Legend of the Troubadour
By Isadora Rose
Copyright 2011 Isadora Rose
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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***
Though he hummed under his breath as he stalked through the winding countryside paths, Josse Renouart’s face was grim. Irritably brushing the delicate flakes of snow off his shoulders with no regard for their beauty, his scowl deepened as he stared into the darkness for any sign of a welcoming inn in the distance.
It was Christmas night and by all rights, Josse should have been safely ensconced in the lap of luxury, revelling in the court of King Stephen. He was a troubadour - the most renowned in all the land.
His songs of lust and love had delighted the court, and in so doing lined his pockets; but Josse had unable to resist the sensations and desires that he sung of with such success. His French words of passion and seduction had caught the attention of the king’s niece and he had taken full advantage of that blessing. Unfortunately for him, the king’s fury over the sullying of his niece’s honour far outstripped his regard for the troubadour and Josse had been banished from London.
Homeless and disgraced, he had been forced to roam through the villages of Southern England. All he had to earn a living with was his voice; and that had won him nowhere near enough riches to support himself as he was accustomed to. Those that he had earned had been frittered away.
His foul, black mood was only barely lifted when the shape of a stone-bricked inn rose out of the thick and swirling mists that had begun to descend. Swatting away another coating of snowflakes that had settled upon his fur-trimmed cloak, Josse picked up his pace and hastened towards the inn. He had enough coins left for a tankard of ale and a bed for the night; tomorrow – Christmas – would simply have to wait.
***
Rhiannon Rolf darted around the table of bawdy, jovial men to return to the bar, sweeping the empty tankards into her slender arms as she did so and smilingly dismissing their lusty calls. She had known all the men sprawled over the inn’s chairs since she was a girl, for the farmers, blacksmiths and carpenters all had time for the innkeeper’s inquisitive and cheery daughter.
Now that she was no longer a girl, though, their interest seemed to veer in another direction entirely. Keeping her false smile fixed to her face as she pumped another round of ale for Farmer Ashdown and his sons, she fought to follow her father’s instructions and show no hint of her disinterest to them.
She was thankful that it was finally Christmas night; not only would the men soon have to leave to return to their wives, but Rhiannon had always had a fascination for this most mystical time of the year. Her father scoffed at her for holding onto such romantic ideals, but she had not inherited his stoicism. Despite all that she had gone through, her awe endured.
Her face relaxed into a brief but genuine smile as she reached the relative sanctity of the wooden bar and secluded herself behind it, slamming down the hatch and crouching down with her back to the room. As she set to washing and polishing the tankards until they gleamed, she allowed herself a moment in which to dream of Christmas and the magic it promised.
A chill, biting wind that blew in the snow with it alerted her to the fact that the door had been opened; and in so doing brought an abrupt end to Rhiannon’s reverie. With a low sigh, she returned to her work as Josse slammed the door shut behind him and tightened his cloak around his body, shaking his head to loosen the clinging flakes of snow.
Unsmiling and grim still, he strode towards the empty bar, looking around for the serving wench but seeing no-one until he leaned across the bar itself, catching sight of a fair-haired, slight girl knelt on the floor with her back to him.
“Service, if you please,” he demanded curtly, resting his elbows on the ale-soaked wood as all the heads in the inn turned towards him – all, that was, except Rhiannon’s.
“I shall be with you in one moment!” she called without turning around, deliberately lingering over her task. Though she resented his intrusion, she could not help but be intrigued by the gentle, warm flow of the newcomer’s heavily accented speech. This was no Englishman in her inn and she could not help but wonder what had brought him to this secluded corner of the English countryside in the midst of winter.
“Have you a room I could take for the night?” Josse pressed, irritated by the girl’s ignorance in not instantly leaping up to serve him.
Rhiannon grimaced as she finally set down the rag she had been using. The only two bedrooms in the little, homely inn were hers and her father’s. Her father would not give up his, which meant that every time they had a lodger, Rhiannon was forced to sleep in the bar room and sacrifice her small bed. Christmas night would be a cold and uncomfortable one, it seemed, for she could not turn the foreign stranger away; even were it not for the coins his custom would bring, she could not bear to send him back out into the snow on tonight of all nights.
Straightening up, she nodded her head as she turned around. “If you have the coin to pay, sir, then a room will be yours.”
Josse’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard. The plain clothing she wore had concealed all of her beauty whilst she had had her back to him, but now that he was able to look into her eyes, he found that the simplicity of her gown and surroundings only added more weight to the loveliness of her face and form.
Filled with an urge to reach out and fist his hands through the honeyed waves of soft hair that curled so tantalisingly around her pale face, he gritted his teeth as her amber eyes held his gaze.
Shivering as she sensed his appraising gaze rake across her body even from behind the heavy hood of his cloak that shadowed and concealed most of his face, Rhiannon folded her arms across her chest defensively. “H-have you the coin, stranger?”
“The coin?” he echoed dumbly, finding it difficult to focus upon anything beyond the fullness of her lips and the depth of her almond eyes. Josse was a man well-used to being in the presence of beautiful women and he prided himself on his composure and wit around them; this serving wench, though, stirred him in a way he had never felt before.
“For your bed and board, sir!”
“Of – of course.” Frustrated to find himself so at a loss for words to say to a woman, Josse scowled as he threw back his hood and reached into his pocket, the moment in which he was not looking at her allowing him a chance to recover his wits. “My name is Josse Renouart.”
“Rhiannon Rolf,” she owned slowly, her hands trembling as she accepted the coins he offered to her. Her hostility towards him slipped away with a dizzying rapidity as her fingers brushed against the palm of his smooth and uncalloused hand.
