The Rose of Blacksword (45 page)

“His eyes sparkle because he has rather a temper,” she said, although she hated to see the light fade in Margaret’s face. “Besides, your brother no doubt seeks a far grander lord for you. Cleve is but a squire.”

Margaret sighed. “I shouldn’t care if he were only a stableboy.”

Margaret’s last words continued to echo in Rosalynde’s head long after she had seen the child to the chamber she shared with her maid. It didn’t matter to that innocent, knowing girl that the one she pined for was not suitable as a husband. Likewise, she herself did not care about such things either, Rosalynde admitted. She closed her eyes against the powerful longing she felt for Aric. If not for the terrible repercussions it would bring down on him, she would not hesitate to bind herself to him permanently.

An image of him as he’d first appeared on the gallows came to her mind, and she stumbled on an uneven paving stone. He’d been so intimidating, even bound as he was. She’d been frightened, overawed, and drawn to him, all at the same time. Yet never would she have predicted that those emotions could turn to love. Never could she have foreseen the unbelievable joy and unbearable agony that loving him would bring her.

From a thoughtful, sensitive girl she’d become a reckless wanton, with no control over her careening emotions. Even now, when he plainly was avoiding her, she could not restrain herself from seeking him out. Just a word or
two was all she wanted, she told herself. Only a moment to reassure herself that he’d do nothing to risk his life.

Yet as she hurried through the dark toward the stables where she hoped to find him, she knew that words would not be sufficient reassurance. She wanted to touch him and hold him, and be held by him—to feel the strong steady beat of his heart against her own. She knew it was a madness that consumed her, but she was beyond fighting it any longer.

She found him in the stable, brushing a magnificent war-horse with sure, rhythmic strokes. Both man and beast turned warily toward her at her entrance. The horse flattened his ears, stamped one of his feet, and tossed his head up and down. Aric only patted the animal’s powerful neck reassuringly and bent back to his work.

“ ’Tis a fine steed,” she began hesitantly, unsure precisely what she wanted to say to him.

“His lineage is the best,” Blacksword replied quietly, though his eyes remained fixed on his work.

She came a step nearer, distressed by his clear disregard of her. “His lineage?” she repeated, at a loss for words. “How can you know his lineage when he belongs to Gil—to someone else?” she amended hastily.

He frowned and finally turned to look at her. “You need only look at such a horse to know he comes from a long line of fine destriers.”

Rosalynde nodded silently, cursing herself for almost bringing up Sir Gilbert’s name. Then the horse shoved his nose playfully under Aric’s arm, and she focused more closely on the animal. “He certainly seems to appreciate your ministrations.”

Aric shrugged and continued with his work, but Rosalynde was determined to drag him into conversation, and the horse seemed the only available topic. “Is this the
horse you were feeding the apples to in the corral that day—”

That day!

That day they had made love in the loft that was directly above them now! Her face heated to scarlet but her eyes could not turn away from his gaze. It was clear he was remembering that day as well, for his eyes became dark and smoky. When he spoke, his voice was a low rumbling caress.

“ ’Tis no great feat to tempt a wild creature. Patience and a sweet bribe will win them everytime.” Then his face lifted in an unwilling and rueful smile. He leaned his weight against the horse’s broad side and faced her squarely. “But who is being tempted by whom can sometimes become confused.”

How true that was, Rosalynde thought as a delicious quiver of longing coursed up her spine. He had tempted her to be sure. He had tempted her to bribe him with kisses—and more. But in so doing, had he too become ensnared in the tangle that enveloped them both? His self-mockery seemed to proclaim it true, yet he still remained remote from her.

“Aric,” she began, determined to steer the conversation towards her primary concern. “You have been successful so far in avoiding discovery. But the tournament begins on the morrow, and I fear you cannot long escape Sir Gilbert’s eyes.”

“Good.”

“ ’Tis not good! If you mean to prod him into a fight and thereby avenge yourself against him, you must know that my father could never forgive you for attacking a guest of his. Your punishment would be swift and severe!”

“Do not trouble yourself on that account, Rosalynde. I
am well able to fend for myself. Or is it, perhaps, Gilbert whose safety you fret for?”

