A Knight and His Rose

by Catherine Kean

  She’d certainly done that, most effectively. But, their interaction hadn’t seemed designed to delay his return to the keep or lure him into a trap. “In other circumstances, I might agree with you,” Osric said. “However, she and her sire could not have known I was going to the stone circle last evening. I did not even know, until I made the decision. By chance, did Lane report any unusual activity overnight?”

  The steward shook his head. “Still, we must find out her intentions. I do not want to fail in my responsibilities to you, milord, and disregard my suspicions, only to later discover she is a pivotal part of a much larger plot to destroy you.”

  Osric studied Violetta, looking beautiful and innocent while she slept. Was he an idiot to not want to believe she could be involved in duplicity? “Her hurt ankle is surely proof she is not involved in any treachery?”

  “Her injury could be part of the deception.”

  “Hold on—”

  “She was to play the role of helpless, wounded damsel so you would rescue her.”

  ’Twas possible, but unlikely. “’Twould mean she deliberately caused, and willingly endured, her badly sprained ankle.”

  “Exactly,” Crawford said.

  “I doubt she would be capable of that.”

  The steward’s eyes narrowed. “What better way for Molineaux to get firsthand information on your defenses and the layout of the fortress than for someone loyal to him to get inside?”

  A knot of unease lodged in Osric’s chest.

  “If I may, milord…. When you rescued her, did she give her name?”

  “She did not.”

  “Did she tell you she was a lady?”

  The knot twisted. “She told me she worked in the village.”

  A rough laugh broke from Crawford. “And still you will not believe what I have told you?”

  Hellfire, Osric didn’t know what to believe.

  “You would be wise to use this situation to your advantage, milord. Keep her here. Play along with her deception. Find out what she wants. Then, you will have the means to crush Molineaux once and for all.”

  ***

  Her eyes still closed, Violetta woke slowly. Her mind seemed sluggish, as though before falling asleep, she’d drunk a cask of wine all by herself and in one fell swoop.

  As she groaned and rubbed her brow, she heard the joints of a chair creak, footsteps, and then a door open. A woman spoke, stirring up memories of a ginger-haired maidservant.

  Recollections of the past evening and morning filled Violetta’s thoughts. Her eyes flew open, and she pushed up to sitting.

  She was still in the chamber where she’d been brought earlier. Gayle, having spoken to someone outside, was returning to the bedside chair.

  How long had she slept? Oh, nay. Nay!

  “’Ow are ye feelin’?” Gayle asked.

  “I….” She had to leave now. “My clothes?”

  “Bein’ washed.” The young woman smiled. “Ye ’ave more important matters ta think about. ’Is lordship is on ’is way ’ere.”

  “His lordship? You mean the knight who brought me here?”

  Gayle sighed wistfully. “Aye. Lord Seabrook.”

  Oh, God. Oh, God!

  Violetta slid her legs off the bed.

  The young woman gasped. “What are ye doin’?”

  “I cannot stay here.”

  “Ye must. The healer told ye ta rest.”

  Violetta grabbed the corner of the bedside table and attempted to stand. She had to leave. If Seabrook realized who she was—

  Men’s voices, faint but growing louder, carried in through the open doorway.

  Violetta tried to take a step forward. When she put the slightest weight on her wounded leg, pain shot through her limb.

  Gayle looked aghast. “Cease! Ye will make yer injury worse.”

  With a pained sigh, Violetta acknowledged there was no way she could get to the door, let alone flee. She was going to have to face Seabrook and continue to play her role as though her life depended upon it, which, in truth, it did.

  Settling back on the bed, she folded her hands in her lap.

  The tread of booted footfalls slowed outside the chamber, and then the knight she’d met at the ancient site walked in. His gaze locked with hers, and turmoil rose within her in a sickening wave, reviving the torturous memories of their first meeting years ago. While she longed to hold his stare, a little voice inside her warned no woman of humble birth would dare to be so forthright. She lowered her lashes and studied a scratch on the back of her left hand.

