Could heaven be half so wonderful?
With a smile of womanly contentment stretching her lips to their limit, Cecily wriggled against the luxuriant softness of brushed fleece. When her movements met none of the expected resistance from a warm male body, she forced her eyes open and peered around in some alarm.
Either the lamp had burned out in the night or some hand had snuffed it. By such dawn light as managed to penetrate the tent, she could tell Rowan had gone.
She should have known better than to imagine one night of passion would keep him from his duty. No doubt he’d experienced many such since his disastrous bridal with Jacquetta DeNevers. It was foolish to hope their mating had meant as much to him as it had to her. Enough, perhaps, to weight the balance in their favor, when their differences and strong wills threatened to tear their fragile alliance asunder?
For herself, she feared it might weigh too heavily. Would her husband be tempted to use the carnal power he wielded over her in order to get his own way? Her father had tried to control her using the whip of his displeasure. Lord DeCourtenay might easily use the honeyed bait of her own pleasure to master her.
The notion chilled Cecily, almost as much as it beguiled her.
Coward! Fool! her own spirit of independence chided. What difference does it make how a husband governs you? With a lash or a caressing hand to your backside?
“Be quiet and mind your own business!” Cecily covered her ears with her hands, as if that could shut out the unwelcome exhortations of her own nature.
When she unstopped her ears again, Cecily heard the unmistakable sounds of Rowan’s army preparing to strike camp for the day. The chink of weapons and armor, the hoofbeats and whinnying of horses, the purposeful movement of men.
From just outside Rowan’s tent, she heard muted voices.
Perhaps her husband was planning strategy with his knights. His tent would be the logical place for such counsels. But how could he use it so, with his freshly deflowered bride sprawled naked in his bed?
Crawling reluctantly from her comfortable berth, Cecily dressed herself in the garments she had so deliciously shed the night before. True to the ribald jest of Rowan’s kinsman, she did walk somewhat gingerly after her conjugal initiation.
As she lifted the door flap of the tent, she braced herself to run the gauntlet of knowing stares and lewd half smiles from Rowan’s men. She wondered what Con would make of this strange but welcome reversal in her relations with his master.
The Welshman was nowhere in sight as she emerged into the camp, which was swathed in an early morning mist. Instead, Rowan huddled in close talk with two men she knew only slightly. Standing off from them, chained and under heavy guard, stood three other men, one of whom Cecily also recognized. For a moment she plundered her memory for a clue as to his identity.
Then the fellow called out to Rowan. “Who be ye and what do ye mean to do with us?”
That voice. Instantly Cecily recalled the guardsman who had tried to detain her from leaving Brantham Keep.
Fulke’s men!
Forgetting the tenderness in her nether regions, Cecily hurried toward Rowan. “What is this? How do we come to have apprehended Fulke’s men?”
Ignoring the bellowed demand of the prisoner, Rowan turned eagerly on Cecily. “They are in his service then? A band of my outriders took them by surprise, but they have not been very forthcoming with tidings about themselves.”
To his own men who stood guard over the captives he called, “Take them away and see they are fed. But keep them chained and well watched until I decide how best to dispose of them.”
The fellow Cecily had recognized began to bluster about how they would be sorry if they mistreated him or his companions.
When he paused for breath, Rowan ordered, “Gag that one as soon as he’s eaten.”
Casting Cecily a faint smile that looked almost bashful, he turned to his lieutenants. “Fie, I do not like this. Who knows how many other search parties DeBoissard still has combing the countryside? We were fortunate to blunder upon this lot before they blundered upon us. If the enemy anticipates our attack, we’ll be done for.”
“Then we must press on with all speed, my lord,” said the taller and fairer of the two knights.
“We cannot hope to reach Brantham before sundown,” countered the other.
Like a bolt of lightning in a dark sky, a plan had flashed in Cecily’s mind, illuminated to the last detail. She could keep silent no longer. “Don’t you see? This is not a problem, but an opportunity. I have known all along a frontal assault against Brantham would be disastrous, but I could see no alternative. Now Fulke has presented us with one.”
The three men stared at her as if she had grown horns.
Drawing a deep breath, she outlined her plan as if to a brace of simpletons. “We will take the clothes and horses from these men of Fulke’s and find three of our own who resemble them in size and coloring. Just at the tail end of the night watch, we will have them ride up to Brantham’s gate and demand entry. Once inside, they will keep the gate open until our forces can enter.”
Rowan’s two knights exchanged an auspicious look.
“It could work,” the taller one ventured cautiously.
