The Rose of Blacksword (36 page)

“Cleve.” Her call brought him up short and he gave her a wary look.

“Lady Rosalynde,” he replied stiffly. But he said no more, and as Rosalynde nervously twisted her fingers together, she knew he was deeply hurt by what he saw as her defection to Blacksword.

With a fortifying breath she faced him. “I would speak privately with you, if you please. About last night,” she added when he only stared at her from heavy-lidded eyes. In guilt and humiliation her eyes slid away from his. “There is nothing to be gained by involving my father in this matter.”

“It is not for gain that I would speak to him! Not for myself! But for you—” He stopped short, clenching his
jaw as he fought for control. “If you have not the sense to end this matter, then your father must.”

“But he will be so angry! You don’t know him!”

“You should have considered that before you fell in with that man. You should have considered just what your punishment would be when you dallied with one so far beneath you!”

“ ’Tis not
my
punishment I fear, but
his
,” Rosalynde pleaded in response to his angry charge. “You were there at the flogging. This can only be worse.”

“Then we will all be well rid of the villain,” Cleve answered in a voice that wavered between its new adult timbre and its old youthful pitch.

“But I love him,” she whispered in desperation. Against her pale face her extraordinary eyes were wide and haunted. “I love him.”

For an endless moment they stared at one another. On the one face was horror and disbelief, on the other, desperation. It was Cleve who looked away.

“ ’Tis not love you feel, but something else entirely. You will feel it again for your husband.”

She came perilously close to revealing everything to Cleve at that moment—that Aric
was
her husband by right of the handfasting ritual. Only her fear that the young squire could never keep his silence on the matter prevented her from confessing the entire truth to him.

“You’re so wrong. I shall never feel this way for any man but him.”

“Christ’s blood!” The boy exploded in anger. “Are you fool enough not to know that love or not, it does not matter!” But when tears started in her eyes, his tone softened. “Milady, I cannot in good conscience keep this from your father. He has been good to me beyond all expectation. I am his man now. Surely you can see that.”

She nodded weakly, but two teardrops spilled past her lashes and trickled down her pale cheeks.

“Don’t cry, milady. Please, I cannot bear it,” he whispered urgently, drawing nearer as he did so. His dark eyes stared mournfully at her.

“What am I do to, Cleve? Whatever am I to do?”

He did not answer at once but only took her arm and steered her toward the garden. Once there, however, he faced her with renewed conviction. “If you would not have your father be rid of the man, then you must do it yourself.”

She shook her head and wiped at her damp eyes. “He will not go.”

“Then make him.”

“But how?” She sniffed, even as she fought the idea.

“I don’t know,” he replied, angry once more. “But ’tis clear he is encouraged to stay by your acceptance of his impudent attentions. Reject him out of hand. Offer him gold or whatever else you think he might want. But
send him away!
”

The problem was, he didn’t want gold, he only wanted her, Rosalynde thought later as she sat in the quiet of her own chamber. Aric wanted only her—and everything that entailed.

Yet if he was to live, he must not stay any longer at Stanwood. As she weighed Cleve’s words, the truth of what she must do became painfully clear. As he had said, she must get rid of Aric or else her father would. More than anything else, her yielding to him as she had last night would encourage him in his mad pursuit of her. It remained for her to squelch the burning passion between them. No matter how she felt, no matter how desperately she yearned for him, she must reject him.

It would not be easy. He would react with anger and
perhaps even violence. He might even force himself on her. But she must reject him, even make him despise her if that’s what it took.

She must do it though it killed her, for if she did not, it would surely kill him.

For once luck seemed to be with Rosalynde. The threat of rain came to reality, and during the slow steady drizzle the daily routine of castle life was altered. The men-at-arms were put to repairing harness and weapons, and so long as Rosalynde avoided the stables she was saved the possibility of running into Aric. Although she knew she could not put off confronting him for long—Cleve’s threat to tell her father still hung over her head—she did not want to meet him before she was ready. Then just after midday a small group of riders presented themselves at the castle gate. In the confusion of rain and mud and unexpected visitors, Rosalynde was so busy that she was able temporarily at least to ignore the pressing urgency of Cleve’s demand.

