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"Readers who love medieval romance, will revel in the tone
and flavor Grall creates, both in its boldness and in its sensualness. Recommended." Wordweaving.com
"[Ms. Grall's] style is fast-paced and smooth flowing with no jarring
scene jumping or head hopping. The plot generates the suspense one expects in a
medieval romance. The
sexuality quotient is high, with realism and frankness in the love scenes. Ranulf must rank
as a good person, no matter what he stooped to under such terrible provocation. Brenna
begins and ends as totally sympathetic." Romance Reviews Today
"Anyone looking for a fast-paced historical romance will find one in Grall's sequel to CONQUEST OF THE HEART, set in England in the 1070s...Though short and speedy, this novel lacks none of the rich description generally associated with medieval-set fare, and proves as satisfying as some books three times its length." Publisher's Weekly
"Marilyn Grall presents her fans with yet another captivating and tantalizing
story in A SAXON'S LOVE. Brimming with bold and lovable characters, engaging
dialogue and excellent narration, this story is sure to snag the reader's
attention right to the end. For lovers of medieval romance, A SAXON'S LOVE is simply a must read!" Tracy's Book Reviews
"Four Stars! Ms. Grall never disappoints! Totally thrilling, this is a wonderful sequel to CONQUEST OF
THE HEART. Your attention will be grabbed as you live the ever-changing emotions of Ranulf
and Brenna." Scribes World Reviews
"Four Stars!. . .marvelous love scenes." Affaire de Coeur
"Marilyn Grall has given us a highly sensuous book about a man torn between desire and revenge, and a woman with a precious secret to protect. Tender and seductive, this book will draw you in. . ." Romantic Times Magazine
"Five Stars! This historical romance was a joy to read. It made me feel like a young girl again. I was reminded of the best adventure movies. I could just see Errol Flynn sweeping the damsel off of her feet. A perfect romance! I could not have been happier while reading this book. I kept sighing with contentment and had my husband convinced I was holding a secret. Perhaps I was. . .holding the secret of true love found." Buzzy’s Reviews
"Four Stars! Kudos to
Ms. Grall for writing this compelling, emotionally satisfying
story of redemption!" Sime-Gen Reviews
"I know this one sounds wonderful! However, it's even better! Well written and full of changing emotions! I had a cold ball of ice in my stomach the entire time I was reading this one! The reader easily felt every emotion from Brenna and Ranulf. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!" Huntress Book Reviews
"Marilyn Grall's writing style flows like silk chocolate. You'll feel all warm and satisfied when Ranulf and Brenna are together. Then all of a sudden, her words will toss you onto a charging destrier and into dramatic battle scenes to fight loathsome villains, grimly threatening any chance Ranulf and Brenna may have had for happiness. I wholeheartedly recommend A SAXON'S LOVE for anyone wanting to escape to a simpler, though not always a peaceful time, where good overcomes evil, and where love conquers all." Beverly Cackoski for KnowBetter.com
"I started this at 9 PM one evening, finished it at 4 AM the next morning. Ms. Grall you certainly grabbed my attention on this marvelous story, your writing is wonderful, keep the FANTASTIC stories coming!!! 5 BELLS!!!" Bell, Book and Candle
"I thoroughly enjoyed Ranulf's story. It was every bit as good as I thought it would be. It had action, adventure and a wondrously happy ending." Kathy's Faves and Raves
"This is an exciting story full of high adventure and tender romance. Once again, Marilyn Grall has woven her wonderful magic. With artistry and style, she has fashioned a thrilling and romantic love story." Billie Houston for KnowBetter.com
A SAXON’S LOVE
By
Marilyn Grall
Copyright © 2000 Marilyn Grall
Cover art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright 2000
ISBN: 1-891020-90-0
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
CHAPTER ONE
Kent, England, 1070
He should have been dead. In fact, for all intents and purposes, he was. Dead and buried in the forest near King’s Vale.
But Ranulf of Ravenwood hadn’t died that day three years ago. He’d come damnably close, but the sword thrust taken in a fair fight with Sir Stephen Dubois had not ended his life.
"Whoa, boy," he said, pulling back on the tired horse’s reins. The wagon shuddered to a halt; iron, copper and tin pots clanging their complaint. Ranulf was home.
Ravenwood Manor might be in the hands of a Norman, but it was still home to Ranulf, and he’d come back to reclaim his birth right. All he needed was a workable plan. Ranulf’s destination lay just ahead on this mist-enshrouded road -- Ravenwood Village.
Adjusting the leather mask hiding his face, Ranulf clucked to the old horse again, setting the tinker’s wagon in motion. He had spent the last many months learning the pot menders’ trade, and now he would put that training to use. What better way to spy on his own home, and devise that plan, than as a lowly worker, a traveling tinker seeking warm shelter for the coming cold months?
Ranulf’s eyes narrowed, his emotions torn between guilt and anger. Being this close to Ravenwood brought back more than memories of home. It brought back one particular remembrance -- a memory of searing ecstasy and ravaging rage.
Three years ago, in a heedless need for revenge, he had forced a woman to his will at Ravenwood, making her his own on a bloody, hellish night of retribution -- the night he had executed her husband for heinous crimes against his own wife and family. That woman was Brenna de Rouen, the Norman who now held Ravenwood.
The mist began lifting as Ranulf reached the village. A wizened old man looked up from his tiny garden patch, and Ranulf took a deep breath. Now it began. If he could fool old Matthieu with his leather mask disguise, then perhaps the first part of his plan would work. He needed all the information he could gather. Spying on Ravenwood -- and learning its weaknesses -- was a very necessary step toward success.
Matthieu looked up as the wagon came to a halt. "Are you in need of help, stranger?" he said.
Ranulf let out the breath he’d been holding. The old man did not recognize him. "Does this village have a hut I might use for the winter?" he replied, his voice casual. "I am a skilled tinker. Mayhap the manor folk could make good use of my services."
Matthieu scratched his chin, covered in bristly gray hair, and Ranulf nearly smiled. ‘Twas a signal the man was thinking, pondering the situation. Ranulf had known Matthieu all his life. The mayor of Ravenwood’s village would never deny shelter to a needy man.
"Old Widow Maven just went to her reward," Matthieu finally said. "I expect you could use her cottage. What should we call you?"
"Tinker," Ranulf said simply.
Matthieu nodded. "Fair enough." He led the way to the widow’s hut.
The hut was simple, a one-room structure with a central fire pit and scant furnishings, but Ranulf didn’t care about the lack of luxury. He’d lived in far worse conditions since the Normans had stolen Ravenwood and changed his life forever. He began unpacking the wagon, while Matthieu started a fire to warm the room.
