A Knight and His Rose

by Catherine Kean

  Suspicion flared. A commoner—especially a woman—would never be so forward as to challenge a man of higher social status in such a way. Even as the thought settled in his mind, her lashes lowered and she shook her head. “I have been overly bold. I…had no right.” She abruptly stood.

  The maiden appeared ready to flee, so he reached out and caught her hand.

  “Milord—”

  Squeezing her gloved fingers, he smiled in the roguish manner that usually made women blush. “Surely you are not leaving? If you would rather not tell me your name, so be it. But, I will be disappointed if you go before sharing your tales with me.”

  “Mayhap another night,” she said, stepping backward.

  How frustrating, that his charms hadn’t worked, but he didn’t let his smile slip. “With much anticipation, then, I look forward to us meeting again soon.” Reluctance crossed her features, even as he added, “May I offer you a ride into the town? My horse is tethered close by.” He’d be sure then that she’d reached home safely, and he’d also learn where she lived.

  She glanced across the field bordering the town. “I…’twould be best if I made my own way home.”

  His suspicion intensified, but he merely nodded.

  “You must not follow me, either.”

  Had she read his mind? “Not even to watch over you, until you get home?”

  She shook her head.

  Osric frowned. “Why not?”

  “You will get me into trouble.”

  “From whom? Your family?”

  “Please, I cannot—”

  He rose, unable to sit still a moment longer. “As a knight, I am honor bound to protect you.”

  “As I told you before, I have a knife. I can look after myself.” Resolve gleamed in her eyes. “Dare to follow me, and we will never meet again.”

  ***

  The knight released her hand. Despite her inner sense of dread that urged her to run, fast and far, Violetta curtsied then hurried between the closest standing stones and out into the field. She must head toward the town, continue her ruse until she was certain he no longer watched her. Only then could she climb over the wall.

  How keenly she felt his gaze upon her. ’Twas akin to a touch, coaxing her to slow down, turn around, and go back to him.

  Her whole being, too, seemed intensely aware of sensation: the brush of her linen chemise against her bosom; the earthy scent of grasses trampled under her feet; the coolness of the night breeze against her flushed cheeks. Oh, mercy, but what she’d felt this eve, for him, was astounding, but also dangerous, especially if he was Osric Seabrook.

  The more they’d talked, the more she’d suspected he was indeed the Seabrook heir. Yet, Osric’s late father, like her own sire, had built up the number of knights in his garrison. He’d recruited the youngest sons of lords who owed fealty to him as well as battle-hardened soldiers who’d returned from the East and needed employment.

  Somehow, she must find out for certain the knight’s identity. Mayhap she could convince her father to let her visit the town for an afternoon and she’d make inquiries.

  A tremor raced through her, for she was far enough away now that she dared to slow down. Violetta yielded to the temptation to glance over her shoulder. The knight was no longer by the fallen stone.

  Had he followed her after all?

  Movement drew her gaze to the far side of the ancient site; he’d swung up onto his horse and gathered the reins. His back to her, he tilted his head, as though he’d become aware of her watching him. He wheeled his horse and waved to her. Warmth blossomed inside her as she waved back, and then he spurred the animal in the direction of Coltingstow Keep.

  Her shoulders lowered on a sigh. She continued on through the field until she was certain he was too far away to see her any longer then ran back to the stone circle. She usually climbed over the wall farther up the field, but she saw good handholds in the section of barrier nearest her and she was eager to be back on her father’s estate.

  The ground yielded a bit under her boots as she headed for the wall; the earth must still be damp from the recent rains—

  Her right foot sank into the ground. She squawked, waved her arms to try and stay upright, but the soil crumbled away.

  She plunged into blackness.

  Chapter Two

  Violetta landed hard on her right foot. Her ankle buckled. She cried out in agony as pain shot up her leg. She clawed for something to grab onto, but fell backward, landing on her side on hard, uneven ground.

