The Rose of Blacksword (25 page)

The stable was feebly lit by a lone flickering candle in a scraped-hide lantern. Unsure where exactly to look, Rosalynde was drawn to the weak golden light. Past the stalls of the great destriers she crept on silent feet. The lantern was hung at the entrance of the last stall, and when she reached it she stopped. A few low murmurs had already alerted her that someone was about. Despite her tiny tremor of fear, she crept farther until her eyes were able to fully take in who was occupying the stall. Even in the full gleam of the flickering light she could hardly believe her eyes. Blacksword sat on an overturned hay bier,
bare to the waist, and some hussy had her hand on his bare shoulder. Even worse, the tart was bending forward, providing him a clear view down her loose blouse of the cleavage between her overdeveloped breasts!

Rosalynde noted with some satisfaction that at least his eyes were closed, but that was small comfort. It was clear the girl was there to offer him solace for his pain, but what sort of solace was highly questionable to Rosalynde’s mind. The two were so engrossed—her making soft clucking noises as she slid her hand back and forth on his shoulder, and him wincing as he tried to find an easier position—that Rosalynde had no idea how long she might have stood there before they would have noticed her. But when she saw the girl reach out for an old horse rag to wipe the sweat from Blacksword’s cruelly cut back, Rosalynde could not keep her silence any longer.

“Don’t touch him with that!”

At once two heads swiveled around to stare at her in wary surprise. The girl’s face quickly assumed an expression of guilt and subservience as she hitched her blouse higher on her shoulder. Blacksword’s face, however, altered from caution to curiosity and then, it seemed, to satisfaction. But it was suspicion that ultimately lingered as his gaze narrowed and his lips thinned in sarcasm.

“ ’Tis a hard-hearted pair you and your father make. He sees the wounds formed with an unjust flogging, and you make sure no healing may take place. Do you begrudge me the ease of this kind maiden’s ministrations?” he finished with an ill-disguised taunt.

Rosalynde was too aggravated to think straight. “Her ministrations … Her ministrations!” she sputtered. “If you wish the wounds to fester, by all means, let her minister to you with that filthy rag!”

Had it not been for the mortified girl’s hasty exit,
Rosalynde might have stormed away from the little stall herself. As it was, however, when the girl sneaked silently past her, she was left alone to face the scowling Blacksword. Under the circumstances she was hard-pressed to recall exactly why it was she had sought him out.

For a long, uneasy moment he continued to glare at her. Then with a movement that seemed effortless but that she was certain pained him greatly, he rose to his feet and faced her. “What in the name of hell do you want?”

In the narrow confines of the low-ceilinged stable, Rosalynde was suddenly intimidated by the powerful man who stood before her. He was the one who was hurt. He was the one who needed help. Yet she felt unaccountably like fleeing his awesome presence.

“Well?” he prompted with a sneer. “You came here for a reason, so let’s have it. Or do I dare suspect that it was only jealousy that drew you here?” He smiled sarcastically. “ ’Tis not likely a newlywed like yourself would long abide her husband’s dalliance with the dairymaid.”

It was that repugnant comment with its attendant innuendo which drove her at last to a furious response. “I’m no newly-wed bride and you are most emphatically not my husband! And I don’t care if you … if you—”

“Be careful, my sweet wife.” He goaded her still further. “ ’Tis said that walls may have ears. Would you flaunt our marital discord so openly?” To this vile remark he added more insult by arching one of his brows in mocking superiority.

“This is not marital discord,” Rosalynde hissed, but with a cautious glance over her shoulder toward the rest of the darkened stable. “This is not marital discord,” she repeated in a quieter yet no less adamant tone. “This is … this is … it’s pure dislike!”

She stared at him belligerently, daring him to deny that
she heartily disliked him. A part of her was firm in her position, ready to argue that she found him completely detestable and thoroughly unlikable. But that same small voice crept through her defenses to whisper that there were some things about him that didn’t repulse her. There were some things she didn’t dislike about him at all. But though she tried to ignore that irritating voice, as she glared at Blacksword it became more and more difficult. He was so overpoweringly masculine; he had such a commanding presence. In the closeness of the room as he stood bare-chested before her, she began suddenly to grow warmer as unwelcome remembrances of his heated embrace overwhelmed her. To make matters even worse, his thoughts seemed to follow the same path, for his implacable gray gaze slowly slipped down to take in every aspect of her appearance. Even though she was completely covered by the high-necked aqua wool gown, she felt the full force of that gaze, and its effect on her was immediate.