"Lady de Rouen has given me some fine herbs for boiling," Matthieu said conversationally. "The brew warms chilled bones and soothes the aches of travel. I’d be glad to share some, if you like."
Ranulf turned sharply. Brenna de Rouen -- the Lady of Ravenwood. His fists clenched tightly and anger surged that Matthieu had mentioned her name so easily. The old man should hate her! Brenna de Rouen was the wife of the man who had slaughtered Ranulf’s family...
Calling on all his willpower, Ranulf took a deep breath and reined in his anger, his white-knuckled fists going slack at his sides. As a traveling tinker, he shouldn’t show any reaction at all to the woman’s name. "Aye," he finally answered. "The drink would be most welcome."
Matthieu nodded, then headed toward his own cottage, and Ranulf followed him out the door, ducking to avoid the low lintel. Almost involuntarily, his gaze swung to the left.
Nothing was there now, naught but a fallow field. But on that night three years ago, that field had held a large tent -- the temporary lodging of Nathan de Rouen.
Unexpectedly, tears filled Ranulf’s eyes, and the anger he’d just reined in became a burning, silent rage. He couldn’t help reliving the Norman destruction of his life...
King Harold had been killed at Hastings, and Ranulf had been on his way to London to pledge fealty to the conqueror. The battle was over, the Normans had won. More than anything, Ranulf wanted peace for his family. His wife...his daughter...his son.
Several of Ravenwood’s men-at-arms had caught up with him. And from that moment on, nothing in Ranulf’s life had been the same. The ghastly tale they told changed everything forever.
Nathan de Rouen had attacked Ravenwood, with the blessing of William, the new Norman king. De Rouen had pulled Ranulf’s wife and young daughter into the courtyard, then personally raped and killed them both. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d then executed Ranulf’s son, calmly slicing the boy’s throat from ear to ear while the horrified villagers watched. As a final sacrilege, de Rouen burned the warm, comfortable manor house -- the home of Ranulf’s family for more than one hundred years -- stating he wouldn’t live in the barn of Saxon swine.
Ranulf had wanted to gallop back to Ravenwood, to seek righteous vengeance for these hideous crimes. But the men from Ravenwood dissuaded him. What good would it do? Had they escaped the Norman themselves, risking all to warn their master, just to go back and fight a lost cause? The Norman king had given Ravenwood to de Rouen. Nothing, no amount of bloodshed, would change that now.
After spending a sleepless night, Ranulf had to agree. A dozen men-at-arms had fled Ravenwood after the massacre, just to warn their master that de Rouen wanted him dead. He couldn’t repay their loyalty by forcing their return to Ravenwood. There was nothing left there for Ranulf in any case. His family was dead, but he still had loyal men whose very survival now depended on him. So he’d become an outlaw, an infamous Saxon rebel, instead.
For months, Ranulf and his outlaw band -- which had grown to more than fifty men -- wreaked havoc on the countryside, causing as much trouble as possible for the Norman conquerors.
And then one night he’d finally gotten his revenge on Nathan de Rouen. He’d walked into de Rouen’s tent, pulled the man outside, then calmly slit his throat from ear to ear in righteous recompense for the way de Rouen had killed Ranulf’s son. Returning to the tent, he’d pulled de Rouen’s startled young wife into his arms, bluntly telling her she was a widow now, and forcing her to yield -- but not painfully. Nay, even in his fierce bloodlust, Ranulf had found he could not physically harm the girl. Instead, he’d forced her complete surrender, arrogantly deciding that that would be an even worse punishment for having married the monster, Nathan de Rouen. With cynical enjoyment, he’d listened to her whimpers and moans of pleasure during her own ravishment, using her thoroughly in fair retribution for the rape of his own beloved mate. It wasn’t until several hours after the forced mating that guilt had set in, and by then he and his men had been far afield from Ravenwood. Never in Ranulf’s life had he defiled a woman! And the worst part of all was that the wench had stayed in his mind from that moment on... He wanted her again, and that only caused him anger, and further guilt. She was the hated wife of his hated enemy! Nay, he did not want her! Or so he kept telling himself...
Weeks after that fateful night, Ranulf had challenged another Norman, Lord Stephen Dubois, to a fair fight. That was the fight that should have cost him his life, but it hadn’t. And now Ranulf was back at Ravenwood. The burned manor house had long since been replaced by a stone monstrosity, but at its heart, the estate was still the same. It was home. Ranulf would claim his birth right again -- and he would purge his soul of Brenna de Rouen.
The soft, sweet sound of a lyre floated through the dry autumn air. Leaves swirled lazily to the ground from nearly-bare branches, and Brenna de Rouen sighed. She wasn’t sad, not really. ‘Twas just a touch of melancholy. She often felt this way when the glorious colors of autumn turned brown, when cold, dark winter loomed on the horizon. With no one to hold close during those cold winter months, a woman could be chilled to the bone.
Brenna shivered, then laughed wryly at her own foolishness. King William would gladly find her a new husband. She was the one who had pleaded for him to wait.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry again. It was just that... She stopped, futilely trying to push the thought aside. What was the use of wishing for a man who was dead? Of yearning for the man who had most likely saved her life?
His name was Ranulf, and he’d once been the lord of this very manor. That was before his outlaw days...before he’d come back to Ravenwood one fateful night, seeking revenge...
Perhaps she wouldn’t have died that night, but surely before very long. Nathan de Rouen, her brutal husband, had lost his male potency since his victory over Ravenwood. Brenna secretly thought that was God’s own punishment for his cruelty, but on that night, as on many others, he had blamed her for the problem, never himself. She couldn’t count how many hours she had spent on her knees, trying to coax his flaccid member to life with her mouth. Or how many times he had beaten her senseless when nothing happened.
And then Ranulf of Ravenwood stormed into her life, and the nightmare she’d been living abruptly ended.
Of course, they hadn’t known the outlaw was Ranulf, not at first. But as he’d stripped Brenna’s clothing from her body, as he’d forced her to his will on the small sleeping cot, he’d said, "An eye for an eye, my pretty Norman wench, ‘tis only fair." Later, that phrase had made perfect sense. Ranulf had been avenging the rape of his wife.
But he’d done something else that night. Ranulf the Outlaw had changed Brenna...forever.
No matter that she had been the spoils of battle, mating with him had been the most incredible experience of her young life. The world would call what he’d done rape, but to Brenna, it had been something far different than that. She’d never known a woman could feel that way -- so tight and full she thought she would shatter, and then that shimmering, quivering, glorious sensation of release. Three times.
Brenna sighed again, reliving the memories. It had been the very first time she had ever been taken without awful pain, the very first time she had experienced pleasure during the sexual act.
God help her, but she was not sorry her brutal husband had been killed that night. If anything, she was grateful to Ranulf for the execution.