DeCourtenay shook his head. “’Tis too great a risk. There’ll be hand-to-hand fighting….”
“Aye,” countered Cecily. “With our men armed and ready, while most of Fulke’s struggle out of their beds.”
“What if this advance party cannot hold the gate long enough for all my men to—”
“They won’t need to hold it until all your men enter, just enough to continue holding it for those who come behind. Besides, the guard will be few in number at that time of the night and inclined to sleep—maybe a little drunk.”
The two knights were nodding openly now in support of her. Surely Rowan would see reason, too.
“Enough of this, Cecily. It is a rash scheme. For all we know, the gate guards may recognize our imposters. They may be required to give a password or—”
“This is not the time for caution, DeCourtenay.” If he could not see it, perhaps they were too ill matched for their union to succeed. “Only boldness will carry the day. It will be dark at the gate, and I’ll wager the guards will open, password or no, if the search party returns with the captive they seek.”
It was the masterful keystone to her plan. Rowan could not send her packing back to Ravensridge if he needed her to affect his entry into Brantham.
He scowled, and beneath its sun-bronzed aspect, his face blanched. “On no account will I permit it. It is far too dangerous.” With a curt nod, he dismissed the two knights—her potential allies.
From between clenched teeth, Cecily released an exasperated sigh. “More dangerous than what you and I have already been through, together? I tell you, Rowan, I am the perfect bait for the gate guard, and I am the perfect addition to the advance party. While Fulke wants me to wed, his guards dare not lay a finger on me. And I know Brantham, down to the deepest corner of the cellars and the plumbing chute from the garderobe. If anyone can hold that gate open for you, I can.”
Still he looked doubtful.
“You cannot win by siege!” Why could he not see that? “Fulke will not come out to give you fight. Stephen’s allies from the surrounding country will attack you. Our only chance is to seize the opportunity God has sent us.”
Rowan gave a wry, mirthless laugh. “What makes you so sure the devil did not send it?”
She had one last appeal to advance. But did she dare?
“My lord, you promised me before we wed that you would not thwart me. Do not think that because you melted my bones last night, you also melted my will. If you deny me this heaven-sent opportunity to free Brantham from the thrall of that cursed viper, DeBoissard, I do not know if I will ever be able to forgive you.”
At that instant she read capitulation in his eyes. And she read something else, too.
Agony.
What could he do? If he refused to go along with Cecily’s reckless enterprise, she would never forgive him. But if any harm came to her on account of it, he would never be able to forgive himself.
Was there no one who could talk sense into her and make her listen? Rowan looked about the encampment. Con ap Ifan should have been in his war counsel with Fitzwalter and Blount.
“Has anyone seen the Welshman?” he demanded of no one in particular.
“Not since last night, my lord,” came the hesitant reply. “After you went into the wood, he saddled his mount again and rode off.”
Rowan bit back a groan of despair, remembering their fight. The daft, galling insults he’d spewed upon his friend. One more unpardonable offense.
His stricken conscience must have shown plainly on his face, for Cecily’s look of proud defiance softened and she touched his arm. “He’ll be back, Rowan, you’ll see. Con doesn’t have it in him to nurse a grudge against those he loves.”
She hesitated briefly, gnawing her lower lip. “Perhaps I don’t, either. It was wrong of me to threaten you with a lifetime of reproaches for doing what you believe is right. Can we find no common ground in this? Together we are a force to be reckoned with. I know we can prevail. If only you will risk trusting me as I trusted you would not harm me last night, when I followed you into the woods.”
Rowan held himself still, searching for a possible solution to an impossible situation.
One thing he knew beyond doubt.
“When this is over, I will find Con, if I have to search from the Marches to Gwynedd and back again. I will set things right between us…somehow.”
Then, as if his resolve had magically restored his friend to him, Rowan knew what Con would counsel.
But could he find the courage to risk a course of action that bid fair to break his heart?
He could not bring himself to meet Cecily’s frank, searching stare. “We will ride for Brantham with all speed. And before the night watch ends, we will put your plan into action.”
He cut off her effusive expressions of gratitude with a gruff warning. “We do this on my terms, mind. Taking every precaution to ensure success at the thriftiest cost in lives.”
His stern tone had no dampening effect on Cecily. She clasped him around the waist with a ferocious joy that drove the breath from his lungs. Or perhaps it was his own yearning for her that robbed him of air.
Almost of their own accord, his arms came up to enfold her. For the last time?