Rhiannon had thought that she had more sense now than to have her head turned by a handsome face again, but the whisper of desire that shot through her could be attributed to nothing but the traitorous desertion of her senses.
Now that she saw him clearly, she was subjected to all the tempting nuances of his face and form; he had seen perhaps two dozen summers, she would guess - five more than her. His strong jaw line, darkened by a flash of stubble, was full of character, and his crooked nose did nothing to lessen the impact of his piercing gaze – a gaze that was fixed unflinchingly upon her.
Stifling a low moan, she turned away to pour his ale as an unseasonable wave of heat warmed her face. “I will show you to your room after the inn closes, Master Renouart. It is only a humble lodging, I am afraid –“
“Rhiannon, whatever you have to offer me will be most gratefully accepted, I assure you of that!” Josse cut in smoothly, smiling inwardly as his wordsmith’s skills rose magnificently – albeit belatedly – to the occasion.
His insinuation more than obvious to her, Rhiannon forced her face to harden before turning back around, but she could not maintain the facade of disinterest when his eyes locked onto hers again. An unspoken and passionate demand burned in them and she shook her head wildly as she slammed the tankard down onto the bar in front of him.
“Your ale, Master Renouart. You will excuse me, I am sure; the inn does not tend to itself.”
He stared after her as she dropped her eyes and bustled away, her skirts swishing through the air and clinging in an all-too tempting manner to the rounded curves of her hips and thighs. Josse had been certain that he saw a flicker of fear in her eyes as she retreated; his stomach clenched at the thought he had put it there, for that had not been his intention.
Staring after her as he raised the tankard to his mouth and supped deeply, he sighed heavily as he wandered across the room in her wake. As he walked past the round table in the centre of the room, a hand shot out towards him to bar his way.
“Good evening, stranger,” the oldest man in the group said, greeting him with a smile as he rose to his feet and blocked Josse’s path. “My name is Farmer Ashdown – may I offer you a word of advice?”
“Josse Renouart, at your service; and certainly you may.”
“I saw the way that you were looking at the lass, Master Renouart. You would be wasting your time there, my boy!” the farmer said kindly, clapping him on the back as he spoke. “Our little Rhiannon does not share her bed; more is the pity, for she is by far the bonniest lass in the entire village. Drink your fill with your eyes, but if you want a room for Christmas night, then do not speak of your lust for her to hear – is that not right, Al?”
A tall, muscular man who had risen to stand at the farmer’s side jerked his head, his expression darkening as his narrow eyes flickered towards Rhiannon. “Aldric Ashdown,” he snarled, thrusting his hand towards Josse.”My father speaks good sense, stranger; keep your lustful thoughts and hands to yourself around Rhiannon.”
Matching the younger man’s firm grip, Josse met his cold stare unflinchingly. Were he only to smile, then granted, he would be handsome; Josse could admit that. There was something about him, though, that set his nerves on edge. Wary, he bowed his head. “I have no intention of insulting the lady’s honour with any lewd proposals, I assure you of that. She is unwed, then?”
Cursing the question that had flown unbidden from his lips, Josse took a step back as the lines of Aldric’s face tautened further. “She is – but what concern is it of yours?”
Farmer Ashdown laid a calming hand on his son’s shoulder. “It was a simple question, Al, and understandable; it is unusual to see an unwed lass running a bar like this. Rhiannon is unwed, yes, and if her father had more sense, he would not leave her to look after the inn alone.”
The farmer gestured to the corner of the room as he spoke, and Josse saw a red-faced, corpulent man slumped against the wall, snoring loudly. He bore little resemblance to Rhiannon, but what few strands of coarse hair remained on his sweaty head were the precise same colour as hers.
His top lip curling in disdain, Josse turned back towards the farmer and his son. “He leaves her to do all the work?”
“Master Rolf has barely lifted a finger to run the inn since his wife died some six years ago –Rhiannon has done the work of three since she was but a girl. She is a capable lass, though, despite her slight build.” Farmer Ashdown leaned in to whisper confidingly into Josse’s ear. “I speak in her father’s stead. It is nearly Christmas, so I will be kind to you, stranger – if you upset Rhiannon, Al here will be first in line to take you to task for it. Am I understood?”
“I am sure that if Rhiannon has need of you or your son she will call upon you. I will do nothing to her or with her that is not unwelcome.” Josse’s voice was both cool and calm, and he needed all of the poise and self-control he had learned during his decade at court to keep it that way.
A spark of possessive fury seemed to smoulder in the younger man’s eyes before he and his father both dropped heavily back into their seats and turned their backs on Josse.
Breathing heavily, Josse moved away from the round table and the bawdy shouts emanating from it, moving instead towards the opposite side of the room from which Rhiannon’s father was slumbering. Taking a secluded table near the bar and shrugging off his cloak, he nursed his ale as he turned his attention to watching Rhiannon as she worked.
Josse could not take his eyes away from her, despite the farmer’s words of warning and the way that she had reacted to him. As she finally hastened past his table, he reached out to catch hold of her wrist and turn her to face him, a sharp twist of heat coursing through his veins as her sleeve rode up her arm, allowing his long fingers to brush against the soft, bare skin beneath the coarse linen.
Rhiannon froze, her stomach giving a wild and unwelcome leap as the sensation of his skin against hers sent a guilty, searing line of pleasure down through her very core. “W-what do you want, Master Renouart?” she whispered unsteadily, only realising the danger of her words when his eyes visibly darkened. “More ale?”