And there was something else she was even more grateful for, something else that had changed her life.
Ranulf the Outlaw had left Brenna with child that night -- something Nathan de Rouen had been unable to accomplish in five years. At nearly two and twenty years of age, and having thought herself barren, Brenna de Rouen had found herself pregnant. Now, three years later, the delightful imp born of that union was the sunshine of her life.
Strumming the lyre, Brenna looked across the low garden wall, toward Ravenwood Village. Her home sat on a rise, and she could see the village quite clearly through the open, but guarded, manor gates. Other than Niel, her son, it was the manor folk that brought joy to her days. She truly loved the people of Ravenwood.
Her eyes narrowed in concentration when she noticed a wagon being unloaded at old Widow Maven’s hut. Then, seeing the man’s unique tools, Brenna smiled. "A tinker," she murmured, standing and setting the lyre aside. The man’s leather mask didn’t bother her in the least. Many men wore such things to hide hideous scars.
Her cook would be well pleased to hear of the tinker’s arrival. Gathering her skirts and picking up the lyre, Brenna headed for the manor house, intent on sharing the good news.
She had no way of knowing that just as she turned to leave the garden, Ranulf looked up and saw her, his eyes narrowing, too.
She looked different, he conceded, more mature than she had that night wearing naught but a shift, wide blue eyes startled -- but somehow grateful -- golden hair unbound. Now she looked regal, golden tresses hidden beneath a modest veil, her clothing rich velvet. She looked like the Lady of Ravenwood.
Ranulf cursed softly, then reached into the wagon for another parcel. Brenna de Rouen. Against his will, his loins tightened, throbbed. Could he purge the wench from his soul? He smiled grimly. Aye, he could -- by wresting Ravenwood from her dainty hands.
Ranulf was tending the fire in the hut’s central hearth when the creaky door swung open, and old Matthieu came in. Ranulf bowed his head, then abruptly made a decision. He’d proven the leather mask could hide his face well enough, but he needed at least one man at Ravenwood to know his true identity. Turning his back on Matthieu, Ranulf carefully removed the mask, then slowly turned to meet the old mayor’s scrutiny again.
Matthieu whitened, his jaw sagging, then dropped to one knee. "‘Tis a miracle!" he whispered, awe struck. "‘Tis my lord Ranulf!"
Ranulf pulled Matthieu back to his feet. "Aye, old friend," he admitted, "‘tis I. But, for now, at least outside this hut, I must be known as Tinker, naught more."
Matthieu nodded, understanding dawning on his wrinkled face. His voice low, he said, "But you were dead, my lord. How is it that you’re here in the flesh?"
"‘Tis a long story," Ranulf replied, gesturing toward one of the stools in the hut, then seating himself on the other. Matthieu’s face was still gray. "Why not brew your herbs while I tell the tale?"
Matthieu nodded, pulling a pouch from his cloak, adding fragrant flakes to the boiling water Ranulf had prepared.
"What did you hear about my death?" Ranulf asked.
Matthieu stirred the pot, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Just that you had died in fair battle against Lord Stephen of Almswick"--he looked askance at Ranulf--"a battle you had instigated yourself."
"Aye," Ranulf agreed. "But when Stephen Dubois thought me dead, I was only unconscious. Before he returned to bury me, I was able to crawl to a nearby cave."
"I did hear something about that," Matthieu said. "‘Twas assumed that some of your men had buried you, then escaped the King’s Vale forest. No one had any inkling that you were still alive."
Ranulf found two tin cups in his belongings, then poured the hot, fragrant brew. Taking a sip, Matthieu sighed his contentment, and Ranulf hid a smile. Obviously the concoction was a true remedy for the old man’s aches and pains.
"I lived in that cave for weeks," Ranulf continued, "with the help of two men who insisted on staying." He sipped his own drink. "The others scattered, avoiding capture, and I sent my two rescuers on their way as quickly as possible."
"But surely you’ve not been hiding nearby for three years," Matthieu insisted, sitting up straight and puffing out his chest. "Naught happens in this area that I don’t know about."
Ranulf smiled again. "Nay, Matthieu," he admitted. "Once my wounds began healing, I stowed away on a merchantman and ended up in a seaport town in France. ‘Twas there that I learned the trade of tinker," he added, gesturing to the various items around the hut, "as well as the French tongue. A traveling pot mender gave me shelter. He taught me the trade. It was the only thing that kept me sane while I regained my former strength."
"And now you will use this training as a disguise while planning how to reclaim Ravenwood?" Matthieu queried.
"Aye," Ranulf replied, his face grim. "I will reclaim Ravenwood -- somehow. ‘Tis my birth right."
"And what of Lady Brenna?" Matthieu continued. "Once Ravenwood is back in your hands, will you take her to wife?"
Ranulf bristled, sitting up very straight. "Nay, old man," he growled softly. "I may take the wench to my bed again, until I tire of her, but marriage? Never."
The tin cup clattered to the packed-dirt floor as Matthieu surged to his feet. "Nay, lord, I cannot allow that..." Suddenly remembering himself, he sat again. "I pray you won’t do that, milord," he said, more calmly. "Lady Brenna is a fine woman. She should be no man’s whore."
Unbidden guilt assailed him, but Ranulf forced it to the back of his mind. "The lady has already been my whore," he said softly. "Or have you forgotten the night I executed her husband?"
"Nay, lord," Matthieu said, his face reddening. "I haven’t forgotten. God knows Nathan de Rouen needed killing -- and mayhap...what you did...was justified, in revenge of your own dear wife -- but you do not really know Lady Brenna. She has been very good to us."
"Ha!" Ranulf snarled, standing to pace the floor. This bit of news was wholly unwelcome. He’d far rather hear that the wench was a tyrant, a demon, a scourge to the manor folk, than that she was a benevolent angel, caring for them all! "She’s pulled the wool over your eyes, old man," he insisted. "Surely the wife of Nathan de Rouen is more devil than saint."
"Why?" Matthieu countered, standing himself. "Does a noblewoman have a choice about whom she marries? Who is to say that Lady Brenna held a good opinion of her husband? Please believe me, my lord. She has a good heart."
Ranulf hesitated, running a hand through his tawny mane, but finally shaking his head. "Nay, friend," he said quietly. "I will not believe it. She could not have lived with Nathan de Rouen without becoming evil herself."
Matthieu stiffened. "In that case, lord, I beg your leave. There is naught more to say." He picked up his pouch, then added, "These herbs are from the lady’s own garden. Think you a sinister wench would care for an old man’s aches?"
With that said, Matthieu left the hut, and Ranulf cursed again. He’d savored the taste of revenge for three long years -- and now the taste was turning bitter.
