The Rose of Blacksword (12 page)

When she reached the tumbled-down shed, she was still in a quandary. What had she gotten herself into now? she thought frantically. And what in the name of heaven was she to do?

As if he sensed her unease, Cleve’s eyes slowly came open and he stared blankly about. Then they seemed to focus and, as if it were a huge effort, he slowly turned his head toward her.

“Mi … milady?” he croaked weakly.

At once Rosalynde’s attention turned to him. “I’m here, Cleve.” She knelt beside him and pressed her palm to his brow. To her enormous relief it was cool, and she sent a silent prayer of thanks aloft. “How do you feel?”

His answer was a frown. Then he raised a weak hand to
the crown of his head. “What happened?” he asked, wincing as his fingers found the bandaged wound.

“That man—the one you stabbed—he flung you against the boulder. Your head—” She stopped abruptly at the confused look he gave her. Her brow creased in concern as she stared at him. “Do you remember the attack? Two days ago when we had stopped for the midday meal?”

His brown eyes clouded over as he struggled to understand. Then suddenly his eyes cleared and his face grew fierce. “The unholy bastards!” he exclaimed, then immediately blushed. “Pardon, milady.”

“It’s all right,” she said with a great sigh of relief. “But tell me, how do you feel? Are you well enough to travel?”

“Aye.” He grunted as he tried to sit up. But his grimace of pain told her otherwise. “Ohhh …” He let out a painful moan, then lowered himself miserably to the pallet once more. “My head … ohhh …”

Rosalynde hovered over him with a worried frown. “You took a cruel blow, Cleve. That man flung you hard against the boulder. You’ve a nasty gash and perhaps even a crack in your head. You were feverish yesterday and all night too.” She pressed her hand soothingly over the boy’s creased brow.

“Then … then we’ve been here two nights and a day?” His face grew bewildered as he endeavored to remember everything. “You’ve tended me all this time?”

Rosalynde started to nod, but then she realized that wasn’t precisely true. “Actually, you were alone most of yesterday. I went to find help.”

“And did you?” he said, brightening a little.

Rosalynde hesitated and she felt the telltale heat of a blush begin to color her cheeks. “I-I did find someone—”

It was precisely at that second that their dubious savior chose to make his entrance. Rosalynde jumped abruptly,
her fears of the previous minutes returning in a rush. Cleve started as well and immediately pushed up off the pallet to rise. For a tense, shattering moment the air crackled with menace: Rosalynde’s concern that Cleve not know all the details of what she had done; Cleve’s fear that outlaws had returned to attack them; and Blacksword’s defensive reaction to the boy’s sudden movement. With one swift motion he pinned Cleve to the floor, holding him helpless with a foot pressed harshly to his chest. At the sight of the dagger’s quick flash Rosalynde immediately sprang forward and grabbed onto his arm.

“Don’t!” she shrieked, holding onto the iron-hewn arm in alarm. “Don’t hurt him!”

But the intimidating Blacksword seemed as unaffected by her desperate grasping as he was by Cleve’s ineffectual flailing. Holding her off with one steely hand around her arm, he lowered himself to one knee and pressed the knife dangerously close to Cleve’s white face. “Don’t move.”

At his fiercely growled command a sudden stillness at once gripped the room. Beneath Blacksword’s overriding menace, Cleve shrank back, undone by his own terror. Rosalynde was equally frightened. It seemed certain the ogre meant to slay young Cleve! Her throat was dry; her mouth felt numb and it was an effort for her to get the words out.

“Don’t hurt him,” she pleaded in a quavering voice. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t … don’t hurt him.”

The moment stretched out endlessly. She was conscious of his still-damp grip on her arm, wetting through her sleeve to her skin. Then she felt his fingers relax ever so slightly, and she let loose the breath she’d been holding.

“Stay still,” he ordered the boy with a quelling stare.

Despite his fear, however, Cleve was not a coward. “I won’t let you hurt her,” he managed to say. But though his
voice was not strong, his eyes flashed murderously. It was this, though, that seemed perversely to appease the man.