  “Good afternoon,” he said.

  “Good afternoon, milord,” Gayle answered with a curtsy.

  A tremor raced through Violetta. Her injured ankle prevented her from curtsying. What should she do instead? “Milord,” she finally said, wishing her voice hadn’t wobbled.

  He approached the bedside.

  Stay calm. Do not betray yourself.

  “We did not exchange proper introductions before. I am Osric Seabrook, lord of this castle.”

  “’Tis an honor to meet you, milord,” Violetta said. He is going to want to know my name.

  “And you are?”

  While Shelley had tended her in the infirmary, Violetta had imagined such a meeting and what she’d say. “I am Lettie,” she replied, giving the nickname her late sister had bestowed upon her

  “Lettie.” Was that a teasing note in Osric’s voice? “How are you feeling?”

  Would you care, if you learned I am your enemy? “Better, after my rest. Thank you.”

  “Good.” Osric’s attention shifted to Gayle, hovering nearby. “You may go.”

  As the maidservant quit the chamber, Violetta’s stomach whined. She was going to be alone with her enemy. Her hands clenched so tightly, her knuckles turned white.

  The door clicked shut, and then, the chair scraped on the planks as Osric sat, his legs spread slightly. Muscles bulged under the taut woolen fabric of his hose, and as he braced his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, she couldn’t help but notice the breadth of his shoulders and thickness of his arms. Her head swam as she acknowledged how strong he must be.

  His gaze traveled over her, slowly and very thoroughly. Her pulse pounded. After studying her clenched hands, his attention shifted to her ankle.

  What did he want? She longed to ask, but didn’t dare.

  Stay calm. Do not betray yourself.

  “Shelley will come by soon to look at your ankle again,” he said. “Do you suffer any other body pains she should treat?” When Violetta shook her head, he added, “Twould not be surprising if you had cracked a rib falling into the tunnel, or even bones in your arm.”

  “I have some bruises. Shelley said they will heal before too long.” How Violetta wished Osric would go away. If she told him she was fine, mayhap he would get up and leave. “I am—”

  The squeak of the chair made her jump.

  He touched her right cheek, his fingers warm and rough as they cupped her face. “Lettie,” he said with quiet command. “Look at me when you speak to me.”

  His eyes, accentuated by dark lashes, were brown; a rich, hazelnut hue that made her think of molten metal and sleek leather armor. He searched her gaze as though to find every one of her secrets. She averted her eyes, but remembered he’d ordered her to look at him. Grudgingly, she returned her full attention to him.

  His mouth curved in a faint smile, as though he’d recognized her inner struggle and realized he’d won.

  “I ask you again. Any other discomfort?”

  Having to obey you. “Nay,” she said.

  Osric’s stare sharpened slightly. “You would tell me, if you had other pains?”

  “I would, milord.”

  “All right, then.” His smile broadened before his hand dropped to the coverlet. “I am glad you are being truthful with me.”

  What irony, his words. Guilt weighed upon her; she must divert his attention to other matters. “There is one thing bothering me, alth
ough ’tis not a physical ailment.”

  “Go on.”

  “My dagger. I left it behind—”

  “My men-at-arms retrieved it. Your gloves and boot too. They are in my solar.”

  Violetta exhaled in relief. The knife had belonged to Jacqueline; she’d given it to Violetta shortly before she’d died.

  Osric hadn’t, though, said he’d return Violetta’s belongings to her. While the dagger didn’t bear any markings that would reveal her identity, she’d like it back, as soon as possible. How did she ask without him becoming suspicious?

  As her mind scrambled to think of a way, he reached into the leather bag tied to his belt and drew out an earthenware pot. He removed the stopper, releasing the brisk scents of lavender and rosemary, and then put the stopper and pot on the side table.

  “Milord—?”

  “Your poor hands.”

  “Shelley tended them earlier.”

  “I wish to tend them again. ’Twould be a shame for them to be forever scarred.”