CHAPTER TWO
Brenna smiled, leaning back in her chair. The work was done, and she felt satisfied. The harvest had been plentiful -- the best they’d had in her three years at Ravenwood -- and now every bushel of grain, every fruit and vegetable was accounted for.
Keeping account books might be vastly unusual for a woman, but the activity had given purpose to Brenna’s life. Blessed -- or cursed -- with keen intelligence, Brenna had mastered the English tongue even before her husband was killed. After his death, she’d pleaded with her priest to teach her to read and write, both in English and French. The man had done so, shaking his head all the while at the foolishness of women.
While Brenna blossomed with the child everyone believed was her husband’s, her mind blossomed with new learning. And by the time the child was born, she had become proficient as a scribe.
Of course, being a woman, Brenna had a warden, and the king had chosen a neighboring nobleman for the job, Lord Stephen Dubois. It was Lord Stephen’s task to make sure the account books were correct and that all appropriate taxes reached the king’s coffers, but Lord Stephen could find no fault with Brenna’s bookkeeping. King William himself seemed amused that a woman would prefer running her own domain.
The sound of delighted giggles broke through her reverie, and Brenna smiled again. Turning in her chair, she was just in time to catch a small bundle of energy as Niel vaulted into her lap.
"I’m sorry, milady," his harried nursemaid cried, placing a hand over her heaving breast. "The little master got away from me again."
"‘Tis all right, Emma," Brenna laughed. "I’m through with my work. This little imp is just what I need."
Running a hand through his tousled blond curls, Brenna bent to kiss his head. Finally tired out from his run through the manor house, Niel leaned against her breast, popping a thumb into his cherub mouth.
"‘Tis because you took him to your own breast," Emma scolded fondly. "He’s sorely attached to his mam, more so than a noble child should be."
Brenna nearly laughed, but caught herself just in time. What would the class-conscious Emma think if she knew Niel’s true sire was an outlaw Saxon rebel? Luckily, no one knew that and never would. Niel had a strange, sickle-shaped mark on his right hip, and his eyes were hazel -- like Ranulf’s -- but other than the tiny mark, his little body was perfect, and his coloring was easily attributable to Brenna’s own. Aye, no one would ever know Niel was not the get of Nathan de Rouen.
"I don’t regret nursing him myself, Emma," she finally answered, stroking his hair. He was nearly asleep in her lap. "There’s nothing better in this world than feeling a small mouth tugging on your nipple."
"Harrumph," Emma replied, bending to gather the toddler into her ample arms. "If you’ll excuse me for saying so, milady, I can think of far better pleasures than that."
Brenna laughed again, relinquishing her child. She knew she should chastise the maid for her disrespectful words, but Brenna encouraged open honesty from the servants and manor folk. She’d discovered the best way to learn their needs was to simply listen to them. ‘Twas a concept no man running a manor seemed to understand.
During Brenna’s tenure, crime had become nearly unheard of at Ravenwood. When she was forced to dispense justice, it was almost always over some small squabble -- such as who owned a piglet or who had spilled ale into a bushel of grain. Aye, the folk of Ravenwood were content. Much as she’d heard they had been under Ranulf of Ravenwood.
Ranulf was not content. At the moment, he was pacing the small hut, thinking of Matthieu’s words. How could the old man believe the wife of Nathan de Rouen was good? Then Ranulf looked down at the pot sitting beside the smoldering fire, and frowned. ‘Twas true that the woman had given Matthieu herbs to ease his pain.
Ranulf sighed, then began setting up his tinker’s shop. Whether or not Brenna de Rouen was a simple victim of marriage didn’t really matter at this point -- Ranulf still intended wresting Ravenwood from her hands. And his first step toward that goal was having the manor folk believe his disguise.
Hours later, Matthieu entered the hut again. "I came to apologize for my rudeness, milord," he said, then shuffled his feet. "I’ll not take back the words, though. ‘Twould be dishonest."
Bent over his workbench, Ranulf grunted acceptance. The manor’s brewery master had already given him several large copper pots to mend. He was repairing the handle on one, bringing solder to a molten state to seal a leak on another. "Would you hand me those pincers?" he finally said.
Matthieu handed him the tool. "I thought perhaps if I told you more about the lady, you would--"
Ranulf’s head shot up. "Nay," he growled, guilt and anger sparring for control. "I don’t want to hear you sing her praises. Mayhap the wench has bewitched you. Mayhap that concoction she feeds you is the Devil’s own brew."
Matthieu’s eyes widened. "Are you truly accusing her of witchcraft, milord?"
It would be convenient to do so, Ranulf knew. A convicted witch would be killed -- burned at the stake -- but Ranulf shook his head. He had no intention of killing the girl. "Nay," he admitted. "She’s no witch. But I’ll still not hear you defend her. The wife of Nathan de Rouen cannot be good."
"‘Tis guilt by marriage, not deed," Matthieu muttered.
Ranulf nodded. "Aye," he finally conceded, then narrowed his eyes, "but would you have me honor her instead, Matthieu? Would you have me put de Rouen’s wife on a pedestal? Have you forgotten what he did to my family?"
"Your heart is scarred, milord," Matthieu said sadly. "Seared as if by that molten metal. I’ve not forgotten what happened here three years past, but hatred and revenge do naught but destroy the soul."
"Ah, but forged metal is stronger, Matthieu," Ranulf countered, carefully pouring the liquified solder into a fault. "A sword made of iron breaks easily, a sword seared by the blazes of hell does not. There’s much to be said for being hardened and well tested." He raised his head. "For instance, I haven’t been mesmerized by a pretty face."
"‘Tis so much more than that," Matthieu persisted. "The lady even keeps her own account ledgers, milord. She’s far, far more than just a pretty face. Her intelligence rivals that of most men."
"Ha!" Ranulf barked. "Mayhap she’s a witch, after all. Women don’t keep accounts. You’re mistaken, Matthieu."
"Nay, sir, I’ve seen her working on them myself. And I know the numbers, if not the words. Aye, Lord Ranulf, she keeps her own books."
Setting the newly-mended pot to one side, Ranulf stood up, pulling off thick leather gauntlets. "Then mayhap she does the task in order to cheat her Norman king," he mused. "Surely Nathan de Rouen’s wench would be good at such treachery."
Matthieu shook his gray head. "Nay. The king sends a warden. In fact, the warden is Lord Stephen--"
His words halted as the door to the hut creaked open, revealing the lady herself standing on the threshold.
Ranulf stood firm, but his heart pounded. He was wearing his leather mask again -- now he would learn if the disguise was adequate. Brenna de Rouen had seen him well enough that night three years ago. His right hand itched for a sword. Would she call the guards?
She only smiled, then rapped on the doorframe. "Might I come in?" she asked, and Ranulf frowned. She was the mistress of the manor -- she could enter any hut she liked. Why couldn’t she be rude and haughty, instead of polite?
