The Rose of Blacksword (14 page)

Blacksword! he thought bitterly. It was that which bothered him most, for it indicated their vile deed had been well planned. And he’d ridden right into it. Yet if it was the outlaws, why not simply kill him and bring his body in to the authorities? Why have him killed by so roundabout a way as hanging?

Try as he might, he could not identify anyone with such a grudge against him as to plot so furtive an act. As a knight-errant he had ridden for any number of lords. In turn for an agreed-upon scutage fee, he performed their knight service due to their own leige lords. In between such service he rode in tournaments, earning his way through winner’s tokens. Yet nothing in that would seem to warrant such animosity. Why did someone want him dead, and in such an unwieldy manner? There was a sinister quality to the entire affair that seemed to go beyond common outlawry.

Aric’s fists clenched in frustrated fury.
Why
they wanted him dead did not matter so much as who the villains were, for he was determined to find the cowardly knaves and exact a terrible vengeance on them. Whoever it was, they had made a grave mistake when they selected Sir Aric of Wycliffe as their target, he vowed with a fierce scowl.

It was as he was scowling thus, still staring at the girl, albeit unseeingly, that she looked over at him. At the sudden fear on her face he came alert, mindful of how menacing he must appear. But when he took a step nearer, she jumped up in fright and splashed ankle deep into the water. He stopped at once, unwilling to frighten her further, but as he stared at her, a sudden unwonted thought leapt into his brain.

She was poised somewhere between flight and fury. Her body was tensed, ready to spring away and run for her life. But her face showed clearly her wrath as well as her
disdain for him. Standing in the stream with her sleeves pushed up and her skirt dragged down by its now-soaked hem, she appeared young and slender, and yet he could see she possessed a woman’s fullness. His eyes moved over her, noting the curve of hip beneath her sturdy wool gown and the press of youthful breasts against the unfitted bodice. Then he studied her face and his idea became more insistent.

She had washed away the days of grime. Her skin glowed with the soft health of youth, pale yet with a fair blush of pink in her cheeks. Sparkling drops of water clung to her, glistening like jewels against her skin and reflecting tiny sparks of sunlight where they clung to her thick lashes. Caught as she was in a single shaft of golden sunshine, she might have been a wood nymph, childlike yet womanly, frightened yet bold, unable to be caught and yet goading him relentlessly to pursue her. Then she blinked and he focused once more on her wide eyes.

They were unusual eyes. Startling, in fact. The centers were both yellow and green, a clear shade that seemed ever to change. But they were edged with a darker color, almost indigo it was so intense, and it was this that made them so mesmerizing. How had he not noticed them before? He took a step forward as the seeds of an idea began to take root in his mind. But she took two steps back, then glanced wildly about, searching for an escape.

“I do not mean to harm you, Mistress Rose.”

She looked warily at him, distrust etched clearly in her face. “You’ve made a life of harming people,” she countered, but the belligerence in her tone was belied by the fear in her expressive eyes.

“I would not harm one who saved my life.”

He saw the disbelief in her face; he saw how she stared at him, then looked away, only to turn a half-curious, half-skeptical
gaze back on him. But despite her obvious doubt, he was more and more sure that his idea could work. She was heaven-sent! He turned and walked nonchalantly toward the deeper end of the pool. There he squatted beside the silently bubbling spring and carelessly picked up several pebbles, which he idly tossed in one at a time. It would do no good to frighten her away, not when she might help him find the revenge he sought. Yet seeing how she remained tensed, ready to flee at the least provocation, he knew he would have to work hard to undo the poor image she had formed of him.

“Tell me of the robbers who attacked your party near Dunmow.”

Her expression changed then from suspicion of him to angry remembrance of the deed that had turned her life upside down.

“Were they your men?” she asked accusingly.

“No.”

“But only because you were all in the gaol. Otherwise you would not have hesitated to do the selfsame thing.”

“Those other two men on the gallows were not known to me.” He gave her a calm and even stare. “And it’s not my way to attack innocent women and untried youths.”

She digested that for a moment. Then her eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you’re not a thief and murderer?” Her dark brows lifted a fraction. “That you are innocent of the charges that brought you to the gallows?”

Her skepticism brought a faint smile to his lips. “Would you believe me if I said I was?”

She lifted her chin a notch and stared back at him with ill-disguised contempt. “No, I would not believe that.”

His smile faded. Of course she would not. No one could possibly see a knight in his present guise as a condemned criminal. But instead of dowsing his fledgling idea, her
scorn only strengthened his conviction. The time would come when she would not dismiss him so easily. “The subject doesn’t bear discussing, then,” he said, shrugging indifferently.

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence as they stared assessingly at each other. He knew she was trying to gauge how much danger he posed to her, how confident she should be about his taking them all the way to Stanwood Castle. For him, however, there was no longer any doubt in his mind. He would take her all the way to Stanwood, but it was more than just the promise of a horse and weapons that tempted him.

His eyes slid over her once more, noting her heart-shaped face and the masses of mahogany hair. She was no more a village urchin than he was a common outlaw. Through an accident of fate they’d been wed in a handfast ritual. But although they had both seen it only as a temporary solution to their own desperate situations, he now saw many more advantages. If her story of a dead brother was true, then she was her father’s only heir. And now she was married to him.

His gaze moved down to take in her feminine shape and he felt an eager warmth suffuse him. They were wed, and whether she meant it to last or not, he now recognized the clear advantages of staying married to her. A year and a day be damned. She stood to inherit a castle and demesne, and he, though an unlanded bastard, was no less a knight of the realm and a suitable husband. It only remained for him to convince her—or more properly, to convince her father.