A low, rippling laugh leaving his mouth, Josse shook his head as he tightened his grip on her arm. “I want you – to relax. You are working far too hard when the anniversary of the Christ child’s birth is just a few hours away, Rhiannon; come, won’t you take a seat for a moment and entertain this lonely stranger?”
Were it not for the way that even her legs were now shaking, she might have found the strength to protest, but Rhiannon mutely allowed him to guide her into the seat next to his.
With a burst of triumph, he turned his chair to face hers directly, barely controlling the compulsion to brush away a stray tendril of hair from her face. The soft glow of the candlelight overhead illuminated the dark, honeyed tones of her blonde hair, and it was all Josse could do to keep his hands clenched around his tankard instead of touching her again.
Cautiously glancing up from underneath her lowered eyelashes, Rhiannon moistened her lips nervously as Josse casually stretched his long legs out, drawing her eyes to the broad and muscular thighs beneath his breeches. The cut of his clothing was as fine as the cloak that had covered them when he entered, but they had the look of being ill-cared for of late – a small hole in the seam of his tunic needed darning and a splashing of mud discoloured the forest green of his breeches.
Grasping desperately for something to say before he realised how intently she had been watching him, Rhiannon absently fingered the neckline of her gown as Josse lifted his head to stare at her again. “So, Master Renouart, what brings away from your family to our little village at this time of year?” she said hastily.
Steadying his face so as to show no hint of his delight at her question, Josse tilted his head to the side. “Family? What little family I had in France no longer remains, Rhiannon – I answer to myself and myself alone. I have no ties to bind me.”
Fear struck her as she realised that his answer was precisely what she had hoped to hear, so instead Rhiannon focused upon the safer part of his words. “You are French?”
Convinced that he had seen a low thrill ripple through her, his heart picked up its pace, pounding wildly inside his chest as he ran his fingers across the square line of his jaw. “Does that displease you, belle?”
The foreign word delighted Rhiannon, even though she did not know its meaning. Ignoring the tingle of anticipation that Josse caused to burn somewhere deep inside her, she shook her head. “Oh, no! I have heard tales of a Frenchman whispered in the town, sir – you should hear what they say.”
Fighting back an irrational wave of jealousy towards his unknown fellow countryman, Josse arched one dark eyebrow. “Indeed? And who is this Frenchman, Rhiannon?” he demanded under his breath.
“The French troubadour of King Stephen’s court; the Raven, they call him,” she said dreamily, closing her eyes to immerse herself in the enchantments that had been woven by the romanticised reports of the troubadour and allow herself a moment’s respite from Josse’s intimidating and consuming proximity.
Unseeing as she was, Josse’s reaction to her words went unnoticed by Rhiannon; he had started, spilling his ale, for he was the Raven. Entranced by both her words and her wistful smile, Josse leaned forwards to stare at her unobserved as he wiped away the ale from his tunic, hungrily drinking in every last detail of her face with as much desperation as a man who had been starved of all sustenance and was now presented with the most succulent of feasts. “Tell me about them, Rhiannon. Tell me what you have heard of the Raven.”
His low voice urged and compelled her to share with him all that she had heard. Keeping her eyes closed, she sighed with contentment as the imagined images of the troubadour danced inside her head; and somehow, for some reason, they were slowly taking on Josse’s form as she began to speak. “His tongue bewitches all the lords and ladies of the court; I heard that he weaves magic with the words he sings. It is said that his beauty lies not only in his words, though.”
Setting his tankard back on the table and blithely ignoring Aldric Ashdown’s furious glare, Josse entwined his fingers together and allowed his eyes to travel lower, glorying in the voluptuous curves restrained by the linen gown and the promise of all that they offered. Already he was finding himself swept up in an irresistible desire for Rhiannon and the prospect that she might deny him all that he craved from her was an agonising one.
Shaking his head to clear it of the steadily growing urge to touch her in even the chastest of ways, Josse opened his mouth to hoarsely speak. “Is it said that he is handsome then, Rhiannon?”
Her eyes still closed, a small smile curved back the corner of her lips and took his breath away entirely. Unaware of his open fascination and very evident lust, Rhiannon nodded. “So it is said. The Raven is so named for his dark hair; jet black locks that frame a face of beauty, I heard. Oh, how I would love to meet him!” she said suddenly, her eyes flying open.
Josse breathed in sharply. To hear her unknowingly speak of him in such a fashion amused and aroused him in equal measures; it would be all too easy to lay claim to his name, but he feared that were he to do so, Rhiannon would disbelieve him and any hope he had of winning her would be lost. Focusing upon that, he held her gaze as he spoke again. “Would you, Rhiannon? Are you not afraid that you would be seduced by this legendary troubadour?”
With a shock of guilt that his suggestion was far from unwelcome, Rhiannon bit down upon her lower lip - this time not mistaking the reaction that Josse had to her movement. “As if he would be interested in an innkeeper’s daughter, sir! But I love music, so very much; to hear him sing would be wonderful, and oh, were he to sing to me...”
She trailed off, dropping her eyes, and Josse took her hands in his to draw back her attention, enclosing them tightly and possessively in his own. Astounded that she made no attempt to pull them away from him, he gently drew his thumbs across the palms of her hands. “You have a voice and a face that are more than enough to inspire the legendary and infamous troubadour, Rhiannon, I assure you of that!”
To his thrill, she blushed deeply. “You are too kind, Master Renouart.”
“Come now, lovely Rhiannon, there is no need for such formalities on Christmas night – Josse will suffice, please.”
Rhiannon’s breath caught in her throat as a brilliant smile finally illuminated his face. The very last thing she wanted was to find herself ensnared by another man’s clever tongue and handsome face, but Josse was making it impossible for her to summon up the will to break away from him. “Josse it is, then.”