  Once her head had stopped reeling, she slowly, carefully, pushed herself upright in the darkness and tried to assess her surroundings. However, moonlight didn’t reach where she’d fallen, although she could see the starry sky through the opening in the dirt above her.

  A musty smell pervaded the air belowground: the scent of things damp and ancient. Violetta shuddered. She wasn’t going to spend a moment longer than she had to in this place.

  Rallying her courage, she removed her gloves and tossed them aside. She stretched out her right hand. Her fingers met only air, and then, as she leaned sideways, cold, crumbling soil. Her fingers slid higher, to scrape the protruding edge of a rock and the rough, rope-like texture of roots.

  She seemed to be in some kind of tunnel. Who had built it? What it had been used for, and how far did it run underground? Questions to be answered later. She must find a way out of the tunnel as swiftly as possible and get back to Darringsleigh.

  Gritting her teeth, she flattened her hands to the ground and shifted her body sideways, little by little. Don’t dwell on your throbbing ankle. Keep your mind busy with other thoughts. She remembered the texture of the fallen monolith against her palm and the handsome, gallant knight who had watched the stars with her.

  A flicker of hope urged her to scream for help. Yet, the knight would be too far away to hear her, and she hadn’t seen anyone else in the field. Long ago, guards used to patrol her sire’s side of the wall, but her father had stopped that in favor of putting more armed men on Darringsleigh Keep’s battlements.

  If she didn’t get home this night, her father would send out soldiers to search for her. He might even suspect Osric of being responsible for her disappearance and besiege Coltingstow. Oh, mercy, she couldn’t allow her excursion tonight to be the catalyst for her father going to war.

  Her back touched the tunnel wall. Pressing against it, she rose until she was standing on her left leg.

  The hole above, though, was too high for her to reach. Ignoring her hurting ankle, she raked her fingers along the wall, digging her nails into the dirt in hopes of discovering a tree root or vine to pull herself up, but found naught.

  A frustrated sob jammed in her throat. There had to be a way out.

  She couldn’t rest until she found it.

  ***

  The sound of knocking pulled Osric from slumber.

  He groaned and dragged his hand over his face, for it seemed he’d only just fallen asleep. As he turned his head on the pillow and opened his eyes, though, sunlight shone through cracks in the closed shutters at the window.

  Yawning, he willed his drowsy mind to wake. Upon returning to the castle last night, he’d handed his destrier’s reins to a groom in the stable and retired to his bedchamber, but had lain awake for a long while, watching the fire in the hearth.

  In the hiss of the flames, he’d heard the night breeze whispering around the standing stones. In the brightness of the blaze, he’d caught the gleam of the maiden’s beautiful eyes. As hard as he’d tried, he’d been unable to get her out of his mind. And the yearning to kiss her…. The craving had grown to a restless hunger. He’d never been so tempted by a woman, certainly not one he’d only known for such a short while, which had made him wonder if somehow, she’d enchanted him.

  The knocking came again. “Milord.”

  Hellfire. What could the steward possibly need from him right now? “Enter,” Osric called.

  The iron-banded wooden door swung inwa
rd. Osric adjusted his feather pillows so he could sit up in bed, while the sheets and blankets slid down to gather across his naked belly.

  As usual, Anson Crawford’s straight, gray hair was tied back in a neat queue, and his garments were tidy and spotless. Crawford’s son Lane, who had been appointed captain-of-the-guard at Coltingstow years ago, was equally fastidious about his appearance.

  Osric thought of the dirt on his boots from last night; the steward wouldn’t fail to notice. Folding his hands in his lap, Osric wondered how long he’d have to wait before the man’s features hardened with disapproval.

  Truth be told, it really didn’t matter what Crawford thought of the mess. While men of the Crawford family had held the position of steward at the fortress for several generations, and while Osric’s sire had treated Anson like a blood brother, Osric was lord now. If he wanted to muddy his boots, ’twas his right. Moreover, he was a grown man, not the anxious boy who’d avoided Crawford as much as possible when growing up, because the steward had relished reporting Osric’s every activity to his father.

