the different sounds,” he murmured, very near her ear. Her heart beat a little faster. He moved her fingers into place. “Press down. Hard.” Then he caught her other hand in his and said, “Strum.”
She did. At the moment, Isolde suspected she would have done anything he told her to, she was that caught up in the spell he’d cast.
But the sound of the strings, still harmonious but in a different
tone from before, brought her back to the moment. She stared at the position of the fingers of her left hand. She had done that? She was utterly delighted.
“You can also pluck the strings with your thumb or your fingers to pick out a melody,” he said. While still holding her fingers in place on the neck of the instrument, he proceeded to pick out a familiar Welsh lullaby with the other.
“Sweetly, sweetly in the night,” she softly sang along in Welsh.
Rhys froze at the sound of his enemy’s daughter singing a Welsh lullaby. He had not expected her to recognize the song, though he realized now how foolish that assumption was. Her mother was Welsh, so of course she would know it. Just as she probably spoke Welsh as well as did he. But that did not make Isolde FitzHugh Welsh.
He released her hands and pulled away from her. “That is enough for tonight.”
She remained bent over his gittern, fitting her fingers as he’d shown her. She strummed, then hummed a little, going back and forth between that one simple chord, and an open one. She seemed completely oblivious to his presence.
He was not oblivious to hers, though. Unwillingly his gaze traced the tilt of her head, the curve of her back. He frowned and yet still noticed the silky sheen of her hair and the pale skin of her nape, where the heavy length parted. He inhaled and caught again the faint scent of lavender and had to force himself to slide away from her.
She was young; she was comely; she was clean. Any man would respond to a woman possessed of those traits, he told himself. That explained his body’s perverse attraction to her. Still, explanation or no, the lust she roused in him was unexpected and he rebelled at the thought. She was a FitzHugh. He hated her and all of her ilk.
But that did nothing to tame the demon beast of desire. She was a woman and he’d been too long without the relief of a woman in his bed.
She strummed and let out a soft chuckle. “This is truly a wondrous instrument.” She tilted her face up to his. “Where did you come by it?”
Again desire struck, more fiercely than before. Her skin
looked so soft. Her eyes were a deep and lustrous gray, and her lips …
He took the gittern from her. “York,” he muttered. He stood. “Enough. I am weary.”
“But you will show me more on the morrow?” she asked as she stood.
He looked away, toward the stout oak doors and their heavy locking bar that leaned idly in a corner. “Yes. Tomorrow,” he agreed.
She cleared her throat. “You and your comrades are free to linger at Rosecliffe a while,” she offered. He did not respond and after a moment she continued. “If you have mending, the seamstresses will tend it. Or laundering. Or leather repairs.” She clasped her Hands in a knot at her waist.
Rhys’s eyes narrowed. She wanted them to stay. That was to his advantage. “I am flattered that you enjoyed our entertainments so well. Perhaps we can delay our journey a few more days,” he conceded. “Do you expect your family to return that soon?”
“No. Alas, they will be gone several more weeks. I do not expect them until just before the turn of the new year.”
“I see.” And so he did. Several weeks provided him more than enough time. “I can promise you no more than a few days.”
She smiled at that, a smile at once innocent and alluring. The simple delight of a girl; the darker satisfaction of a woman. Which was she? Though it was madness, he wanted to find out.
So he stepped nearer, closing the distance between them, and offered the gittern to her. “You
She did. At the moment, Isolde suspected she would have done anything he told her to, she was that caught up in the spell he’d cast.
But the sound of the strings, still harmonious but in a different
tone from before, brought her back to the moment. She stared at the position of the fingers of her left hand. She had done that? She was utterly delighted.
“You can also pluck the strings with your thumb or your fingers to pick out a melody,” he said. While still holding her fingers in place on the neck of the instrument, he proceeded to pick out a familiar Welsh lullaby with the other.
“Sweetly, sweetly in the night,” she softly sang along in Welsh.
Rhys froze at the sound of his enemy’s daughter singing a Welsh lullaby. He had not expected her to recognize the song, though he realized now how foolish that assumption was. Her mother was Welsh, so of course she would know it. Just as she probably spoke Welsh as well as did he. But that did not make Isolde FitzHugh Welsh.
He released her hands and pulled away from her. “That is enough for tonight.”
She remained bent over his gittern, fitting her fingers as he’d shown her. She strummed, then hummed a little, going back and forth between that one simple chord, and an open one. She seemed completely oblivious to his presence.
He was not oblivious to hers, though. Unwillingly his gaze traced the tilt of her head, the curve of her back. He frowned and yet still noticed the silky sheen of her hair and the pale skin of her nape, where the heavy length parted. He inhaled and caught again the faint scent of lavender and had to force himself to slide away from her.
She was young; she was comely; she was clean. Any man would respond to a woman possessed of those traits, he told himself. That explained his body’s perverse attraction to her. Still, explanation or no, the lust she roused in him was unexpected and he rebelled at the thought. She was a FitzHugh. He hated her and all of her ilk.
But that did nothing to tame the demon beast of desire. She was a woman and he’d been too long without the relief of a woman in his bed.
She strummed and let out a soft chuckle. “This is truly a wondrous instrument.” She tilted her face up to his. “Where did you come by it?”
Again desire struck, more fiercely than before. Her skin
looked so soft. Her eyes were a deep and lustrous gray, and her lips …
He took the gittern from her. “York,” he muttered. He stood. “Enough. I am weary.”
“But you will show me more on the morrow?” she asked as she stood.
He looked away, toward the stout oak doors and their heavy locking bar that leaned idly in a corner. “Yes. Tomorrow,” he agreed.
She cleared her throat. “You and your comrades are free to linger at Rosecliffe a while,” she offered. He did not respond and after a moment she continued. “If you have mending, the seamstresses will tend it. Or laundering. Or leather repairs.” She clasped her Hands in a knot at her waist.
Rhys’s eyes narrowed. She wanted them to stay. That was to his advantage. “I am flattered that you enjoyed our entertainments so well. Perhaps we can delay our journey a few more days,” he conceded. “Do you expect your family to return that soon?”
“No. Alas, they will be gone several more weeks. I do not expect them until just before the turn of the new year.”
“I see.” And so he did. Several weeks provided him more than enough time. “I can promise you no more than a few days.”
She smiled at that, a smile at once innocent and alluring. The simple delight of a girl; the darker satisfaction of a woman. Which was she? Though it was madness, he wanted to find out.
So he stepped nearer, closing the distance between them, and offered the gittern to her. “You
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