The Rose of Blacksword (31 page)

“Good morrow, Rose,” he said in a tone far too familiar for a servant to use with a lady. But Rosalynde knew it was useless to protest. It wouldn’t change his manner at all, and she was certain he took perverse pleasure in baiting her thus. Instead she gave him a perfunctory smile and moved toward the bed of perennial herbs she had been weeding and transplanting.

“Did you sleep well?” he persisted as he watched her approach. “Perchance did you have any dreams of me?”

“Hardly,” she snapped, but color rose in her face to think how close to the truth he was.

“I dreamed of you,” he murmured as she sidled past him on the cleared path. “I dreamed you were there beside me … beneath me …”

“Oh! You are truly vile!” she hissed in horror, even as a spark somewhere inside her leapt into sudden flame. “You court disaster by such unseemly speech!”

“ ’Tis not unseemly for a husband to desire his wife in his bed,” he countered. “And, Rose, make no doubt, I do desire you in my bed.”

“Your bed! Your bed! Why, ’tis less than a pallet is your bed! A pile of hay! You dare much—”

“Yes, I know,” he bit out, pinning her with his dark gaze. “My bed is a mean one indeed. No bed at all, in fact. And yes, I dare much to want what is mine. I court disaster to speak the truth. That’s where we differ,
sweet wife
.
I’ll dare much for the truth, while you run from it. Cringe from it!” At that he drew her beneath the branches of the doomed willow, hiding them from view. Then he pulled her closer until the entire lengths of their bodies were but inches apart.

Rosalynde was sure he meant to kiss her. His grasp was tight, his eyes burned into hers with a fierce light, and his lips poised just above her own. She did not consciously halt her struggle, yet as his face drew nearer her own, something inside her seemed to melt. Her heart pounded in her ears as she waited for his kiss.

But the kiss she received was not at all what she expected. His lips touched her brow once, then again, before moving to caress her temple.

“Sweet Rose,” he murmured against her cheek. “My thorny little Rose,” he whispered heatedly against her sensitive ear.

In sudden discontent, she leaned her weight slightly against him, even as she turned her face up to him. Something in her burned for him. Like hunger. Like her very need for air. Logic deemed this food a poison. To breathe deeply would surely be her undoing. Yet still she wanted it, no matter the risk. Nothing in her young and sheltered existence had prepared her for this onslaught of new and forbidden emotions. Nothing could have.

She breathed in the scent of sweat and earth that clung to him and without even being aware edged a little nearer, wanting the taste of his mouth on hers. Their eyes met in fiery collision and she knew she was completely transparent to him. But once more he surprised her. He bent down as if to kiss her, then halted before their lips met.

“You are mine, and soon the whole world shall know.”

“No!” The word was out before she could stop it.

“Yes,” he countered, holding her head still when, in her
panic, she would have pulled back. “I’ve allowed you enough delay. It’s time to confront your father.”

At this broaching of the subject she had hoped to avoid, Rosalynde’s emotional elation came to a crashing halt. She tried to twist out of his rigid grasp, but his hold on her was adamant. In his steady gaze she recognized determination and a reckless daring that frightened her. “He will kill you! It’s too soon!”

“It will always be too soon,” he retorted darkly. “You’ll put me off and put me off until a year and a day is done.”

“No. No, that’s not it. It’s just that … that …” Rosalynde could not formulate a reply, at least not an honest one. It was true she sought desperately to escape the year-and-a-day constraints set on her by the handfasting ritual. But her primary fear was for her father’s furious reaction. She had only to recall the horrors of the flogging to know her father would deal most harshly with the man who had ruined his daughter. Even though Blacksword seemed ready to risk her father’s fury, she was not.

“He will kill you,” she whispered quietly, staring into his slate-gray eyes. “I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true.”

His hands tightened but something in his eyes flickered. “Your concern is flattering, sweet. But I’m willing to take my chances with him. This yoke of slavery weighs too heavily on me.”

“But it’s not so bad,” she argued, seeking some way to convince him. “Truly. The work is hard, but you have enough to eat and a safe place to sleep. You are well treated here.”