A loaded silence hung in the air between them as Josse relished in the sound of his name upon her lips and tried to find the courage to whisper to her of his ever-growing desire for her. Before he could do so, though, one of the men behind them called out to her.
“Lass, my tankard is empty! I have room for another one at the least before we go a-wassailing, for sure!”
Jerking her hands back as if she had been burned, Rhiannon leapt to her feet and darted towards the bar, not daring to look back towards Josse for fear she would find it impossible not to return to his side and beg him to do far more than simply hold her hands in his.
Josse did not take his eyes away from her as she mutely moved through the inn, topping up the men’s ale and clearing away their tankards before retreating through a small door at the rear of the room. Disarmed by a frantic anxiety at having her out of his sight, he was about to rise from his chair and go in search of her when she re-emerged, bringing with her a heady, intoxicating scent of honeyed spices from the room behind her.
Slumping back into his seat, Josse smiled in silent triumph when Rhiannon’s eyes instantly settled upon him and a low blush crept up her face. He crooked a finger to beckon her back towards him, but her path was blocked by Aldric. The younger man possessively caught hold of her arm and pulled her to the side, blocking her from Josse’s view.
Jealous fury twisting his stomach over, he clenched his fists tightly as he leaned to the side to watch the hissed exchange between the two of them. To his frustration, Josse could not hear the words being said, but her unease was plain to see.
Debating whether or not she would welcome his intrusion, he hovered anxiously on the edge of his seat; but to his immense relief, the conversation came to an abrupt end. Irritably shaking her head, Rhiannon pulled her arm free of Aldric’s hold and instinctively hastened back towards Josse.
Alarmed to see how her face had blanched, he leapt up as she reached his side. Realising for the first time how he towered over her – the top of her head barely reached his shoulder – Rhiannon forced a tight smile onto her face and tried valiantly to ignore the crazy compulsion to seek out the safety of his arms.
“Rhiannon, has the young man said something to offend you?” Josse demanded, staring down at her and barely controlling the need to slip his arm around her waist to draw her up against him. “Would you like me to speak to him on your behalf?”
His proximity and words proved to be enough to soothe all of the agitation she had felt just moments before after her exchange with Aldric. The tension drained away from her body as she shook her head and allowed him to lead her to lean against the bar.
“Are you certain all is well, Rhiannon?” His jealousy was making it difficult for him to leave the subject alone, even though he knew that he had no right to be feeling such a way towards her. “You seemed distressed –“
“It is Christmas night, Josse!” she interrupted him, breathing in deeply as the scent of the spices danced in the air around them, mingled with Josse’s own masculine scent that already had such an powerful effect upon her. “Surely you have heard the songs of all that can happen at Christmas – how could I possibly stay sad on such a night?”
Gladdened to see her face relax into a genuine smile, momentarily dampening the unease in her eyes, Josse lowered his head to speak more intimately to her. His cheek brushed against hers and Rhiannon drew a rasping breath as he spoke, barely holding back a low moan of desire. “What do you imagine happens at Christmas, belle?”
“Why – magic, miracles and…”
“And?” he prompted her gently.
“Love.”
Her tremulous whisper was so soft that Josse had to strain to hear it, but he was glad that he did. Capturing her face in his hand and turning it up towards his, he smiled back at her. “Love? Indeed. Rhiannon, la jolie Rhiannon; how I like the sound of your Christmas!”
She visibly shuddered, convincing him that if only they were alone, he would be able to lean in and claim from her the kiss that he was so desperate for. Realising, though, that when the inn emptied for the night they would finally be alone - save for her sleeping father - he held himself back again.
Contenting himself with simply tracing the line of her lips with the tip of his smooth, uncalloused thumb, he valiantly fought back a strong, insistent throb of yearning desire as her lips parted. This time, an unmistakable moan of longing escaped them.
His face softening, Josse silently thanked whatever it was that had guided him to this spot tonight – to Rhiannon. Her eyes wide, she gazed up at him. Rhiannon had entirely forgotten the presence of everyone else, for his gentle touch burned her skin and made her yearn for far more.
Heavy footsteps growing louder alerted them finally to the rapt and unamused audience behind them. Pulling back from Josse’s hand, Rhiannon wrapped her arms defensively around herself, hugging the secret of the desire that they shared tightly to her chest as she turned to face Farmer Ashdown.
“Rhiannon, lass, the hour grows late, and the smells from your kitchen are making the men rowdy – are you ready to begin the wassailing?”
The elderly farmer made no effort to conceal the distrust in his eyes as he stared at Josse, but Josse had nothing to feel ashamed about; he was not about to force himself on Rhiannon, not when it was so very plain how much she wanted him. Shrugging off the older man’s attempted intimidation, he rested his elbow against the bar as Rhiannon hastily nodded.
“Of course, Edgar, the ale is ready – Josse, will you help me bring it through to the bar?”
A triumphant smile quirking back the corner of his lips as he saw Aldric’s face blacken in the distance, Josse bowed his head to her. “It would be my pleasure, belle.”
She breathed in sharply but moved in closer to him as he finally snaked an arm around her waist and guided her around the wiry, narrow-eyed farmer. Rhiannon could feel Aldric’s stare boring into her back, but being so close to Josse made it remarkably easy to think of nothing but him as they walked towards the wooden door that opened into the kitchen.
“So, Rhiannon, what is this wassailing that they speak of?” he asked quietly, allowing his long fingers to splay out against the soft curve of her stomach as he spoke.
Rhiannon’s breath hitched as a pool of warmth and heat rapidly spiralled deep inside her, making it impossible to resist the compulsion to shift her hips slightly and press against his hand as he reached out with his free hand to push the door open. With a great effort, she controlled herself enough to answer.