  No man was going to govern Osric’s life ever again.

  Crawford walked partway into the chamber, pushed the door closed, and bowed. “Good morn, milord.”

  “Good morn. Do you have news of import?”

  The steward smiled, as though privy to an extraordinary secret. “Indeed, I do. ’Tis important enough to require waking you, milord, when I know you had a late night.”

  If Crawford hoped that Osric would divulge details about last evening, he was going to be disappointed. “What is the news, then?”

  The steward had seen Osric’s boots. A muscle leapt in the older man’s cheek before his attention returned to Osric. “Forgive me, milord, but where did you go last night?”

  “It matters not.”

  “With utmost respect, it does.”

  A rough laugh broke from Osric. “Beware, Crawford. I am no longer a child who will tolerate your meddling.”

  Irritation flickered in the steward’s eyes before he dipped his head, a sign of acquiescence. “I did not mean to cause any offense.”

  “Good. Then you will accept that my whereabouts last night are none of your concern.”

  “With the greatest respect once again, milord, they are. Your late sire insisted ’tis my responsibility, as steward, to oversee every man, woman, and child in this fortress.”

  That did indeed sound like something Osric’s controlling bastard of a father would have said. “Father died months ago. As we have discussed before, I do not intend to rule this castle as he did.”

  “And I am most honored to fulfill my duties in the manner you prefer. However, if you had been attacked last night….”

  Osric gestured to his sheathed broadsword propped against the oak chair where he’d draped his garments. The fine weapon, bought from a dealer in London, had helped him vanquish many enemies while on Crusade. “If attacked,” he said, “I would have defended myself.”

  “Could you have subdued several assailants at once?”

  “I did in battle.” Osric’s gaze sharpened. “I have not heard of any such attacks occurring in this part of Wiltshire. Have you?”

  “Nay, but that does not mean you are safe. Lord Molineaux does, after all, live the other side of the wall.”

  Osric’s brows rose. “And?”

  The steward pushed his shoulders back. “’Twould be easy enough for his lackeys to attack you, throw you over the wall onto his side, and then claim he had found you on his estate.”

  “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “He would then use his influence to ruin the honorable Seabrook name, not just in Wiltshire, but all across the realm.”

  Points worth bearing in mind, although Osric had been lord of Coltingstow for several weeks. If Molineaux had wanted to destroy his reputation, with the aim of having Osric disinherited and replaced by an ally appointed by the crown, surely he’d have acted before now? “Do you have proof—any proof at all—that Molineaux would consider such a deception?”

  “Not proof of that particular trickery. However, he has—so I have heard—blamed you for another incident.”

  In the midst of reaching for the goblet of wine on the oak side table, Osric stilled then sat back against the pillows again. “What incident?”

  Triumph stole into Crawford’s expression. “’Tis the reason I came to see you, milord. Apparently, Violetta Molineaux went missing last night.”

  Osric thought of the maiden at the stone circle. Was she Violetta?

  “Apparently, she did not sleep in her bed last night. Either she slipped out on her own, or someone infiltrated the keep and abducted her. According to the latest rumors, you are suspected of being involved in her disappearance.”

  “What?”

  “I am afraid so, milord.”

  A bitter taste tainted Osric’s mouth. He was damned tired of the enmity between his family and the Molineaux. He would not, however, sit by and let his name be associated with a deed as ignoble as kidnapping a lady. “How, exactly, did you come by your information?”

  “First thing this morning, Molineaux sent men-at-arms into the town. Guards have been going from house to house questioning folk about the lady’s whereabouts. One of our informants visited me earlier to share the news.”

  Osric drew aside the bedding and swung his bare legs over the side of the bed. “We must join the search for Violetta.”

  “Join the search?” The steward sounded aghast.

  Standing, Osric stretched to ease stiffness from old, healed battle wounds then drew on his woolen hose. “Offering to help is the chivalrous thing to do.”