He stood up then, well pleased with his unexpected turn of luck. He’d never considered marriage before, but it now seemed a most welcome prospect. A comely little wench to warm his bed, and a sturdy castle to provide
shelter and comfort. No more earning his way through tourneys and scutage fees. With property would come power, and with such power his revenge would be far easier to seek. He spared only a moment to thank the generous God who had answered his prayers with this curious angel.

“Go on back to the boy,” he said, giving her a mocking grin. “I’ll see what manner of game I can find.” Then he turned and moved off into the woods.

Rosalynde watched him stride off with a mixture of alarm and bewilderment. What if he didn’t come back? As much as she disliked the blackguard, she knew she needed him. If he abandoned them she didn’t know what she would do.

Yet somehow she knew he would come back. In the long awkward moments when their eyes had met, something had changed. She didn’t know what it was—perhaps he thought he might be able to get even a greater reward from her father, or else he might think he could ransom her to him—but whatever it was, she knew he bore watching.

She kept her eyes on his broad back until he disappeared into the greensward. Then she waded back to the bank of the small brook. He was not a man to trust, she decided once more. But he would be back—if only for the reward he sought. Her stomach growled and she rubbed the hollow spot with one hand. She hoped he would be successful in his hunt, for without a decent meal she was not certain she could keep up with the pace he set for them. But well fed, they would travel faster. And once they reached Stanwood, she reminded herself, she would be well rid of the man.

8

Cleve was still asleep when dusk fell. By then Rosalynde had foraged for mustard and arrowhead, sweet rush and wild onions. When Blacksword returned with two rabbits already gutted, she quickly built a fire while he skinned the creatures and then constructed a simple spit. She stewed the greens in a small amount of water, but as their dinner cooked, there was little conversation. Unfortunately, there was also little else to look at but one another.

He had clearly bathed before returning, for his clothes were damp and his light hair was groomed back from his face to fall neatly at his shoulders. She too had taken the opportunity to wash her hair and the rest of her body in the icy stream, although she had done so most hurriedly. At each noise she had jumped, each creak of branch or rustle of leaves. She’d been terrified that he might somehow return to spy upon her, and yet that fear had been insufficient to prevent her from taking a bath. Stripped to only her kirtle, she had submerged herself in the deepest portion of the chilly pool, then quickly scrubbed her skin with a clump of latherwort. Once satisfied and refreshed, she’d wrung the linen kirtle out as best she could. Then shivering in the wet and clinging garment, she had quickly washed her tattered gown as well. While it had dried
draped over a glossy holly bush, she’d gathered whatever edible leaves and roots she could find. Now, although the gown was still damp in places, she nevertheless felt infinitely better.

Rosalynde ran her fingers through the length of her almost-dry hair, freeing a tangle and smoothing down the unruly mass. Once more her eyes veered to the man who sat so silently across the fire from her. In the shadows of the forest it was dark, although the dying sun still lit the western sky. Rut despite the dimness he was clearly revealed by the fire’s golden glow, and Rosalynde could not pretend to be unaffected by his overwhelming masculinity.

There was about him a savageness, something akin to a huge beast of prey. His face was harshly etched in the flickering light of the fire: high cheekbones, strong jaw, and eyes that watched her with unnerving perceptiveness. Only his lips revealed any hint of softness, for they were finely formed, almost precise in their curving fullness. Unbidden the memory of the kiss he’d given her on the gallows pricked her, and she felt a faint heat creep up her cheeks. It had only been to please the crowd, she reminded herself. He had done it to keep the spectators entertained and thereby help the two of them to flee. Yet she also remembered his mocking jibe: “Next time open your mouth,” he’d said. But when he’d tried to abandon her, he’d once more made it clear that her feminine charms were of no interest to him. All he wanted was a horse, weapons, and coins. An urchin, such as he considered her to be, interested him not whatsoever.

Logically she did not care. In fact, she was glad he was not the least bit attracted to her, for that would make things difficult indeed. But she nonetheless could not squelch the simmering anger she felt every time he was
near. He was too arrogant by half, she fumed as she poked needlessly at the cooking vegetables with a pointed stick. And he had neither honor nor morals to commend him despite his physical prowess and unmistakable virility.

He leaned forward then too and turned the two hares on the makeshift spit. But his eyes stayed on her and her heart’s pace unaccountably sped up.

“The meat is near done.”

Rosalynde swallowed convulsively at his deep, rumbling voice. “The vegetables as well,” she murmured. She frowned and ducked her head, letting her hair fall protectively before her to cut off his unsettling stare.

“We’ll leave as soon as night is well fallen.”

“I should awaken Cleve then.”

“Let him sleep,” he said before she could move to the boy. “He appears to be resting well and besides, there are some things we can discuss as we sup.”

“Things?” Rosalynde’s gaze returned abruptly to him. There was something in his voice that alarmed her although she could not say why. “What kind of things?”

But he only gave her a shrug and an offhanded smile. “I thought you might tell me of Stanwood.”

“Stanwood?” she repeated, sure now that he planned something.

“Yes, Stanwood. That is your home, is it not?”

“Yes. Yes,” she replied as she bit at her lower lip. “But I haven’t been there in eight years.”

He turned the spit again, then continued in a conversational tone. “Why were you away so long?”

Rosalynde paused before answering, trying to determine what he might be up to. But she could discern no real harm in answering him with the truth. “My mother died giving birth to my brother. We were sent to live with my aunt and uncle at Millwort Castle. But now that Giles
is dead.…” She trailed off at that unhappy memory, and for a while the silence was broken only by the rush of the wind in the high canopy of the trees and the contented crackling of the fire.