“Wassailing is when we sing and dance in the orchard to ask for a good harvest next year,” she finally told him. “We like to celebrate the wassailing twice in these parts – on the twelfth night as is tradition, and on the eve of Christmas itself. Do you sing, Josse?”
Her voice was shaking, betraying her reaction to his touch even if the colour of her skin had not. His dark eyes sparkled as he inclined his head in acknowledgement of her question. “I am told I possess a fine voice, Rhiannon, but I am afraid I know not the wassailing songs of which you will sing; I am, after all, a mere stranger in these parts.”
“A stranger you may be; but you are in my home, Josse, and I wish you to wassail with me. The song is an easy one to learn, I promise – won’t you come and carol with us, my stranger, and revel in the beauty of the season?” Astounded by her boldness, Rhiannon laid her hand on his arm and smiled up at him as the door swung shut behind them, enclosing them in alone together.
How could he resist her? Not only was her plea genuine and heartfelt, but Josse had no wish to stay inside when instead he could be with her. He mutely nodded, closing his eyes as the scents of ale, of honey and of warming spices that had so delighted him burst forth with their full impact, somehow conspiring to make the woman stood at his side even more bewitching to his senses than she already was.
“Rhiannon?”
“Josse?”
“I will come – how did you say? – a-wassailing with you, belle, if you desire it,” he said softly, backing her up against the wall and cupping her soft, slender jaw in the palm of his hand. “In return, though, I want something from you.”
With a tremor of anticipation, Rhiannon gazed up at him as he closed the remaining distance between them with one short stride, so close to her now that she could feel the waves of heat rising from his body. “W-what do you want from me, Josse?”
“A kiss.”
His simple demand was less than she had anticipated, yet alone it was enough to quicken her breath and deepen the flush of her skin. “Now?”
Josse smiled triumphantly upon seeing that she showed no sign of denying him what he so craved. “No, Rhiannon, tempting though it is – I am a man of honour. If I sing with you and my voice pleases you, then I will claim my reward when we are alone and your customers have all departed. Do we have an accord, belle?”
His heavy and sensual accent intoxicated her as surely as the warmed ale that was dancing in the air around them. Rhiannon knew that she should protest; she knew that his kiss could only lead to the one thing that she had sworn to forsake, but her longing for him could not be denied. Entranced by the flash of dark stubble that coloured his jaw line and the imagining of it teasing at her skin as he claimed his kiss, she slowly nodded.
“Ah, Rhiannon, how you delight me, belle!” Sharp thrills of elation tensing his body with the mere anticipation of laying claim to her full lips, Josse forced himself to take a step back before he could resist her no longer. “Perhaps we should get this delicious ale out to the other men before they break down the door in search of you – the farmer’s son in particular seems a little possessive of you, ma jolie! Does he have a claim on you that I should know about?”
The recollection of Aldric and his actions sent her reeling. Rhiannon’s face hardened as she ducked out from under his arm and lifted a maple bowl of steaming ale into her hands to prevent him from pulling her back towards him, as much as she inwardly yearned for him to do just that. “Aldric Ashdown has no claim on me, Josse, and no right to pretend that he does!”
Dismayed that his jealous and ill-thought words seemed to have sent her barriers crashing back up, Josse moved gracefully to the side to stand between her and the door. “Rhiannon, stop! I am sorry if I have offended you, belle; but you must understand, I spoke out of concern! His behaviour earlier –“
“Was inexcusable, and he will not repeat it, Josse.” Rhiannon sighed heavily, unable to retain any grip upon the anger she felt towards Aldric when Josse was gazing at her in such a way. “Please, must we mar the beauty of Christmas night any longer by talking of him?”
“But of course not, Rhiannon, if you do not wish to!” he exclaimed in relief, eagerly seizing the chance to make her smile again. “I am yours to command – you have need of my strong arms, I understand?”
Relieved laughter bubbling up from inside her, Rhiannon’s tension drained away as his brilliant smile drove away all thoughts of anything but him once more. “Yes, I do; the bowls of spiced ale on the table there, Josse, are for the wassailing. Will you help me take them out to the bar?”
“Though I would far rather be putting my arms to another use altogether, belle, I shall gladly assist you.” Allowing his thoughts to stray in the most delightful direction of imagining his arms wrapped around Rhiannon as he claimed his kiss from her, Josse’s smile widened as he lifted the heavy tray from the long table. “Lead on then, ma jolie!”
Holding the door open for Josse to pass through, Rhiannon gave herself over to the heady rush of joy and anticipation that coursed through her when his arm brushed up against hers. With a smile as wide as his own she followed in his wake, her hips swaying from side as side as she walked in a way that took his breath away entirely.
Leaning back against the wall to watch her, Josse’s eyes darkened appreciatively as all heads turned towards her. “Sup up then, men!” Rhiannon called brightly, glancing sideways at Josse and shivering with delight when she saw how he was staring at her. “Ready the torches; it is time to go a-wassailing!”
The men all threw back the remainder of their ale before leaping to their feet, jostling good-naturedly for the exit as they lit the torches and raised them up. Rhiannon did not mistake the meaning of the scowl that Aldric unleashed in her direction as he left the inn; but with Josse at her side, she could not be unsettled by it.
Silently bemoaning the fact that his hands were full and he was unable to touch her, Josse fell into step next to her as they wandered after the men, pausing only to rest the tray on his table and pick up his cloak, draping it pointedly around Rhiannon’s shoulder before resuming their walk towards the orchards outside.