Of a sudden she felt surrounded by his virile presence, suffocated by unwanted memories and wicked desires. She took a harsh breath as his eyes rose back up to meet hers, and in his gaze she saw a promise—a threat—of things to come. In a panic she stepped back, determined only that she must escape while she could. But Blacksword was too swift. As if he read her mind, he reached a quick hand forward to grab her arm. At once the two vials of medications she’d prepared fell onto the layer of straw between them. He glanced down at them, then back up at her again.

“For me?” he asked with mocking courtesy. “Has my wood nymph come back to heal me? Can this be the same girl who had me flogged? God’s blood, but I believe she must be feeling guilty if she’s come bearing healing ointments.”
He tugged on her arm, drawing her forward against her will. “Is that it, my wild Rose? Are you feeling sorry for the deep slice of those cruel thorns of yours?”

“ ’Twas not of my doing,” she cried as she tried unsuccessfully to free herself from his firm clasp. “I’ve no cause to be feeling any guilt on your account!”

But the truth was she did feel guilt, and to her chagrin he seemed somehow to know.

“You feel the guilt,” he averred. “But it is no more or less than any noblewoman feels. A man risks life and limb while the fair maiden applauds and cheers. ’Tis only when the fanfare is done and the excitement over that she feels remorse for the injuries he suffers.” He released her hand abruptly and let go a cynical laugh. “Come, my fair Rose, assuage your guilt.” He turned his back to her and squared his shoulders. “Smooth your balm over my wounds. I daresay it will sting more bitterly than ever the whip did.”

Freed of his confining grasp, Rosalynde’s first instinct was to turn and flee. But the sight of the angry red welts that crisscrossed his back and the brown crusted blood that had dried in place held her rooted to her spot. She had caused those terrible marks. She had caused him to suffer untold pain—to suffer it even yet. Despite her fear of his anger and her mistrust of his motives, the cruelly marked flesh before her would not let her leave. Her fury dissolved into hot choking shame, and tears blurred her eyes as she finally stooped, shaking, to retrieve the two vials.

“I-I need water,” she whispered to that broad, unmoving back. “I’ll return directly.” Then she grabbed a nearby bucket and fled into the dark. But if Rosalynde thought to find some solace in the empty night, she was sorely disappointed. When she returned with the water, her throat
was still thick with emotion and her heart pounded an unsteady rhythm. But her tears were gone and her hands trembled no more.

Blacksword still stood as he had, although to her eyes he seemed not so erect as before. But he stiffened at her entrance and his voice was as taunting as ever. “Ready to begin,
milady
?” he asked with biting emphasis on that last word.

But Rosalynde did not rise to his baiting words. She was too undone by the gruesome task before her and too distressed by her part in his pain. “Could you sit?” she asked in a small voice. After only a moment’s hesitation he once again sat down on the overturned hay bier.

Viewed up close, Blacksword’s back was a dreadful sight indeed. Although she had a talent for healing, Rosalynde had never acquired the ability to stifle her stomach’s adverse reaction to the ravages of the flesh. Yet on this occasion, more than any other, she knew she must suppress the horror and force herself to hold steady. Her deepest dread was that in order to soothe and heal his fiery wounds, she must first cause him even further pain. But it could not be helped, and with a deep calming breath she set to her task.