“You still do not understand. A man needs more than a full belly and a warm place to sleep. It is the freedom to go—or stay—that I want. And my woman.” He pulled her up against him so that she was pressed close against the
entire length of his male form. It was a shock of heat and hardness, and although her body would have rested willingly against him, her mind pushed her away.

“You are a madman! You want too much!”

“I want only what every man wants. I’ll not rest until I have it. Come, wife.” He stared deeply into her wide eyes. “ ’Tis time we spoke to your father.”

“No!” Rosalynde squeaked as he made to leave the willow’s protective embrace. “Wait!”

“There’s no use in waiting any longer.”

“Another week. Just one more week!” she pleaded in desperation.

He halted and stared at her keenly. “Why wait? Why?”

“Because …” She faltered. “Just because.”

In the filtered light he stood before her, his hair a dark gold, his face burned brown by his outdoor labors. He was so completely male, so unbelievably virile. A part of her responded innately to him, and it was a wonder to her that he seemed to desire her as well. It was that thought which prompted her next rash words.

“If you will just wait, just not do anything or say anything …”

His eyes glinted with silvery light. “If I will wait, what?” he pressed her.

“I will kiss you,” she pronounced very gravely.

For a moment their eyes held. “You would have kissed me anyway,” he mocked. “Kissed me and more.”

Her serious stare dissolved into a glare. “You think overmuch of yourself,” she snapped, even though she knew he had the truth of it. But her need to buy his silence overrode her need to prick his pride.

His smile faded. “You dare much to place yourself above he who is your legal husband. Lady you may be. Wedded to a mere slave. But that changes nothing of the
facts.” Then his curt tone relented. “But there are forms of slavery not so objectionable.” His hands slid up her arms. “Make me a slave to your kisses, my Rose. Make me your slave and I will make you mine.”

For an endless trembling moment he held her within his gaze, within his grasp. Forgotten was her anger; forgotten the bribe she’d offered him. As she stared like one mesmerized into the smoky depths of his potent stare, Rosalynde felt every defense against him ebb away. Like the taut string of a longbow her emotions stretched to the point of breaking, until she was forced to admit to herself that she wanted his kiss. She
needed
his kiss with a desperation that made her want to weep.

“Kiss me,” he murmured softly. “Buy my silence with your lips. With your tongue,” he coaxed in a voice grown low and husky.

In unquestioning response Rosalynde leaned into him, lifting up on her toes to reach his lips. When he bent down to meet her kiss, when he shifted to fit her against him, she pressed herself freely to him, never thinking of payment or bribes or the silence she bought. In that moment her thoughts reeled and logic disappeared. She knew only the warmth of his nearness, the magic of his touch, and the exquisite sweetness of his kiss.

He did not demand anything of her in that kiss. Indeed, there was almost a caution, a reserve in the intimate pressure of his firm mouth against hers. But his very reticence seemed to goad her on, and without thinking she parted her lips and ran the tip of her tongue along the seam of his lips.

At once everything changed.

His hold on her tightened even as he opened to her hesitant approach. He took her tongue into his mouth and met it with his own, and before she could protest she was
overcome with unnameable delight. She had initiated the kiss, yet even in her passionate haze she knew it had been at his command. And now as desire exploded inside her, she knew that in every way he held her in his thrall. She was a slave to her desire for him. He had made her thus, and willingly did she now succumb.

One of his hands moved down to cup her derriere, and she groaned against his mouth. His hand moved possessively, stroking against the place where the heat that consumed her began, and she gasped in both fear and yearning. At that, his mouth moved to her neck, kissing, nipping, stroking the sensitive skin with his tongue. In small wet circles his tongue traced patterns of pure delight even as his palm circled her bottom, pressing and exciting her with daring promise.

“Blacksword,” she murmured on a short intake of breath. “Aric.” She felt the full strength of his arousal press demandingly against her belly.

He lifted his head and stared into the melting amber of her eyes. “Whether you be Rosalynde to my Aric,” he whispered, “or Rose to my Blacksword, I will have you yet. I will have you yet.” Then to her complete bewilderment, he put her from him.