"Come, lady," he growled low, purposely disguising his voice as well. She was holding a large iron flat-pan with a detached wooden handle.
"The connection has broken," she said to Matthieu. "I’d noted the tinker’s arrival. Now I’d like to test his talent with Cook’s favorite utensil." She turned to Ranulf. "Would you mind if I stayed and watched?" She smiled impishly. "I promise not to get in the way."
Her eyes twinkled with merriment, a dimple formed in her right cheek, and Ranulf cursed under his breath. She should be a harridan, demanding instant compliance, not this sensual creature with laughing blue eyes and an utterly kissable mouth...
Stopping that line of thought, he inclined his head. "Of course, my lady. ‘Twould be my honor to serve you," he said.
Brenna’s cheeks heated as the tinker turned away -- a reaction not caused by the white-hot brazier in the room. ‘Twas the tinker himself who’d caused it. Bare-backed, chest leather-clad, he was magnificent, an undeniably powerful male. Sweat glistened on his massive upper arms, droplets easing down the deep cleft of his spine. She shivered. How would it feel to have those brawny arms holding her close, to rake her nails down that strong back, to feel his hips moving...
She shook her head, clearing the scandalous thought. ‘Twas one thing to admire a manly form; ‘twas quite another to wish for...much more.
"Are you ill, milady?" Matthieu said.
"Nay," Brenna answered a little breathlessly, then added, "but I think I shall wait outside, after all, in the fresh air."
"There’s no need to wait, lady," she heard the tinker say. "I’ll take the repaired flat-pan to your cook."
"My thanks," Brenna murmured, frowning a little, as she left the hut. The tinker hadn’t turned from his work to say those last words. Was he hiding something? She shook her head again. Ridiculous. What would a tinker have to hide?
The strangest feeling stirred in her belly, her steps faltering momentarily. ‘Twas almost as if she had just encountered her lover...but of course that was ridiculous, too. She had encountered a workman; her only true lover had been an outlaw. Brenna couldn’t help laughing at that. Married to a high-born Norman for five horrid years, and yet her only claim to love had been a single hour with a rebel. She had no illusions about that hour, either. The rebel hadn’t loved her in return; he’d simply used her for revenge. But the tables had turned. Instead of hurting her, he’d given her a wondrous gift, her heart’s dearest desire -- a child.
Ravenwood’s huge gates creaked and moaned as men pushed them closed. Brenna turned, wondering what was amiss, but the gates soon swung open again, the riders’ colors apparently recognized.
Stephen Dubois and a small entourage rode into the courtyard, and Brenna smiled at her warden. He was a very tall, very handsome man with raven hair cut short in the soldier’s style.
Brenna was well aware that it was Lord Stephen who had thrust a sword into Ranulf the Outlaw’s chest, but she couldn’t hold that against him. The battle was a fight to the death, instigated by Ranulf himself. Lord Stephen had only defended his life.
"Good day, my lord," she said, sketching a curtsy.
The knight dismounted, "Good day, my lady," he politely replied.
"I had not expected you quite so soon."
Stephen quirked one brow. "Does that mean your accounting ledgers are not ready for my perusal, madam?"
"Nay, sir," Brenna assured him. "The books are in good order, as you will soon find out."
Stephen nodded and offered his arm. Brenna immediately took it, then said, "And how fares my dear friend, Mary, now that her babe has been born?"
His smile was genuine. "My wife fares quite well, Lady Brenna, as does little William. Mary says he has the hungriest mouth of all our babes."
Brenna chuckled. "‘Tis a good sign, my lord," she said.
Standing nearby, Matthieu overheard this exchange, then hurried back to the tinker’s hut. Opening the door and finding Ranulf alone, he said, "Milord, I followed Lady Brenna to make sure she was all right, and..." he hesitated.
"And?" Ranulf prompted, still bent over his workbench.
Matthieu had no desire to see further bloodshed at Ravenwood. There had been enough three years ago. But he must warn his true lord. "Milord, you must not leave this cottage for several hours. Lord Stephen Dubois has just arrived!"
Ranulf turned from his work. "What would Dubois be doing here?" he asked.
"Lady Brenna is his ward."
Ranulf thought about that for a moment. "Have you told the guards of my arrival?" he finally asked.
"Aye," Matthieu answered, hesitant again. "They know we have a new tinker."
"Then they’ll not stop me if I wish to pass?" Ranulf continued, holding up Cook’s mended pan.
"Nay, they won’t, but milord--"
"Lord Stephen’s arrival is the perfect opportunity for me to study the manor house, Matthieu. The woman will be occupied with him."
Matthieu nodded, since that made perfect sense. "Be careful, milord," he said.
"I will," Ranulf promised, then ducked under the low portal, leaving the hut.
Watching him, Matthieu sighed and shook his head, wondering what the future held. ‘Twould be a blessing to have Lord Ranulf returned to power, but what of the lass? Lady Brenna had treated the manor folk very well, yet Ranulf insisted on hating her. Matthieu had to wonder if his lord would feel that way if he knew the lady’s secret...
Ranulf inclined his head respectfully to the manor guards, and they allowed him entry without a qualm. Ranulf smiled grimly. ‘Twas child’s play to gain access to the inner courtyard. That bit of knowledge would serve his plans very well.
He approached the kitchens, drawn by the mouth-watering scent of baking bread. Cook was just what he’d expected, a rotund, cheerful woman of indeterminate years. She looked up and smiled as he knocked on the open door. Obviously, his leather mask didn’t bother her at all.
Brushing a strand of graying hair off her face, she said, "You must be the new tinker. I see you’ve brought back my pan."
"Aye, Mistress..."
"Just ‘Cook,’" she answered, turning to pull the loaf he’d smelled baking from a deep oven. "Would you like a piece of fresh-baked bread? There’s freshly-churned butter, too, and I know milady wouldn’t mind...In fact," she continued, turning again and reaching into a clay pot, "Here’s a coin for the repair work. The pan looks just fine. ‘Tis one of my favorites, you know."
Accepting his meager pay, Ranulf couldn’t help smiling. Cook was such a talkative, happy sort. But his smile faded as he realized just how he would use the woman. If he won her trust, undoubtedly Cook would tell him everything she knew about the manor -- knowledge he would use to attain his own goal. Pushing the dishonesty of the act aside, he said, "I’d be very pleased to share your bread."
Cook smiled again.
One hour later, Ranulf had indeed learned much about the manor, at least about the house that had replaced his family home. ‘Twas built of limestone, around a central great hall, with a large central stairway. For the convenience of servants, there was also a second staircase near the kitchens. Ranulf said his goodbyes, then made his way to that back stairwell.