“What a fierce pup you guard yourself with.” He gave Rosalynde a derisive glance, but she did not discount the seriousness of his next words. “Call him off.”

“It’s … it’s all right, Cleve. Truly it is. This is the man—” She glanced fearfully at Blacksword, hoping against hope that he would not contradict her. “This is the man I-I hired to help us get home.”

Once she had it out she shuddered, whether in relief or fear, she could not have said. Then she watched as Cleve’s face turned from shock to disbelief and then to outrage.

“You hired
him
?” he said, casting her a look that clearly questioned her sanity.

“Yes,” she replied weakly. Then “Yes,” again more firmly when he seemed about to argue. In a frantic effort to silence him and thereby keep him safe from Blacksword’s razor-edged temper, she adopted a stern and haughty tone that she hoped would sound sufficiently reproving. “You overstep your bounds in questioning me so.”

To her relief Cleve closed his mouth. In the silence Blacksword stepped away from him, releasing Rosalynde as he did so. She was well aware that he was not inclined to humor either the disgruntled boy or herself.

“Can he walk?” he asked her, gesturing toward Cleve.

“Yes.”

“No,” Rosalynde countered, giving Cleve an annoyed look. Although she was more than anxious for them to be on their way, she knew Cleve was not well enough to walk. Head wounds especially required bed rest. But what Blacksword thought of their contradictory responses she could not tell. When he spoke his voice was equally noncommittal.

“See to his wound, then. And cook the remains of the vegetables.” He gave her a stern look, then he tucked the knife securely into the leather girdle at his waist. Cleve’s furious eyes narrowed when he saw that casual gesture.

“That’s my knife,” he bit out as he awkwardly propped himself up on his elbows.

“ ’Tis mine now, pup.” He gave Cleve a hard, flinty stare. “Behave yourself and I might eventually return it to you.”

Rosalynde forestalled any further rash retorts from Cleve with a warning hand on his shoulder. “I’ll explain,” she whispered as she busied herself with the bandage around his head. “Just hold your tongue.”

As angry and frightened as Rosalynde had been to discover the menacing Blacksword gone when she’d awakened, she was even more upset now when he lingered carefully within earshot of her and Cleve. He had dragged several long branches over near the shed, and now as she examined Cleve’s head, washing it again with the woundwort and rebinding it with a softened linden-bark poultice, she was acutely aware of his presence. Cleve too was uncomfortably conscious of the big man’s proximity and sent him a continuous stream of bitter glances and sullen stares. But despite their overwhelming preoccupation with Blacksword’s nearness, he seemed, by contrast, completely unconcerned with theirs. While Rosalynde built up the fire to a healthy blaze, he only removed the twigs and leaves from the branches he had brought. While she brought a small amount of water to a boil and added the puny vegetables to it, he calmly lashed the two long branches together at one end, then lashed a short brace between them near the other. By the time the weak soup was ready, he had fashioned an odd contraption that had
her and Cleve curious despite themselves. But he was decidedly uncommunicative.

Rosalynde fed Cleve a goodly portion of the plain broth and stewed vegetables. Then she ate also from the crude pottery that had to serve as pot, kettle, and trencher to all three of them. She was hungry, and yet her stomach was far too knotted for her to do more than pick sparingly at the food. When their doubtful protector finished his silent task and reentered the shed, she pulled the dish back from her mouth and stared warily at him.

“The remainder is for you,” she said with as much grace as she could muster.

He immediately crossed the small space and squatted on his heels right next to her. “My thanks,” he murmured as he took the dish from her hands. Then he steadily drank down the broth until the dish was empty.

She had pulled away from him when he first squatted down. Now, despite a conscious wish to appear unconcerned with anything he did, Rosalynde watched him with bewildered fascination. She saw how his wide, square palms with their strong, lean fingers enveloped the crockery dish. She watched with perverse absorption the rhythmic movement of his throat as he swallowed. He did not spill nor smack his lips, and when he finished he did not back hand his mouth to wipe off any excess. He only licked his lips once with his tongue, staring back at her as he did so.