The protective and possessive gesture thrilled her and Rhiannon made no attempt to berate him for it, for the scent of Josse lingered tantalisingly amongst the fur. Lowering her head to inhale deeply, she balanced the bowl she carried on the palm of one hand to hold open the door for Josse again, her eyes widening when she saw the thick blanket of snow that had lovingly settled upon the ground since darkness had fallen.
“Oh, look, Josse!” she cried out impulsively, her gaze darting over the mysticism and beauty. Even the tracks made by the men who had gone before them could not detract from it. “Is it not simply glorious?”
Her childlike joy and wonder was infectious. Though Josse wished to do nothing more than throw aside the tray and swoop upon her, pulling her into his arms to share in her joy with a passionate kiss, he restrained himself enough to simply grin down at her. “It is, belle. The angels of Christmas are out in full force tonight and they are smiling upon us for certain.”
Breathless from both her delight and the desire she felt for the man who was smiling at her, his face visibly softening as he watched her, Rhiannon held the warm bowl tightly to her chest and led Josse along the path that would take them to the orchard at the rear of the inn.
The orchard was Rhiannon’s pride and joy; the fruit it bore each year was solely down to her dedicated and tender care and the wassailing was her favourite part of all the Christmas celebration. Gratified by Josse’s sharp intake of breath as the tall, bare trees loomed sharply out of the falling snow, the men’s torches lighting their branches, she took up her place in the centre of them, indicating to Josse with a mute entreaty that he should stand at her side.
“Come forth then, friends, and take your bowls from Josse before we sing our song.”
There were enough bowls for one between two and soon Josse’s tray was empty. Setting it down on the hardening snow next to him, he turned to Rhiannon questioningly as the men formed a circle around the pair of them.
Closing her eyes and allowing the Christmas spirit to swell around her as the mingled scent of the ale and Josse sent numerous tiny thrills coursing through her and inflaming her blood, Rhiannon launched alone into the first rendition of the traditional wassail.
“Apple tree, apple tree, we all come to wassail thee! Bear this year and next year to bloom and to blow. Hat fulls, cap fulls, three cornered sack fills - hip, hip, hip, hurrah! Holler biys, holler hurrah!”
With the hoorahs, the other men joined in, and Josse’s keen mind committed the words to memory in preparation for the second recital. Rhiannon’s voice was sweet and strong and as she began again, he raised his voice to join hers.
Rhiannon stared up at him in ignorance of everything else – his voice was beautiful, and it brought tears to her eyes. Stepping closer to him as though compelled, she laid her head on his shoulder, still holding the bowl of ale as his arm slipped around her waist and together they sang.
Finally, with one last rousing chorus of hoorahs, the wassail ended and the men all turned to each other to sup from the warming ale as was tradition. As their merry cries rang out through the night, Rhiannon fought to calm the racing of her heart as Josse stepped back and fixed his eyes upon her. “Shall we?”
“Shall we what?” Her tongue darted out across her lips, anticipating the kiss that she thought he would now claim, but to her surprise he laughed softly and shook his head.
“Not yet, belle; soon, but not yet. First, we must finish the wassail, must we not?”
“Of – of course. Waes hael, Josse,” she said softly, lifting the wooden bowl to his lips, a rapid blush colouring her face again as he gazed intently at her.
Placing his hands on top of hers to guide them as he bowed his head towards hers, Josse swallowed hard. “Drinc hael, Rhiannon. Drinc hael.” Uncharacteristically lost for words once more, he silently supped from the honeyed ale. The warmth of the spices coursed through him, inflaming his veins – and irresistibly inflaming his desire for the woman in front of him.
Of all the adorned beauties that decorated the king’s court, Josse had never wanted any of them with such ferocious yearning as that which he now felt for Rhiannon. Everything about her was perfection; her nose was a little snub, granted, and she wore none of the fineries that the women of court wore – but to him, she was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever known.
Gently raising the bowl to her mouth instead as he imagined how wonderful it would be to cover the full lips that were now parted invitingly with his own, Josse helped Rhiannon to drink from the ale and quietly thrilled in watching the flush spread across her skin as its warmth worked its way through her veins.
“Now what, belle?” he asked under his breath as she finished the last of the ale and let her fingers fall from the bowl. “Do we bid goodnight to the other men and retire, now?”
His insinuation was very evident and Rhiannon’s legs shook underneath her weight as he wound one hand through her loose hair to pull her head towards his. “N-not yet, no. Firstly, Josse, we carol.”
Though he was impatient to finally have her alone, Josse could not deny the low thrill he saw ripple through her eyes at the thought of carolling, nor could the troubadour in him defy the opportunity to sing with his lady again.
As he gazed hungrily at her, the men and Rhiannon began to sing their carols; and to his delight, it was one that he knew.
“As I lay upon a night, forsooth I saw a seemly sight. I beheld a maid so bright, a child she bare on honde!” Laughing loudly as, dropping the bowl, he impulsively set his hands on her waist and swung her through the air, Josse joined in the traditional carol that he had sung many times at court – never before, though, had he sung it with such enjoyment as he now felt with Rhiannon in his arms.
Rhiannon felt such a rush of exaltation as Josse lowered her back to the ground that, were it not for Aldric’s menacing nearness, she would have kissed him then and there. Instead, though, she simply laughed alongside him as their voices rose together, blending perfectly as they rejoiced in the birth of the Christ child and the beauty of the season.
He saw in her unguarded eyes that the strength of her desire for him matched all that he felt for her and it only increased his yearning to share with her the greatest of pleasures. Josse had lain with women before – it was the most popular of all entertainments at court, after all – but for none of those women had he felt such an irresistible, desperate craving. His pulse raced and the mere thought of giving Rhiannon her pleasure was enough to wrong foot him and send him stumbling backwards.