He kept to the shadows, since explaining his presence might not be easy, but he was determined to learn all he could about Brenna de Rouen’s home. The second level held sleeping quarters; the third was probably for high servants. Lower servants would sleep on pallets in the great hall. Ranulf eased down the second floor hallway on quiet feet, looking in room after room of guest chambers. He stopped at the second-to-last door, pushed it open, then blinked in surprise. The chamber was a nursery, evidenced by the small bed and neatly folded children’s clothing. Had Brenna de Rouen been pregnant the night he’d forced her to his will and executed her husband? Guilt stabbed his conscience again. He’d never even thought about such a possibility. What kind of man would rape a pregnant girl? Shaking his head to dismiss the thought, he told himself firmly that it didn’t matter at all. ‘Twas not his business that de Rouen had left his spawn in Brenna’s belly. She -- and her child -- would leave Ravenwood once it was his again.
Closing the door, he went to the last doorway in the hall -- and there discovered Brenna de Rouen’s lair. This was an apartment fit for a queen! Or a wench who chose to live like one, doubtless at the expense of Ravenwood’s manor folk.
The solar was spacious, smelling of flax oil and beeswax, with priceless tapestries warming the stone walls, a large hearth and expensive furnishings cushioned in rich brocade. Aye, the wench liked her luxury, Ranulf mused grimly. Doubtless, she’d raped the land and raised taxes and rents to finance this voluptuary lifestyle. No matter what old Matthieu thought.
He went into the bedchamber then, finding more of the same, including a very large bed draped in the richest velvet. Those bed curtains could be pulled closed for warmth, or to cocoon the owner in her ill-gotten wealth. Turning away from that sybaritic altar, his gaze settled on a chair -- and he frowned. Beside the simple, carved armchair was a small table holding a basket of sewing. Crossing the room, he picked up a small nightshirt, his frown deepening. Why would the pampered wench be sewing clothing for the child? Why not force a servant to the task? Having no answer, Ranulf placed the shirt back in the basket, turning once again to peruse the room.
There was a sturdy table along one wall, with another simple chair pushed under it. Fingering the quill, ink and scrolled parchment, he realized the woman was using this as a writing desk. Ranulf smiled wryly. Old Matthieu was right, in this instance, at least. Brenna de Rouen could read and write.
With that thought, a frown creased his brow again. De Rouen’s wench was learned, a mother -- a woman who sewed clothing for the child herself, and who apparently wrote her own letters. Why couldn’t she be the villainess he’d wanted her to be? Why did she, more and more, seem the innocent victim of marriage instead?
An errant breeze removed the question from Ranulf’s mind. Raising his head, he followed the clean scent, and found a balcony. The structure was hidden behind a tapestry, but there was also a thick wooden door, which stood ajar. Carefully, Ranulf eased through that door, once again staying in the shadows.
And then he smiled. The wall beside the balcony had enough rough texture for foot and hand holds. ‘Twould be no harder than climbing a tree. If need be, he had found easy entry to Brenna de Rouen’s bedchamber. And if what he suspected was true, he could gain this chamber with no one knowing, except, of course, Brenna herself. Nathan de Rouen had burned Ranulf’s family home, but the outer wall of Ravenwood remained intact. If the well-hidden postern gate his grandfather had built was still there, Ranulf could come and go at will. His loins tightened at the very thought of lying with Brenna de Rouen again. Aye, mayhap he’d revisit this chamber ere long.
Smiling grimly, Ranulf left the ostentatious lair, never suspecting that Brenna’s only contribution to the room was the simple wooden chair that had belonged to her grandmother. Everything else had been Nathan de Rouen’s -- plans and architecture that had been nearly finished at the time of his demise.
Descending the servant’s stairs, Ranulf paused, hearing voices from the great hall.
"Aye, my lady, I am well pleased," he heard, immediately recognizing Stephen Dubois. "Your bookkeeping is excellent, your accounts in perfect order. The king will be pleased, as well. The crown’s share of profits are considerable this year."
"We were blessed with a very good harvest, my lord," Brenna answered. "May I offer you refreshment?"
Ranulf moved quietly to the back entrance of the hall, looking inside. Dubois and Brenna de Rouen were seated before the fire, Brenna’s small, graceful hands pouring wine for her guest.
Ranulf remembered Stephen Dubois with absolute clarity, remembered the day they had crossed swords in a fight that should have been to the death. Unconsciously, Ranulf’s hand went to the scar on his chest. A healer told him that if the blade had entered one inch to the right, he would have indeed been dead. As it was, by some miracle, Dubois’s sword had missed Ranulf’s vital organs, glancing off a rib. The fight had been fair, Ranulf couldn’t -- and wouldn’t -- deny that. He held no hatred for the Lord of Almswick Manor.
Just then, a plump woman entered the hall, obviously a nursemaid, holding a towheaded toddler in her arms. Ranulf’s frown returned on seeing the child, and a huge lump formed in his throat. His own son had looked much the same at that age. Swallowing his raw emotions, he supposed most toddlers looked alike. The maidservant handed the squealing, happy child to Dubois, who bounced the lad on his knee, causing more happy peals of laughter.
The lump in Ranulf’s throat doubled in size, and he felt telltale moisture behind his eyes. He wanted to curse his own weakness, but he couldn’t. Stealing to the back door by the kitchens, he left the manor house, no longer needing to hide. Cook called out, holding a kettle in need of repair. Almost automatically, Ranulf took it, promising to return on the morrow. The woman didn’t even ask why he was still there.
But Ranulf couldn’t think about the lax protection in Brenna de Rouen’s home. All he could think of at the moment was his murdered family. His son had been just ten years old when Nathan de Rouen slit his throat, his daughter merely thirteen when she’d died at de Rouen’s vile hands. Behind the leather mask, tears seeped from Ranulf’s eyes; he could no longer hold them back.
Brenna de Rouen had a son -- a son! -- and Ranulf had nothing.
Nothing but a burning need for revenge.
CHAPTER THREE
Old Matthieu was sick. Two village women came at first light to tell her so, and Brenna gathered her herbs and rushed to his side. Matthieu’s breathing was labored, interspersed with fitful coughs, his forehead burning hot. Fearing lung fever, Brenna immediately set to work.
Finding a large pot, she directed a young girl to fill it with water, then set the pot to boiling over the fire pit. Scattering a handful of herbs in the water, Brenna nodded approval as aromatic steam began filling the hut. She made a hot mustard poultice for Matthieu’s chest, then urged him to drink a tonic made from wild cherry bark. Now there was naught left to do but wait, watch and pray, and Brenna did just that, holding his hand and soothing his fevered forehead with a moist cloth.