With efficiency that her father noted with silent approval, she had the several knights settled in the guest chambers, ordered a light repast prepared for the tired travelers, and sent orders to the kitchen for a change in the evening meal. Instead of the normal light supper, a substantial meal had to be planned in honor of their guests. It was only when she’d seen to all those details that she was able to take a momentary break.

“Rosalynde. Daughter.” Her father’s voice carried to her. At his side she saw the refreshed knight who was leader of the group. With a welcoming smile pasted on her face she took a breath, then made her way toward them.

“Sir Gilbert Poole, Lord of Duxton, may I present to you my daughter, the Lady Rosalynde.”

With a polite curtsy she greeted the man and took the hand he extended. When she straightened it was his turn to bow and press a light kiss against her knuckles. It was a perfectly appropriate gesture, and yet when he raised his gaze to hers she felt a sudden and unwarranted prickle of apprehension. His eyes were uncommonly pale, the blue of snow in moonlight. He was a comely enough man, well formed and of goodly height. His nose was straight, his teeth well, and his skin unmarked by pox scars. But there was an odd quality about him that she could not pinpoint. His lips curved in a pleased smile and she lowered her eyes in confusion. Straight teeth, yes, but his mouth held a cruel slant. Still, on the surface he was no more than a well-favored knight, the very sort of man her father no doubt would see her paired with.

At once her eyes jerked back up to his as she understood. Her father must have summoned this Sir Gilbert here. His visit was not completely unexpected.

“ ’Tis my great pleasure to meet you, Lady Rosalynde. You are too kind to offer such gracious hospitality to me and my men.”

“ ’Tis our pleasure,” Rosalynde countered as good manners demanded. “I’m afraid our remote location precludes many visitors. We welcome you and whatever news you may bring. From whence have you traveled?” she added politely.

“We come most recently from Elsing, but we have been these several weeks afield.”

“Gilbert hounds the outlaws who are a plague upon the land,” her father explained. “Do you meet with success?”

“Enough to know that there are many still left to be caught.”

“ ’Tis an outrage.” Her father swore. “I would see them all hanged and damned unto hell.” Then he glanced hastily
at her. “My pardon, Rosalynde. But my temper festers to know that even one such vermin remains to prey upon the land.”

“Have you suffered at the hands of such renegades?” Sir Gilbert asked with narrowed gaze.

“Nay,” Sir Edward blurted out, sending Rosalynde a telling glance. She knew at once that he preferred her several unchaperoned days be kept from common knowledge. It left too dark a stain upon her purity and his power to protect her. “No, we’ve seen no outlaws nearby. However, there was rumor of an attack near the Stour River.”

“Near Dunmow?” Sir Gilbert raised his brows slightly, and Rosalynde thought him momentarily alarmed. But he recovered quickly and his expression swiftly changed to one of smug self-satisfaction. “You will be glad to know that we sent three ruffians to the gallows at Dunmow. One we believe to be the ringleader of the entire area.” His eyes fastened on Rosalynde’s suddenly pale face with frank admiration. “Never fear, fair lady. It is my intention to rid all of East Anglia of such vermin. Only then will such lovely flowers as yourself be at ease to bloom.”

Rosalynde escaped Sir Gilbert’s presence as soon as was seemly, her heart still pounding and her stomach knotted from his unexpected revelation. Sir Gilbert had been the one who had captured Blacksword! It didn’t matter that Gilbert was ridding the countryside of the dire scourge of outlaws. It didn’t matter that he was well favored and unmarried, or that he was everything an unwed maiden should hope to gain, as her father had made quite plain to her. His presence at Stanwood would be absolutely disastrous should he recognize the outlaw Blacksword.

Or should Aric—Blacksword—recognize him.

Rosalynde felt for all the world like a poor ruff caught between warring hawks of the air. Her father, Aric, Cleve,
and now this Sir Gilbert. They all made demands of her while offering threat to one another. She was prey to them all and yet she must nonetheless keep them well apart.