Resting his chin on the top of her head, he ran his hands through the unbound waves of her hair. “Before we strike camp, can I lure you back into my tent and make your bones melt again?”
She tilted her head back, treating him to a brazen, beautiful grin that begged to be kissed. “I see your plot now, DeCourtenay—to tup me until I am too tender to sit a horse!”
Rowan trumpeted with laughter, even as his heart recoiled in pain. “Now there is a plan with merit.”
What if this desperate scheme cost her everything?
As DeCourtenay’s force tethered their mounts in the woods near Brantham, last minute doubts stalked Cecily’s thoughts, black as the predawn darkness.
Realizing the need for swift surprise, Rowan had ordered the supply wagons and siege engines unharnessed and left behind.
“We’ll breakfast from Brantham’s kitchens,” he’d declared in bold, ringing tones that left Cecily atingle.
The drays had been pressed into service to ferry foot soldiers, two and three to a mount. Each of the knights had carried another man pillion.
Cecily had shared Rowan’s gray gelding, fighting the compelling inclinations to let her hands stray lower than his waist.
An owl hooted from a branch overhead, startling Cecily from her musings.
Atop a nearby hill, silhouetted by the pale light of a half-moon, stood Brantham Keep. Her destination. Her goal.
Her home.
Had it been only a fortnight since she’d stolen out of its gates in disguise? It felt like a lifetime. A lifetime in which Rowan DeCourtenay had taken her heart by storm. Compared to the perilous risk of loving this enigmatic man, their surprise attack on Brantham felt like the most timid caution.
“For my own peace of mind,” said Rowan, “let us review our strategy again.”
Fitzwalter and Blount murmured their assent.
“I would rest easier if I could ride with the advance party,” he said—not for the first time.
Cecily fumbled for his hand in the darkness. “Rowan, we have plowed this furrow a dozen times. You match none of DeBoissard’s men in size and coloring. Besides, we need you to lead the raiding force. Do you remember what I’ve told you about the layout of the keep?”
“Aye. A handpicked trio of my men will take the armory and forge—dispensing weapons to your castle folk. Do you recall your part?”
She rattled it off by rote, like a bored scholar repeating an easy lesson. “Once we are through the gates and your men have engaged the watch, I fetch a bow from Ethan’s saddle and fire a flaming arrow. Your signal to attack.”
“Very good.” He drew her away from his lieutenants. “But there is more.”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Because I did not want to waste the entire day’s ride arguing with you.”
His tone tightened her already taut nerves. “I do not care for the sound of this.”
He sighed. “Heed me anyway. I would strike you a bargain.”
“Aye?” she answered dubiously.
“I know the two things you value most in life are Brantham and your freedom.”
Cecily opened her mouth to protest that she valued him above even those. But was it true? Uncertain, she could not speak.
“I will grant you both, absolutely,” Rowan continued. “Once I have wrested Brantham from DeBoissard, it will be yours and I will pledge you all the men and supplies you require to hold it. If you find yourself in need of a wily marshal, I know a certain Welsh mercenary who’d likely be glad of a post.”
“Why will I need Con ap Ifan?” Cecily retorted. Surely Rowan could not mean what his words implied. “Where will you be?”
“That is the other side of the coin. Your freedom. We will remain wed so no other man can claim you, but I will take the cross again and promise not to return for many years, leaving you in peace.”
If one of the mighty oaks nearby had suddenly fallen on Cecily, it could not have crushed her so painfully. How could he calmly and coldly advance such a proposition if he cared for her even a tithe as much as she loved him?
“What must I do in return?” She stalled for a moment, fighting back tears Rowan might despise. “To earn such a…boon?”
“It is simple enough. When you get clear of Brantham’s gate to fire the signal flare, do not go back in. I will assign you a trusted escort. You and he will take a pair of horses and ride to that northern manor of yours—Rosegarth? There you will stay until the keep is secured and I send for you.”
He was offering her everything she’d ever wanted from life. Why then did it feel as though he was hacking her heart out with a dull, jagged blade?
The harsh lessons of her childhood armed Cecily to rally. Perhaps she was well rid of a husband whose heart she could never hope to claim. Her futile quest for her father’s affection had taught her that much.
Her anger gathered strength. How dare Rowan DeCourtenay have whetted her appetite to the physical pleasures of marriage, only to deny her them for the rest of her life? He had used her, like some common camp follower. And all the while, he had planned to desert her.
Cecily’s rapidly failing composure would only permit her to reply one word.
It hung in the darkness, sealing her fate.
“Agreed.”