  Applying ointment meant that he’d be touching her again, stirring up those awkward feelings of vulnerability and longing. “You must have more important responsibilities to attend. I can apply the salve myself.”

  Osric shook his head. “I have a certain skill.” His larger left hand pressed over hers, a silent command for her to unclasp her fingers. When she didn’t obey, he gently but firmly eased his fingers between hers until her hands separated. Then, with his other hand, he scooped out some ointment and rubbed it onto the scratch running from her thumb to her middle finger.

  The glide of his fingers upon her flesh…. ’Twas both heavenly and shockingly sensual. Her skin tingled in a most unsettling way, the sensation skittering down her arm and into her upper body, causing her bosom to grow warm.

  She withdrew her hand. “Thank you, but—”

  “I insist.” He pulled her hand back and resumed rubbing in the salve.

  Did he know how his touch affected her? Indeed, how could it? She hadn’t experienced such sensations even when Melwin had raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  She must block out her shameful awareness.

  She must focus on the resentment she’d harbored for Osric since childhood.

  She must plan how to flee Coltingstow—

  “How about you tell me what you were really doing last night in my field?”

  Oh, mercy. “W-what I was really doing?”

  Again, his fingers traced the red scab on her skin. “You were on your own, as far as I could tell.”

  She fought not to shiver. “I was. As I told you, I wanted to watch the stars.”

  “You put yourself in great peril, out alone at night.”

  His fingers gently slid to her middle digit, then back again, massaging in the ointment. She swallowed hard, uncertain how best to answer him.

  “You do not strike me as foolish.” He moved on to another scrape closer to her wrist. “Why would you risk such danger?”

  “I had a weapon.”

  His mouth twitched, as though he tried not to smile. “I had no trouble getting you to push your knife out of reach.”

  “Aye, because I needed your help. I wanted to get out of the tunnel, so of course I did as you asked.”

  His gaze flicked up to meet hers. “You did not even try to bargain with me to keep the dagger. Rather foolish, love.”

  “I did not realize I had any choice in the matter. Besides, I believed I could trust you.” She glowered. “Was that also foolish?”

  A wry laugh broke from him. “I hope the kindness you have been shown proves you can, indeed, trust me.”

  A dull ache roused within her. She had been treated kindly. Most surprising, considering what she knew of the Seabrooks, but she was grateful.

  When he continued to work on her hand, she said quietly, “If you must know the reason I was in your field….”

  “Mmm?”

  “I wanted a few moments of freedom.”

  “Freedom from?”

  “My family. My parents, I mean. ’Tis challenging sometimes, being their only child now.”

  “Now? ’Twas not always so?”

  “I had an older sister. She married a couple of years ago, but died…birthing a stillborn son.”

  “I am sorry,” Osric murmured.

  “Since her passing, my parents have grown even more protective. I love them dearly, but there are times when I feel stifled.”

  Osric cradled her hand in both of his. Using his thumbs, he rubbed the back of her hand, around the knuckles, and down her fingers in lazy circles. She longed to sigh deeply and savor the pleasure, but resisted.

  “Where did you learn to be so good with your hands?” she asked.

  “On Crusade.” Pressing a little deeper, his thumbs glided up over the back of her hand again. “One of my friends, an excellent swordsman, suffered pains in his right hand and arm after long battles. He could not sleep because of the discomfort, so I would do my best to work out some of the tension.”

  “’Twas kind of you.”

  Osric shrugged. “I asked a healer to teach me what to do. There really was no other choice for my friend. The healers and surgeons were too busy caring for others who were wounded—the sons of rich families with close ties to King Richard, above all—to tend those with lesser ailments.”

  “That reminds me, milord. My family will be worried about me.” Her voice hitched on the last word.

  “I expect so,” Osric agreed. “As I mentioned before, I will help you get messages to your loved ones.” He set her hand, shiny with its coat of ointment, down on the coverlet. “I am glad, though, that you did not end up like the unfortunate lady last night.”