Rosalynde crossed the short space between them. Without thinking she grabbed hold of his tunic, knotting it in her small fist as her fear for him took shape in anger. “Do not mock me this way! Sir Gilbert may be hanged for all I care!”

“But I may not?”

One of his hands came around hers, holding it fast against his chest. She felt the warmth of him and the steady beat of his heart, and she was reminded of another time when she’d gripped his tunic in a similar anger and fear. On the gallows of Dunmow she’d been awed by the crackle of energy that had flashed between them, frightened by emotions she’d not even been able to name. But much had passed between them since then, and now she knew where such fiery intensity could lead.

“You are ever determined to save me from the hangman,” he murmured, staring down into her upturned face. “I wonder why that is.”

Because I love you
, her wide startled eyes made the silent declaration.
Because I need you and cannot bear to risk losing you
.

As if he heard, his hand tightened around hers. Then with a helpless groan he gathered her into his arms, burying his face in the soft fullness of her hair. He did not speak as he held her almost desperately to him, yet there was much revealed in their violent embrace. Rosalynde felt the hard imprint of his body against her softer form. She recognized the masculine strength that could easily dominate her, and the potent virility that was always her undoing. But this time when he held her it was different from before. The passion was still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting to erupt, but there was something
else. She pressed her cheek against the rough wool that covered his chest, wetting it with her unexpected tears, and felt his kiss in her hair. Her arms slipped around his waist and in the quiet stall they clung to one another, each taking comfort merely from the presence of the other.

The realization that she could find such a thing as comfort with him—a thing so rare, which she’d never completely found with anyone else—started Rosalynde’s tears in earnest. She needed him so much! And she was certain beyond any doubt that he found that same ease—that same comfort—with her. It was as near to perfection as anyone could ever hope to find!

She breathed deeply. With her eyes closed she let her senses fill with him.
Oh, let this be forever
, she prayed as his arms continued to hold her.
Let this be forever
. Yet when she felt his shuddering sigh she knew it could not be.

“Rose,” he began in a low murmur against her ear.

“Shh.” She turned her face up to his, unmindful of the tears that wet her cheeks. “My one wish is for you to live. To be safe. I’ll ask nothing else of you but that.”

He cupped her face between his two hands and stared a long time into her wide, damp eyes. Then he bent to kiss her—a long, sweet kiss filled with longing, but curiously, not passion.

“I will live, Rosalynde. You must not fear otherwise.” Then he stopped as several voices sounded in the night.

“I must go,” she whispered as she recognized one of the voices. She clung to him for a moment with a fierce kiss of her own, then shoved him deeper into the stall before whirling and dashing toward the yard. As she rounded a corner of the stable she met with several men, including
Sir Gilbert, and as she came to an abrupt stop, so did they as well.

“Why, Lady Rosalynde.” Sir Edolf gave her a surprised smile and a gallant bow. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Good evening, Sir Edolf,” she answered, all the while searching her mind for an excuse for her presence in the stables. Her eyes darted nervously to Sir Gilbert’s thoughtful expression, then back to the other men. “And a good evening to the rest of you gentlemen. I trust the meal met with your satisfaction.”

“ ’Twas fine indeed, my lady.”

“You set a fine table,” another added, patting his stomach.

“Very fine,” Gilbert also conceded. “But what brings you to the stables after dark? And alone?”

“The stables? Oh.” Rosalynde gave him what she hoped would pass for an offhand smile. “One of the stable lads hurt his hand—a rope burn, it was. I took him a salve to ease his pain.”

She began idly to ease away from the stable, trying hard to distract them with her conversation. “I know that like most of your gender, you gentlemen do not set a great store by the healing arts, nor by the herb gardens and stillroom—at least not until you have a personal need of them. But I take particular pride in the medicinal herbs I grow—and the ointments and salves I am able to make. If any of you would care to see the stillroom?”

“As a matter of fact, I would like that very much.” Gilbert was the first to respond. He stepped forward, offering his arm to her.

For a moment Rosalynde faltered. It was hard enough to maintain this facade for all of them without being subject to Sir Gilbert alone. Yet she could not be certain that Aric
had left the stables yet. All it would take was for Gilbert to find him in his own prize war-horse’s stall!

