coward! Rolf finally slept.

  “Do you notice a change in my mother?” Isabelle asked her husband a few days later as they rode out to assess the damage from the latest storm. She was relieved to find there was none. Actually, the snow was helping to heal the land. Sixteen months ago at Martinmas there had been a sea flood of the land such as no man could remember happening before. The tides had swept inland almost two miles, and the Blyth had risen to flood some of Langston’s fields with unusually salty water. Luckily, the salinity there, several miles up from the sea, had been far less than downriver, where it would take years for the fields to be fertile again. They had gotten a crop from the flooded Langston land last year. Now, with all the rains and snows of winter it would return to normal.

  “What kind of change?” Hugh responded.

  “She is smiling a great deal more than I have ever known her to smile, and she sings constantly while she weaves. It is most annoying, my lord,” Isabelle told him tartly.

  He debated whether he should tell her the truth, deciding he really should. “Your mother has taken Rolf de Briard as her lover, ma Belle,” he said. “Rolf loves her, and she is happy. It is quite simple.”