A headache hammered in her head as she saw to the feeding of the group of visitors. She felt no compunction at all about leaving them in her fathers company on the pretext of tending to supper preparations. As much as she wished to avoid it, she knew she must find Aric and alert him about Sir Gilbert. With any luck this might be the impetus she needed to send him well away from here. If he would just flee Sir Gilbert’s threat, all might yet be set to rights.

Only she knew, as she hurried through the misty rain down the slippery stone path, that when Aric left, nothing would ever be right again. Not for her, anyway.

She found him under the shed that projected from the tannery. He was affixing a metal ring to a strap of leather, lacing the looped leather with thin leather strips. Beyond him two other men labored, and for a moment she hesitated. His gaze was clearly curious when he looked up. Seeking him out was hardly something he would expect of her. To her relief, however, he kept his expression carefully blank as he rose to his feet.

“Milady?” he questioned, giving her a short bow. “How may I help you?”

“I … ahh … I’ve need for something to be moved in the kitchens. If you would be so kind.”

“ ’Twould be my pleasure,” one of the other fellows stated, jumping at the possibility to set foot inside the women’s arena of work. “Here, Aric, finish this.”

“Oh, well …” Rosalynde struggled for an effective excuse to reject the man’s enthusiastic offer. “You see, Sir Roger most clearly suggested that I might use Aric.” She
gave the man an apologetic smile, then turned her gaze quite deliberately back to Aric. “Can you help me?”

“Aye, milady.” He put the harness down without sparing a glance for the other two men. “Whatever you require.”

For propriety’s sake Rosalynde led him toward the kitchens. But instead of ducking through that open door, she hurried on toward the stillroom. No one would disturb them there, she was certain. And no one would overhear them either.

Before she could properly fasten the door bolt, he pulled her into his embrace.

“How now, my sweet wife? Has last evening’s encounter whetted your appetite for more?” His lips moved against her hair and pressed heatedly against her temple. “I know it has whetted my own.”

For a moment Rosalynde went weak. His strong, manly form pressed against her back felt incredibly good, and every fiber of her being demanded that she succumb to him. Then he turned her to face him, and the delicious feel of their full-length embrace was nearly her undoing.

“Give me your lips,” he whispered as he held her breathless against him. “Open to me.…”

But that was the very last thing she must do, she reminded herself desperately. “Wait,” she pleaded, turning her head from his searching kiss. “We must talk. Wait!” she demanded with a impotent shove at his chest.

“I seem ever to be waiting on you,” he murmured in her ear. “If it is your plan to provoke me beyond my endurance, know now, sweet Rose, that you have succeeded.”

His hand moved languorously down her back to the swell of her buttocks. At once her senses leapt in response. Fire rushed through her veins and sang in her ears. Yet
Rosalynde knew she must not succumb to the dangerous lick of desire. Now more than ever, she must remain firm, for his very life depended on it.

“Would you just listen to me!” She wrenched herself from his arms then stepped back a pace, eyeing him across the dim space of the little stillroom. For a minute they just stared at one another. Then the amorous look in his warm gray eyes was replaced by frustration. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned his hips back against the sturdy workbench.

“All right then, I’m listening. But, Rose,” he added in a sterner tone. “Do not think to put me off any longer. I
will
have my talk with your father.”

Rosalynde refused to agree with him on that point. When she firmly spurned his attentions, he would not care any longer to speak to her father. And if that didn’t work, she would reveal that Sir Gilbert was here. If he had
any
sense of self-preservation he would flee Stanwood at the first opportunity.

“I have thought long on what passed between us last night,” she began nervously. “I-I cannot deny that there is an attraction between us—”

“An attraction?” he mocked as he watched her face turn scarlet.

“Yes, an attraction!” she snapped. “You have a certain … a certain appeal. And … and you clearly know how best to woo an untried maiden. I was beholden to you—”

He came away from the bench, his posture gone from relaxed and waiting to tensed and menacing. “You will not put me off with this tack, Rosalynde. So do not even try. Justify your yielding to me in any fashion you wish. But I know the truth of it. And so do you.”

At this blatant statement Rosalynde’s control nearly deserted
her. Only the dreadful fear she felt for his well-being kept her tears in check and her voice relatively steady.