Ranulf exited his hut with yet another repaired implement for Cook. He couldn’t help smiling. The woman had found more than a dozen items needing repair over the last two weeks. More than anything else, Ranulf suspected she wanted someone to talk to, and he certainly didn’t object to that. He had learned more of Brenna de Rouen’s running of this manor during those conversations than he might have on his own in far more than a fortnight -- and he’d gained a grudging respect for Brenna’s obvious intelligence. The fact that Cook was utterly devoted to her mistress was something Ranulf could not understand, since Cook’s mother was Saxon by birth, although her father was French. As with Matthieu, her Saxon heritage didn’t seem to matter in this case. She was completely loyal to the Lady of Ravenwood.
He was headed toward the manor gates, and the kitchens, when a group of villagers caught his attention. One was a woman known for her ability to exaggerate. Wringing her hands in vexation, she claimed that Matthieu had been stricken with lung fever. Surely, he wouldn’t last through the day. Another villager immediately scoffed at that, saying the Good Lord wouldn’t take Matthieu to his rest just yet. He was suffering naught more than a mild ague, and he was in the skilled hands of...
Ranulf didn’t hear the rest. He’d already heard what he’d needed -- his old friend was already being cared for -- and Ranulf knew next to nothing about the healing arts. ‘Twas better to keep his distance from the villagers, in any case, since most of the manor folk had known him before his supposed death. They weren’t likely to recognize a man they thought long buried, especially with his mask disguise, but the less time he spent with them the better. Ranulf strode toward the kitchen instead.
His stomach growled in appreciation as he caught the scent of roasting meat. Entering the warm, welcoming chamber, he found a young boy turning a spit at the hearth. Sizzles of fat dropped from the venison haunch onto fiery coals as the meat was turned, then turned again, in a never-ending cycle. At Ranulf’s approach, the boy looked up and smiled, obviously proud of his important job.
Ranulf returned the boy’s gap-toothed smile, then simply set the repaired pot on a work table, as Cook was not in the room. Taking the opportunity, he quickly left the kitchen again, heading for the main part of the house. No one stopped him as he crossed the great hall, which didn’t surprise him overmuch. Even the household servants had gathered outside Matthieu’s hut, awaiting word of their beloved elder’s health.
There were several rooms on this first floor of the manor house, but Ranulf was only interested in one; the manor’s accounting chamber. Finding the room was no problem, and as Ranulf had suspected, there were shelves filled with neatly stored parchment scrolls and leather-bound ledgers, each carefully dated. He found what he wanted easily enough -- the original writ from King William, sanctioning Nathan de Rouen’s attack on Ravenwood. Grateful that he’d learned the French language while recovering from his wound, Ranulf perused the document, then grunted with satisfaction. The writ had not given de Rouen permission to slaughter Ranulf’s family. Thinking that bit of information might become useful, Ranulf tucked the document in his tunic, then quickly left the chamber.
Cook had returned to the kitchen by the time Ranulf entered it again. She smiled, looking up from her task of pouring steaming liquid into a jar. "Would you take this to Matthieu, Tinker?" she asked, putting a lid on the crockery pot. "‘Tis venison broth. ‘Twill help ease the tightness in his chest."
"Is he better?" Ranulf asked, nodding and accepting the pot from Cook’s work-roughened hands.
"Aye," she affirmed. "He’s sleeping peacefully now."
Ranulf was more than glad to hear it. Matthieu had been the mayor of Ravenwood Village for nigh on thirty years. ‘Twould be a sad day for all when the elder finally died. He made his way to the old man’s hut, then quietly opened the door, expecting to find a village goodwife attending his friend. He found Brenna de Rouen instead.
Taken aback, Ranulf sucked in a breath. He surely hadn’t thought she would stoop to caring for a commoner -- mayor of the village or not. Once again, his opinion of the woman shifted, his hatred of her dead husband losing ground to admiration for the lady herself.
She hadn’t noticed his presence yet. Ranulf took the opportunity, quietly studying her as she sat at Matthieu’s side.
She was tired. Even from where he stood, Ranulf could sense it. Tired...but still incredibly beautiful. There was no denying that. Her waist-length golden braid was a little disheveled, a few errant wisps of hair caressing her face. In profile, her lips looked full, ripe...enticing. She chose that moment to open her mouth, her small pink tongue slipping out to moisten the upper lip, and Ranulf felt himself go instantly, painfully hard. Iron hard. He’d plundered that ripe pink mouth three years ago. He’d sucked that lower lip, nipped at the upper, then penetrated her moist, silky depths. He’d sucked and licked her helplessly erect nipples, then tongued her most intimate place, until her hips writhed in ecstasy and she begged for ravishment. Aye, she’d begged...he’d intended her to do just that. And he’d taken her then and used her for revenge.
Revenge. Ranulf winced. He didn’t want revenge against her now, he suddenly realized. How could he want revenge against a woman so clearly devoted to the people of Ravenwood?
Just as she realized he was there, and turned to face him, Ranulf came to another realization. Matthieu was right. Brenna de Rouen did not deserve his hatred. She had been nothing more than the unwilling chattel of a brutal man. His heart lightened at the thought, then darkened again. Even so, he would wrest Ravenwood from her delicate, gentle hands.
Ravenwood must be returned to his family. Nothing could change that fact.
"Tinker," she said a little breathlessly, pulling Ranulf from his thoughts. "What have you there?"
Ranulf looked down at his large, scarred hands, then back up again. "‘Tis venison broth," he admitted, swallowing as she licked her upper lip again. "Cook said it would help Matthieu."
"My thanks," Brenna replied, rising and taking the pot, setting it down on a small wooden table. "He’s sleeping now, but I’ll..."
Her overgown was apple green, Ranulf noted, the underdress nearly white. And her generous breasts were clearly delineated beneath the snug bodice, secured with crisscross lacings. Her waist was so tiny, her hips provocatively flared. He swallowed again. Almost unwillingly, he stepped toward her.
Brenna’s head was swimming, and her breath caught in her throat. She wanted to kiss this man, wanted it more than anything since...
Impossible! she told herself. She shouldn’t be wanting this tinker, anymore than she should have accepted ravishment by an outlaw. And yet...
He raised her chin, then lowered his head with only the tiniest hesitation. His breath warm and moist, he whispered something guttural, then claimed her mouth with his own.
The kiss was devastating...and heartrending. His tongue parted her lips, entering her mouth forcefully yet gently, letting her know who was in charge but never causing her pain. ‘Twas so much like...No! No! She couldn’t think that way! Surely she’d go insane if she kept comparing Tinker to Ranulf the Outlaw -- the father of her child.
One hand kneaded her breasts, the other pulled her hips to him. She felt the proof of his lust, and her own arousal quickly matched his. Nothing had ever felt as good as this, except that one night, three years ago.