For a full minute they stared at one another across the span of his stiff arms. Rosalynde fought for breath and for control of her spinning senses, only partly aware of his equally breathless state. But she could not hide the bewilderment on her face, nor the impossible desire.

“For such a kiss,” he began, still fighting for breath. “For such a kiss you have my silence, sweet Rose.”

“You … you will not confront my father?” she asked, hardly able to gather her wits again.

“It cannot be avoided forever,” he warned her. Then his eyes moved to her reddened lips and he let out a self-deprecating
chuckle. “But should I pursue the matter too hard, I suspect you now know how to silence me once more.”

So saying he released his hold on her arms and then pushed his hair back from his brow. “And now, as much as I would like to tarry with you, I fear our absence might soon be noted.” He gave her a low, sweeping bow before straightening up. Then he gave her a bawdy wink and turned back to his tasks.

Rosalynde stood in the little enclosure of the willow long moments after Aric had left. She heard him in the garden as he worked and knew she too should begin the many tasks that awaited her. But rue and basil and sage were forgotten as she remained where she was.

For the first time she recognized the true depths of the problem she had created. The handfasting had been a necessity, a vow made but never intended to be honored. Then they had lain together and everything had changed. Her virginity was lost and could never be reclaimed. But even in that, as wrong as it was, there had still been the hope for some resolution, some possibility of resuming her life with a degree of hope for the future. And for marriage to some respectable fellow one day.

But this kiss …

In the few seconds they had clung together, in the brief embrace they had shared, Rosalynde had come to a new and shattering realization. Blacksword or Aric—he touched something deep within her, something primitive and vital that she’d never known even existed. She thought of him constantly. Waking or sleeping, it made no difference. Her mind was consumed with him, and her body …

She closed her eyes and leaned against the little willow. He made her body sing.

If ever there were a man to whom she would cleave herself, he was most certainly it. Rogue that he was, commoner, outlaw, murderer—he drew her in a way no man ever would again. She was as sure of this as of anything she’d ever known. She was a lady. He was a slave. And yet no other man could be husband to her before him.

No man.

Sir Gilbert of Duxton scratched futilely at his bound arm, then picked up the parchment before him. “Have I met this Sir Edward?”

“Sir Peter of Kiln was godfather to both your father and Sir Edward of Stanwood. They squired together and were old friends.”

“I’ve not heard his name mentioned lately. He certainly has not been in London. Is he in disfavor with the crown?”

The seneschal shifted from one leg to another, clearly not at ease under his master’s pointed gaze. “Word carries that he has kept to himself these past years since his wife died. He concerns himself with his crops and his fields. And his serfs,” he added more quietly.

Gilbert did not notice the man’s implication. He was too engrossed in his own thoughts, and his face relaxed in a small smile. “Stanwood must be a profitable demesne under such close supervision. Has he any other heirs besides this daughter?”

“Only a son who died recently.”

“So there is no other claim. The land would go with her hand. As would the income.” Gilbert leaned back, scratching absently at the itch that continued to plague his healing arm. He gestured for more wine and read the neatly lettered paper once more.

His father’s old friend invited him to the spring festivities.
Feasting, games, a melee. And the chance to meet his only child, a girl called Rosalynde.

He tapped the corner of the stiff paper against his freshly shaven chin and pursed his lips.

Perhaps this was an omen. He’d been considering abandoning his less savory activities. There was too much outcry against highwaymen and runagates to think he could much longer avoid being found out. Perhaps the rich demesne of a pretty little wife would be a better source of income. Or even the rich demesne of an ugly wife.

He laughed out loud and threw the paper down on the table. “Send word to this Sir Edward that we are pleased to attend his festivities. And Feron,” he added before the man could leave the chamber. “Have my captain of the guard come to me. If this Sir Edward is at all like my father, he is more impressed by a man’s ability with the sword than by his cleverness. Duxton must make a fine showing in the melee, and I would plan my strategy well.”

After the seneschal had departed, Gilbert took up his tankard and drank deeply of the stong red wine. How opportune was this invitation. A wife and another demesne. Yes, this was a very good sign.