“Are you well, Josse?” Rhiannon caught hold of his arm to steady him and, without thinking clearly, Josse pulled hard on it to bring her up against his chest.
Her breath hitched in her throat as she caught hold of his soft tunic. Despite the snow that was still falling around them, a wave of heat twisted through her, burning outwards from her core. “Well, Rhiannon? I have never been better, ma jolie; but I shall be far better still when these men are gone and I have you to myself!”
Josse’s impassioned words drew a soft moan from her lips as his arm tightened around her waist, holding her securely against his body. “Josse, please...”
Her low, whispered voice shook as badly as her legs and she was grateful that he was holding her so very tightly as he laughed quietly. “What do you want, Rhiannon? Is it not so pleasant to be held against me in such a manner?”
Rhiannon wished that she could insist that it was not, but the words would not come. “S-shall we return to the inn and close for the night, then?”
“So eager to be alone with me, belle? As I am to be alone with you, then – yes, let us rid ourselves of the others, please.”
Though it was the very last thing she wanted to submit to, a tingling fear began to tighten her stomach into knots, twisting sharply as she looked into Josse’s dark eyes and saw the promise smouldering within them. Glancing away before he could see it and express his concern, as undoubtedly he would, Rhiannon nodded and turned away him.
Bemused by the unease he had seen flash across her face, so at odds with the desire that he knew she felt for him, Josse followed her closely as she led the men from the orchard and back towards the inn. Dismissing Aldric Ashdown’s scowl with the disdain it warranted, he glanced across as they re-entered the inn to see Rhiannon’s father still snoring away in his corner.
Rhiannon followed the direction of Josse’s eyes and her face flamed in embarrassment. Sudden resentment for her elderly father flaring inside her as she bade goodnight and a merry Christmas to the customers as they slowly filtered out, she shielded herself behind the bar and deliberately evaded Aldric’s cold, menacing stare as he followed his father and brothers out of the inn.
Aldric was the last to leave. Save for her father, she and Josse were alone. Desperate to speak and fill the silence before he took the kiss that had been promised, her eyes settled upon her sleeping father once more as she shrugged off the cloak that was still draped around her shoulders. “Josse, will you help me take my father to his bed before...before...”
“Before you take me to mine?” he said softly, coming around the bar to possessively encircle her body with his arms.
Rhiannon swallowed hard. “Y-yes.”
“Then if it will hasten that moment, I most certainly will. You need only direct me where to go and I shall carry him up the stairs.”
She stared at him dubiously, touching her throat self-consciously as he failed to hide the way that his eyes travelled over her body, the thought of carrying Rhiannon to her bed instead of her father far more appealing. “Are you sure that you will manage him, Josse?”
“When I have such a reward waiting for me as you, Rhiannon? I am sure – I am far stronger than at first sight I appear.” Smiling slightly, Josse brushed her tousled hair back from her flushed face before springing gracefully over the bar and hastening towards the elderly man. “It is not worth attempting to wake him, I presume?”
“No, Josse. He will not stir; and even if he did, he would make no sense. If we can get him to his bed, he will be far more comfortable and even-tempered in the morning.”
His eyes narrowed as a suspicion settled upon him, but Josse did not put voice to it; instead, he simply hooked his arms underneath the man’s shoulders and heaved him out of his seat. Gritting his teeth as the dead weight settled upon him, Josse pulled him across the room and towards the narrow staircase that Rhiannon silently indicated.
Darting ahead of him, too consumed by shame for her drunken father to speak, Rhiannon led the way up the stairs and along the bare, worn floorboards of the hallway in the inn’s eaves. Opening a door on the left and nearly tripping on a discarded empty tankard in the darkness, she threw open the tattered drapes that covered the window to allow the moonlight into the little chamber.
“Will you put him on the bed please, Josse?”
Nodding as Rhiannon crouched down and drew back the sheets and blankets, Josse chewed thoughtfully on his lip as, with a great effort, he deposited her father on the straw mattress and stepped back to regain his breath.
“Merry Christmas, Father.” With a soft, barely perceptible sigh that made Josse’s heart clench inside his chest, Rhiannon pulled the sheets up over her father’s snoring form and rose to her feet again.
Dizzy and anxious as she turned back towards Josse, Rhiannon breathed in sharply when he took her hand in his to lead her from the bedchamber and back out into the darkened hallway, only the dim light rising up from the bar illuminating them. “J-Josse…”
“Hush, Rhiannon, you need make no apology. Your father’s behaviour bears no reflection on you, belle; indeed, I only respect and admire you all the more,” he assured her gently. “Now, put all thoughts of him from your mind, if you will. I wish for two things from you; a bed, and your kiss. Will you oblige me in both, ma jolie?”
Though she was convinced that his kiss could only finish in one way, Rhiannon now wanted that above all else. Battling to hold back the churning throb of fearful tension inside her, she entwined her fingers through his and drew strength from his touch as she rested her head on his shoulder. “The bedchamber is on the right, Josse.”
With a thrill of anticipation as he felt her relax against him, he lowered his head and planted a gentle kiss on top of her hair. He inhaled deeply as the floral scent of her soap combined with the underlying, intrinsically feminine scent of Rhiannon herself increased his yearning desire for her tenfold. “Then to bed we go, belle – I will have my kiss from you when we are there.”
Tears stinging at her eyes, Rhiannon furiously blinked them back; she wanted Josse more than she had ever known it was possible to want anyone and she hated herself for allowing her fear to control her. Holding his hand tightly, she drew a deep and steadying breath as together they walked into her bedchamber.