  Misgiving gnawed. “What lady?”

  “The daughter of my neighbor, Lord Molineaux.” Osric picked up her right hand and, after taking more ointment from the pot, started on a scrape. “Since you live close by, you must know of her.”

  “I do.” Dreading he might ask her to divulge what she knew, Violetta added, “She has never visited where I work, but I have heard she shops in the town now and again.”

  Osric nodded, but didn’t glance up from her hand. “Lady Molineaux left her home last evening and never returned.”

  “W-why not?”

  “I do not know, but she is the reason I was not here when you woke. My steward and captain-of-the-guard were updating me on the extensive search for her.”

  Extensive search? A silent cry of dismay welled within Violetta. Her parents must be frantic to find her, and ’twas all her fault.

  Osric’s steady, piercing gaze met hers. “I am told Lord Molineaux will not rest until his daughter is safely home.”

  ***

  Violetta’s—Lettie’s—hand trembled, and Osric returned his attention to her cuts and scrapes. He hoped he hadn’t given himself away. He was enjoying the deception between them. It provided a lively distraction from all of the other matters he had to manage being lord.

  She remained still and silent as he worked, no doubt pondering what he’d told her, or mayhap debating whether to admit who she really was. He’d rather not have that conversation yet; not until he’d learned more about why she’d ventured onto his estate.

  And not until he’d learned more about her. No woman had ever captured his interest the way she did.

  He continued to massage her hand, not because he needed to do so—there was quite enough ointment on her wounds now—but because he enjoyed the softness of her skin. Her fingers were slender and elegant, of a refinement that came with noble breeding.

  “If I may, milord?”

  “You may.”

  “Your words implied concern for Lady Molineaux’s wellbeing.”

  A startled laugh burgeoned within him, but he forced it down. “Some concern, I suppose. Our families are enemies, but like all knights, I hate to think of a maiden in danger.”

  He stole a glance at her and realized, suddenly, how little effort ’twould take on his par
t to kiss her.

  Desire whipped through him, fueled by the hunger that had kindled when he’d started tending her hands. How he wanted to lean forward and press his mouth to the rosy plumpness of hers.

  How would she taste? Would her lips be anywhere near as soft and warm as her hands?

  Bloody hell.

  He released her and put the lid back on the pot.

  “You said her ladyship’s father would not rest until his daughter was home,” Lettie continued. “Milord, as soon as possible, I must ease the concerns of my own family.”

  Osric rose and went to the oak trestle table near the door. Servants earlier had left soap and a bowl of water to wash, as well as wine. “All right.”

  “’Twould please my parents if I arrived home this day.”

  ‘Twould not please me, love, to let you go so soon. Drying his hands on a linen towel, he said, “A letter will be enough for now.”

  Frustration etched her features.

  “Your parents would not expect you to travel with a hurt ankle.”

  “If you loaned me a horse, I could ride—”

  “You shall rest, Lettie. For a few days yet.”

  Her throat moved with a swallow. “What if my father sent a wagon to collect me?”

  Osric shook his head. “You will remain here, at least until your condition has improved.”

  Lettie sighed. “Very well. A letter, then.”

  He set down the towel. “You can tell me what to write on your behalf and where the letter is to be delivered.”

  A strangled sound broke from her.

  He feigned puzzlement. “You do not like that arrangement?”

  “I do, milord.” Her fingers nervously plucked at the coverlet. “’Tis just that…well….”

  “No need to be ashamed. I am well aware that you, like most women, cannot read or write.”

  Her lips parted on a sharp indrawn breath, as though she intended to correct him. Then her mouth closed, and she glanced over at the fire.

  Osric fought not to chuckle. Her reaction proved she could read and write—although to maintain her ruse, she had to pretend she couldn’t. “I will order a quill, ink, and parchment,” he said, crossing to the door. “As soon as they arrive, we will start your letter.”

  Chapter Four