“Oh, I did not mean tonight.” She laughed weakly. “I’ve neither torch nor lantern to light the place. However, if you are still inclined, we may go on the morrow.”

“But tomorrow is the tournament,” Sir Edolf threw in, clearly pleased to stymie Gilbert’s attempt to get Rosalynde alone.

“Let him go, then,” Sir Andrew of Billingham laughed. “ ’Twill make my plan much easier if Gilbert Poole should fail to appear in the lists!”

From there the conversation launched into good-natured boasting and laughing challenges. But as the group paused before the door to the great hall, Rosalynde was hard-pressed to keep any better than a pleasant expression on her face. Her eyes kept straying to Gilbert’s peeved face.

“—’twould be a pleasure to see you unseated again, as you were in London,” one of the men taunted Sir Gilbert.

“You were bested in London?” Sir Andrew asked. “I’d not heard.”

An ugly expression darted across Gilbert’s face, but when he turned to face Sir Andrew his features were composed once more. “It was a momentary lapse on my part, which the lucky fellow used to his advantage. I would like nothing better than to meet him once more. Then we would see who would emerge victorious.” He smiled, but Rosalynde thought it forced. “Unfortunately, I have not seen him since. No doubt he will not risk losing to me in another match.”

“He did not look the type to be intimidated by anyone,” Rosalynde heard the same man mutter to Sir Andrew. But to Gilbert he only replied, “Perhaps you are right.”

As Rosalynde entered the great hall once more, and the
knights dispersed, she did not see Gilbert’s furious expression. One of the castle hounds tried to slink past him, only to be kicked viciously. As the hound leapt away, howling in fear and pain, Gilbert spun on his heel and, with a vile epithet, strode off to find his quarters.

Cleve dismissed the young page to his bed, determined to linger in the hall—even if it were only to serve the wine—until Sir Edward could give him a moment. All evening ale and wine had flowed freely, although Cleve was aware that Sir Edward and his men had drunk but sparingly. Come morning there would be many a pounding head, but not among Stanwood’s contingency. He could not help but admire Sir Edward for his astute planning. It was just as Aric had told him—know your enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. Sir Edward was hoping to weaken his adversaries while maintaining his own solid strength. Though a small enough advantage, as Aric had pointed out, even a small advantage could turn a loss into a victory.

At the thought of the man Aric, Cleve grew pensive. There was much more there than met the eye, and his sixth sense told him that the morrow could very well see everything brought out into the open.

At a signal from a grizzled lord, Cleve sprang forward, an ewer of wine in his hands, to fill the man’s emptied cup.

“—to be settled. For I’ve men enough to see it done.”

“Edward, Edward.” Lord Virgil sighed, shaking his head. “You will be hard-pressed enough to best Sir Gilbert’s men. Think you that you can outlast me and my own?” He chuckled, then brought the filled cup to his mouth and quaffed the wine in one long pull. Then he banged the pewter cup down, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and stood up. “My compliments on the wine. However,
I’m no mere boy to be done in that easily.” He gave Sir Edward a grin and an unsteady bow, then lurched away, muttering about his knights and their many glorious victories.

Sir Edward leaned back in his chair as his longtime friend quit the hall. The torchieres were burning low and only a few other knights yet lingered nearer the hearth at wine and dicing. Sensing his opportunity, Cleve approached the quietly thinking Lord of Stanwood, ewer still in hand. Sir Edward waved him away absently, but when the boy hesitated to leave, the older man looked up questioningly.

“Well, lad, what is it?”

“If I may be so bold, milord, might I beg a word with you?”

“The hour is late … but, yes, go ahead.”

“Well, you see …” Cleve faltered, uncertain how to proceed. “ ’Tis about the Lady Rosalynde. Your daughter,” he added as if by way of clarification.

“Yes, the Lady Rosalynde
is
my daughter,” Sir Edward replied in amusement. “Now, what of her?”

“Well, she and I are long acquainted. She has ever extended her kindness to me and I would sacrifice my very life on her behalf.”

“You have proven that true enough.”