The room was sparsely furnished – a small bed was pushed up against the wall, and the lack of drapes allowed the moonlight to shine through and expose the lack of décor, but it was neat, tidy, and Rhiannon’s scent pervaded throughout. Josse, though, had eyes for nothing but Rhiannon herself as the door swung closed with a low creak behind them.
Now that there was no reason to restrain himself any longer, he did not do so. His eyes darkening, he pulled her up against him with one arm as with the other, he captured her face again and tilted it up towards his. Tracing the contours of her face with his fingers, he pressed a gentle and chaste kiss onto her lips. “There, belle,” he said softly, smiling as her eyes widened in confusion. “Now I have taken the kiss that was owed, whatever else we share is given only because you wish to share it with me; and Rhiannon, I sense that you wish for that to be everything. Am I so very wrong?”
Rhiannon did want him, but as the moment drew closer, her fear spiralled. Trying with all her might to push it away, she wound her fingers into the fabric of his tunic and stretched up towards him, closing her eyes and parting her lips in invitation. She did not dare speak for fear that her voice would waver; but, too swept up in his desire for her, Josse did not notice her renewed turmoil. Lowering his head, he laid passionate claim to her lips.
To her surprise and relieved delight, when his lips touched hers again, a tide of such overwhelming arousal and desire for Josse swept through her that it dampened her fear, pushing it aside. Crying out into his mouth in heady elation, she clung to him tightly as he fisted his hands through her hair and deepened the kiss.
Josse knew that he was moving too fast, but he craved her so badly that he feared he would be driven wild with lust if he did not take her there and then. They would have all night – and, if God was willing, many more nights together – in which to take their time, exploring each other’s bodies and making love in every sense of the word; but for now, he needed her in the most primal and natural of ways.
Still kissing her with a furious passion, he began to steer her towards the small bed, eagerly anticipating the intimacy that its size would force. They would sleep in each other’s arms when their passions were finally exhausted, and he would be able to hold her as close as he desired. Unable to hold back from undressing her for even a moment longer, he forced one hand between their bodies as the other reached behind her back and sought out the tie fastenings of her gown.
Josse’s fingers brushed against her breasts; and the sensation of them, even through her shift, was enough to bring an agonising wave of emotion crashing back to the forefront of her mind. The recollection of the last time that she had been kissed in such a manner and all that it had led to was irrepressible and terrifying; she could fight against it no longer, not even for Josse.
Rhiannon broke the kiss without warning, her loud sob irretrievably ruining the silence; and with it, breaking the spell of lust that had descended upon them.
Pushing out at him in desperate fear, she turned on her heel as he stumbled backwards onto the small bed and then fled from the room, slamming the door shut behind her and covering her flaming ears with her hands to block out his startled, pleading calls that were following her retreat.
Her chest was heaving as sobs racked her body. The fire of arousal that Josse had awoken in her still burned brightly, but Rhiannon could not silence the terror that was now pounding through her veins. No matter how much she needed him, she feared it could never be enough to fight away the bitter memories of all that she had gone through.
Reaching the deserted bar room, she cast a sweeping glance across the chaos left behind by the men’s merriment but she could not find the strength to tackle it tonight. Overwhelmed by the strength of the desire she felt for Josse that it now seemed could not be fulfilled, she sank down at the nearest table and laid her head on her hands, closing her eyes tightly and praying that the tears that flowed so freely would cleanse her.
Dark images danced through her mind, clenching her stomach and taunting her fear into seeing shapes in all of the shadows playing in the corners of the dimly-lit room. Every sound made by the snowstorm outside heightened her terror further, and though Rhiannon knew that the logical answer would be to return upstairs to Josse’s arms, she was convinced that there her fear would be just as stifling as that which she felt alone in the bar – for in his arms, there could be only one fate, and that prospect she could not reconcile herself to however hard she tried.
A low creak behind her sent a fresh ripple of fear twisting through her and she gritted her teeth as she tried with all her might to convince herself that it was nothing more than the settling of the old wood frame of the inn.
The chill blast of air that accompanied it, though, was the first indicator that that was not the case. The second was the low, cruel burst of laughter that rang out as she warily lifted her head and looked into the cold eyes of Aldric Ashdown.
Consumed by her thoughts of Josse, she had neglected to fasten the latch and Aldric had taken full advantage. Too startled by his appearance even to scream, Rhiannon froze in her seat as he closed the distance between them.
“Nothing to say to me, sweeting?” he said softly, his face reddened and a look in his eyes that she knew all too well.
Her mouth dry, she pushed her chair backwards as a tide of indignant fury slowly began to rise in place of her fear. “What are you doing here, Aldric? You know that you have no right to be here and I made it very clear earlier that I have no wish to see you!”
He snorted. “So you did. I intended simply sit in the trees to watch that bastard taking you, Rhiannon; for I have been dreaming of the sight of your pretty tits and rounded arse since we were last together, sweeting. You are alone, though – what happened? Did you think better of allowing the lewdster to claim so lovely a prize, or was it simply that he could not compare to me?”
Aldric laughed grimly as he began to prowl around her, his eyes flashing menacingly.
“P-please, Al, don’t-“
Ignoring her interruption as if she had not even spoken, he began to fumble with the fastenings of his breeches. “It matters not, though, for I would far rather be the one to take you this Christmas night, Rhiannon. Lift your skirts, lass, and bend over the table,” he snarled.
“No, Aldric! I will tell you one last time, go – I will call for my father if you touch me –“ she threatened with far more bravado than she felt, but his lips curved back into a mocking grin.
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