Had she not been so rattled by his silent observation, she would have pondered more on this odd man. He was a murderer, yet he possessed the oddest social graces. He liked to be clean. He ate politely. And he had thanked her for the food. Of all the unexpected things, he had thanked her. His steady stare confused her, however, and her heart began to pound.

But if Rosalynde was mystified by his dangerous yet oddly civilized bearing, Cleve seemed only the more antagonized by it. It was his cracking, youthful voice that caused Blacksword to shift his eyes away from her.

“Who are you?” Cleve demanded. Then he turned toward Rosalynde, who was shaking her head in a futile effort to silence him. “Who is he and how can he help us? Has he horses? Has he weapons?”

“Cleve—”

“I’m someone who would as soon slit your throat as answer your questions.” With that threatening statement Blacksword gave Rosalynde a sardonic stare. “Isn’t that right, Rose?” he added with deliberate familiarity.

As much as she wished it were not true, at that moment Rosalynde was certain it was. But in her mind that made it even more important that Cleve not know the whole truth.

“He
can
get us home, Cleve. He’s the only one who can,” she insisted desperately.

But Cleve was in no mood to listen. “Is he the local sheriff, then? Or the lord of some nearby demesne?” The boy cast a disparaging eye over Blacksword’s torn tunic and stained braies. “His only weapon is my knife. How can he save you if we are attacked again? And how can you be sure he will?”

Rosalynde did not have to look at Blacksword to be aware of his angry impatience. She was completely unnerved by the clear animosity between the two, and did not think out her response, so intent was she on diffusing the situation. “Everyone around here knows who he is! And they’re all afraid of him!” she cried in a last attempt to frighten Cleve into holding his peace. “He has murdered many—”

She stopped abruptly, horrified by what she had revealed.
Blacksword, however, finished her words for her. “I’m said to be an infamous outlaw who has murdered many
many
people,” he said with deadly sarcasm. Then he pulled out the knife and both Rosalynde and Cleve jumped in alarm. He only put the tip of the blade to his thumbnail, however, and worked out a splinter. Then he looked over at them calmly. “Now it’s time we leave this place. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind?” This last sarcastic sally he directed at Rosalynde.

Oh, how she wished she could do just that. How she wished she could be rid of this terrifying man. It seemed that they were endangered as much by his presence as by his absence. But she knew she must not risk losing his help now. Not after all she’d gone through to get him. He’d agreed to get them safely to Stanwood Castle, and despite her instinctive fear of him, there was still a part of her that believed he would do as he said. He wanted the reward she had promised. They would just have to suffer his temper and his moods until they reached her father. But she would have the devil of a time keeping Cleve calm.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” she said most seriously. She grabbed Cleve’s hand and gave it a hard, warning squeeze. “But Cleve should not be up. Especially not doing anything so strenuous as walking.”

The man Blacksword straightened to his full height then and gave them both what Rosalynde could only describe as an arrogant, superior smile. Once again she noticed how even and white his teeth were. And now, shaved as he was, the strong planes of his jaw and cheek bones were apparent, and she had to admit that he was attractive, albeit in a harsh and primitive way. For the first time she noticed that his hair was light, the color of autumn leaves
but streaked also with gold. Then, aghast that she should be so distracted as to notice or care about his appearance, she frowned. “Cleve cannot walk,” she insisted once more.

His smile widened a fraction. “Then he shall ride.”

7

The odd carryall bumped along the woodland floor, gliding over bracken and leaves, scraping along the rich soil and lurching occasionally over a small log. Despite her mistrust of the man, Rosalynde could not help but be impressed by the ingenious contraption he had fashioned with the three sticks. At the wide end he had slung her cloak between the two longest sticks to make a crude bed for Cleve. Then he stood inside the other pointed end, grasped the two branches in his hands, and strode forward. Like a beast of burden he pulled the crude cart, and despite its lack of wheels it carried the ailing boy remarkably well.