Reality intruded as Matthieu coughed harshly. Brenna broke the contact, pushing herself back from the tinker’s hard chest. Dear Lord, what had she done? Kissing this man...thinking about the other...
His strong hands were on her shoulders, and they tightened. "I’ll not apologize for kissing you," he said.
Brenna shook her head. "Nor should you," she murmured, blushing, deeply embarrassed by her wanton actions. Without thinking, she continued, saying, "‘Tis just that you suddenly reminded me of--" A hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in shock. What had she nearly admitted?
She felt his hands tighten even more. "I remind you of who, woman?" he growled low. "Your dead husband?"
She felt his anger and quickly shook her head again. "Nay, nay, not Nathan. You remind me of..." she turned away before finishing, and he let her go. "When we...kissed, you reminded me of a man I once knew."
"A man you once knew," he murmured.
She turned back to face him. "Aye, a man I once knew, but for only a single hour." Tears suddenly filled her eyes. "Now, please, no more questions!" And she fled the room.
"She loves you."
The hoarse words came from Matthieu, and Ranulf quickly turned toward his friend. "I see you’re awake," he said.
Matthieu coughed again, then said, "The lass loves you, milord. I saw it in her kiss, and heard it in her voice."
Ranulf helped him sit up, then gave him a sip of water. "Nay, old man," he said, frowning. "Brenna de Rouen could never love the man who used her for revenge. You’re wrong." But he remembered that kiss, and her tear-filled eyes... "Nay, surely you’re wrong," he insisted, but the words sounded forced.
He paced the room, pushing a hand through his hair, finally stopping before Matthieu’s bed again. "How could she love me? I raped her, Matthieu..."
"It may have something to do with her son," Matthieu quietly replied.
"Her son?"
Matthieu nodded, obviously coming to a decision. "Niel..." he began, then took a deep breath. "Niel is yours, my lord, your natural son. I’m sure of it."
Ranulf stood stock still, feeling the blood drain from his face. "Niel is...my son?" he whispered. Then, "How can you be sure?"
"The birth mark," Matthieu answered. "I’ve seen the mark of your family on his right hip."
Ranulf abruptly sat down. The sickle-shaped birth mark every male child had borne in his family for hundreds of years! He hadn’t thought of it in a long, long time...not since his own son’s birth. Was Niel really his...another son of his loins?
If true, the implications were astounding. Brenna had been the spoils of war, his act of revenge against her executed husband. Dear God, he had raped the woman...and she had borne him a son? Guilt like he’d never known before rushed through his mind. And another thought occurred to him: If Niel was his natural son, then Ravenwood was already back in his family’s hands. His work here was done.
"What will you do, my lord?" Matthieu asked.
"I don’t know," Ranulf finally answered. "There is much here I much think upon."
She’d smelled of honeysuckle, Ranulf remembered several days later, as he watched Brenna in the leaf-strewn garden. Her hair had smelled of rich, pungent honeysuckle as he’d kissed her. It was loose today, tumbling in golden disarray down to her waist. He’d pushed his hands through that hair once three years ago, holding her prisoner for his ravishing mouth. Memories of that night were almost as clear as thoughts of the heated kiss they’d shared only days before....He didn’t know anymore if what he felt was guilt, regret, or longing.
Ranulf’s thoughts stilled as the garden gate opened, revealing the nursemaid bringing young Niel to his mother. This was what he’d been waiting for, what he’d hoped to find.
He’d learned Brenna’s habits. Near noon each day, she came to this autumnal garden, seeking quiet solace and peace. Sometimes she played her lyre, sometimes she sang in a quiet, sweet voice...and sometimes she played with her son.
Niel. Was the boy really Ranulf’s own? There was only one way to find out. Somehow, he had to assure himself of the child’s parentage. Matthieu was certain, but Ranulf needed proof of his own.
As he’d supposed, the postern gate his grandfather had built into Ravenwood’s outer wall was still there -- and still well hidden. He’d had no problem at all gaining entrance to this place. Now, he wished he’d come straight through the gates. He wanted to come out from his hiding place behind a still-green hedge, wanted to hold the child and look for his family’s familiar birthmark.
Brenna was gentle with the child, and kind, Ranulf noticed. And she laughed with the unmitigated joy of one who loves with her entire heart. He felt a lump in his throat. He had misjudged her before, but no longer. She was a wonderful mother to the boy.
"Who’s there?"
The words held only the tiniest bit of fear, but Ranulf cursed silently. In his outlaw days, none would have ever discovered him. He must be far more careful in the future...
But for now, "‘Tis I, milady. Tinker," he said, stepping out from the hedge. "I didn’t know you would be here, and I was--"
"There’s no need to apologize, Tinker," Brenna quickly replied. "Would you like to meet my son?"
Ranulf nodded. He’d heard the slight breathlessness in her voice. She was vulnerable, he knew. The kiss had affected her as much -- if not more -- than it had him. He should leave, avoid being close to her, but he had to see the boy.
"He’s a fine lad," he murmured, sitting on his haunches before the garden bench. He placed a large, callused palm upon the toddlers head, carefully patting the golden curls. "I understand his name is Niel."
"Aye," Brenna agreed, smiling so sweetly Ranulf swallowed hard again. "This is Niel, who just loves getting into mischief, don’t you, my love?"
The boy smiled, too, nodded vigorously, then broke into a fit of helpless giggles. Ranulf couldn’t help smiling himself. Niel was a happy, well-cared-for child.
Just then, the boy wriggled off Brenna’s lap and began running across the garden, giggling delightedly all the way.
"He is perfect, milady," Ranulf said. "Simply perfect...so happy and healthy. You must feel truly blessed."
"I do," Brenna replied. "So many things can happen when a child comes into this world, but save for one tiny mark on his hip, Niel is perfect, just as you said. God has indeed blessed me in my son."
Ranulf’s heart pounded in his chest, and sweat gathered behind his leather mask. "A small mark, you say?" he asked, his voice deceptively quiet for one whose world might be about to change. "‘Tis the mark of an angel’s kiss, no doubt."
"No doubt," Brenna laughed. "But the mark is sickle-shaped. ‘Tis a rather odd form for an angel’s kiss, don’t you think? I would think an angel’s sweet kiss would be something gentler, a rose perhaps...Are you all right?"
Nay, but he couldn’t tell her that. It was true! Neil was his natural son! "Aye, milady," he whispered. "‘Tis nothing, just a twinge from an old wound." That was true enough. The wound was to his soul. A night of revenge had changed this woman’s life forever, as it had his own.
He needed to leave, needed to seek his hut...needed time to think again. Mayhap ‘twas truly time he left Ravenwood. Niel would inherit the manor -- Ranulf knew now that he could never take it from Brenna. He owed her that much, at least...and he owed his son everything.
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