“This will be painful,” she murmured after she ripped a generous length of linen from the hem of her kirtle and soaked it in the cool water. Then, clenching her teeth against what she knew she must do, she pressed the cloth to the welts across his upper back. She felt the tremor through the fabric, the silent quiver as his tortured skin reacted to the pressure of her hands. Something in her quivered too, something deep inside, and she had to muffle her own moan of dismay. But he gave no voice to the agony he surely felt, and she could do no less. With hands as gentle as was possible, she swiftly soaked the crusted-on
blood and washed it away. She braced her left hand against one of his arms as she worked, and oddly enough, it was the warmth and solidity of that unharmed skin which gave her the strength to continue. Down the valley of his spine and across the hard muscles she cleansed away the dirt and blood and tatters of hanging skin. The cleansing wash was next, and finally she gingerly applied the ointment, sliding it across welts and tears alike, smoothing it across his ravaged flesh, feeling it soften and melt against the heat of his skin. Only when Rosalynde was finished with her work did her rigid stance give way, and her slight sag must have transmitted itself to him.

“Well done, milady,” he mocked in a voice low and filled with tension. “But know you not that the gentlest touch of a beautiful maiden’s fingers causes far more torture to a man than does the severest flogging?”

She jerked upright and glared at the back of his tawny head. “Is it as painful as the hangman’s noose?”

At that his head twisted slightly and he peered at her with eyes of the deepest slate gray.

“That’s something I cannot answer with any degree of knowledge.”

“Well, I can answer it!” she snapped, furious that even in the midst of his pain he could still mock her. “Those men hung there, choking and … and twisting. They tried to breathe … You heard them! That could have been you! Why cannot you be content to at least be alive!”

In her outburst of anger and frustration and awful memory she was not immediately aware of the tears that filled her eyes. When they spilled over her dark lashes to splash down her cheeks, she brushed them away with the back of one hand, humiliated to cry before him. But as she turned to flee his presence, he stood up and caught her wrist once more. For one galvanizing moment her shimmering eyes
locked with his glittering stare. Then his grip tightened and his eyes narrowed with emotion.

“I am very glad to be alive,
milady
. But content? I’ll only be content when what is rightfully mine becomes mine.”

“But … but I tried to get your reward for you,” Rosalynde stammered. “I really did—”

“And what of yourself?” he interrupted her. “You are mine by right of your handfast vow.” His eyes bored into hers with an intensity that was frightening. “You are mine by right of possession.”

“No,” she whispered, wishing to deny the terrible truth of his words. “No, I am no possession, most especially not yours.” But saying the words did not make it so, and she quaked at the awful truth of what he said. There was a long, tense silence before he dropped her hand.

“Will you tell your father, or shall I?” he asked in a voice low and quiet, yet filled nonetheless with menace.

“You can’t be serious,” she gasped. She stared up at him in horror. “Surely you know that would be a death sentence.”

“Shall you tell him we are man and wife—truly and in every way—or shall I?” he persisted, as if he’d not heard her words at all.

“I shall deny it.…” Rosalynde shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. “You are mad,” she whispered when she recognized the dark determination in his face. “He will have you slain,” she insisted. “You will not live to spread your tale.”

“ ’Tis no doubt he would not see the truth come out any more than you,” he replied caustically. “But as for me—” He stopped and his expression grew grim. “There are things I must do. Things I will not delay.” He reached for his shirt then turned a mocking smile on her. “Take heart,
Lady Rosalynde. If he is so bloodthirsty as you believe and has me struck down for saying the truth, then you will at least be free of me. After all, that is what you desire most, is it not?” Again he fixed her with a piercing look.

Rosalynde was flustered and confused by his paradoxical words. She was not sure at all what she wanted of this man, but one thing was certain: She did not want to see him struck down, especially at her father’s hands.

“I would not wish you dead,” she answered, so quietly that the words went all but unheard.

He cocked his head slightly, and one brow lifted skeptically. “You refuse me to husband but you would not see me dead,” he mused aloud as if he pondered a weighty matter. Then his gaze sharpened and his voice grew harsh. “Unfortunately, there appears to be no other choices. If the truth comes out you say I shall be slain, and yet I cannot live with less than the truth. So you see.…” He trailed off with a mocking smile that seemed to make light of the words which struck her so deeply. “There is no middle road. You may have one or the other, but nothing else.”

“But why?” she cried, more unsettled than ever. “Why must it be only one or the other? Why can you not be content—”

“Because the vow was made,” he cut her off as he dropped the shirt and grabbed her by the arms. “Because we are handfast wed.” His head lowered and his searing gaze met her stunned eyes. “Because you are my wife. Mine.”