  “But—”

  “’Twill also help prove I had no part in her disappearance.”

  Sweat beaded on Crawford’s brow. “Such aid may not have the effect you desire. Molineaux may not believe your intentions are honorable. He might suspect you are trying to divert suspicion and keep him from finding her ladyship.”

  True. Unfortunately.

  “If you remember, sennights ago, I advised you to avoid dealing with him unless absolutely necessary. You cannot trust him.”

  “I do remember.” Osric strode to his linen chest and drew out clean garments.

  “His guards have likely been ordered to attack if they see you.”

  God’s teeth. “Do you think so?”

  “I do. Again, with respect, I have known Molineaux for many more years than you.”

  Osric pulled a shirt over his head and tugged down the sleeves. Crawford did indeed have a better knowledge of Molineaux. Even as Osric’s heart insisted on gallantry, the voice of reason advised him to accept the steward’s guidance.

  “Fine. I will leave the matter in your capable hands,” Osric said.

  “A wise decision, milord.”

  “You will keep me updated, though.” Osric reached for his weapons belt. “You will also organize a thorough search of this estate. I want to be sure Violetta Molineaux is not on my lands.”

  ***

  Seated with her back against the tunnel wall, Violetta opened her eyes. Last night, she’d hobbled as far as she could—not all that far, really—until pain had forced her to stop.

  She’d sat on the ground and drawn her dagger, its solid weight in her hand a comfort in the darkness; at least she’d had some way to defend herself if attacked by animals or humans. After pulling her cloak tightly around her to ward off the dampness, she’d tried to stay awake. Yet, as the night had dragged on, she’d dozed, and now daylight streamed through the hole in the ground a short distance to her left.

  Violetta swallowed hard, her throat dry. The knife had fallen from her grasp while she’d slept. She left it on the tunnel floor and rubbed her neck that ached from her sleeping upright while she took in what she hadn’t been able to see last night. The stone and dirt passageway continued off to her left, which meant the tunnel ran under the wall between the Seabrook estate and her father’s. To her right, the passageway
appeared to widen, but darkness hid what lay beyond.

  Did her father know about the tunnel? If he had known, surely he’d have installed an underground barrier of some kind, to prevent anyone, especially the Seabrooks, from using the passageway to get onto his lands. One good thing about her fall: she’d made an important discovery to share with her sire. Once she’d told him of it, he might not be quite so furious about her having snuck out of the castle alone at night.

  Hopefully.

  Guilt gnawed at her. By now, she’d usually be in the rose garden with her mother, weeding the beds, cutting spent blooms, and pruning the climbing roses so they continued to grow up and over elegant trellises. Yesterday, she’d promised to help her parent gather rose petals this morning, to be made in potpourri and ointments.

  “’Tis an exceptional year for the roses,” Violetta’s mother said, her woven basket brimming with long-stemmed pink, yellow, and red blossoms she’d picked for an arrangement to go on the lord’s table in the great hall.

  Rising from a rose bed bordered by a low stone wall, Violetta brushed dirt off her gown. “The roses bloom as they do, Mother, because you show them such tender care.”

  Smiling, her parent swept her long, gray braid over her shoulder. “I only do as your grandmother taught me. Speaking of Jacqueline, did you see the bud on the blue rose bush?”

  Violetta nodded. The bush had been grown from a cutting given to Jacqueline, her father’s mother, long ago by a suitor. Violetta’s paternal grandfather had been just nineteen years old when he’d died, leaving young Jacqueline widowed and with an infant son: Violetta’s sire. The rose had supposedly been gifted to Jacqueline before she’d remarried and moved away from Darringsleigh to raise her boy until he was old enough to return and rule the castle.

  While no one could remember the name of the long-ago suitor, the bush was said to bear exquisite and very rare blue roses. Yet, Violetta couldn’t remember ever seeing one of the blooms.

  “At last, we may finally get to see a blue rose,” her mother said.