“Close?”
Shelley’s gaze turned troubled. “More than once, I hid him in the infirmary, when he was desperate to avoid his father. When Osric would finally come out of hiding, I would dry his tears, hug him, and tell him….” She shook her head. “I will say no more. If he wants you to know of his childhood, he will tell you himself.”
Violetta’s mind raced. Had the late Lord Seabrook’s fiery temper ever been turned on his son? She truly hoped not…but that might have explained Osric’s misery the afternoon they’d first met.
The healer drew the blanket over Violetta’s limb again and then carried her basket to the bedside table. Misgiving settled within Violetta, for Shelley had managed to avoid answering the most important of Violetta’s questions.
“Please. Are you going to reveal my identity to his lordship?”
The older woman pulled the cork out of an earthenware flask. “I see no reason to tell him.” She poured a yellowish concoction into a small mug and handed it to Violetta. “For your pain.”
The liquid looked vile, but if it helped her to heal, she must drink it. Violetta downed the contents of the mug and handed it back.
“Osric was always a clever lad,” Shelley said. “Even if neither of us says a word, he will discover who you are.”
***
Osric descended the stairs leading from the keep’s upper level to the great hall. In readiness for the midday meal, maidservants were setting jugs of ale and wooden boards heaped with slices of bread, ham, and cheese on rows of trestle tables.
Crawford was speaking with a young woman near the hearth; she was brushing off her hands after adding logs to the fire. Upon seeing Osric, the steward crossed to him. “Milord.”
“Any news?” Osric gestured across the hall to the entrance to the forebuilding, and the steward strode alongside him while delivering his report.
“—and the search for Lady Molineaux continues in the town.” Light and shadow played over Crawford’s face as they entered the forebuilding’s torch-lit stairwell and headed down to the door at the bottom of the stone steps.
“Did you write the letter I asked?”
“I did. ’Tis ready to send whenever you wish.”
“I would like to review it first.”
The steward’s expression tinged with resentment, but he nodded then quickened his pace to reach the door first and draw it open for Osric to stride through.
In the bailey, grooms were cleaning tack. Children played with kittens that had been born in the stable weeks ago. Over by the well, maidservants were rinsing tubs of linens and hanging them on lines to dry.
Far enough away from the other folk to keep from being overhead, Osric halted to face the steward. “The letter,” he said.
“I have come to learn what you expect in your correspondence, milord.”
“That may be so, but this letter is particularly important.”
“Your father did not feel the need to review missives he instructed me to write.”
“As I have said before, I am not my father.”
The steward was clearly displeased. His indignation was not entirely a bad thing, for it showed he cared about his work. Coltingstow was Osric’s castle now, though; he would have final say in all matters, especially when it concerned Molineaux.
Osric half expected Crawford to further protest, but the man reached to his belt and retrieved a rolled parchment. It hadn’t yet been sealed with wax. Osric fought not to smile, for judging by the lack of a seal, the steward had anticipated Osric might want to review the letter before ’twas sent.
He read the few lines neatly penned in black ink:
Lord Molineaux,
’Tis my sincerest hope that this missive will ease your concerns regarding Violetta. She is safe at my castle and being treated well. At your earliest convenience, we should discuss how best to return her to you, since she has suffered a sprained ankle.
With utmost respect,
Osric Seabrook
“Well done.” He handed back the missive.
The steward sniffed. “I hope one day soon, you will have faith in my skills.”
“’Tis not just a matter of skill,” Osric answered. “I have no desire to provoke war with Molineaux over his daughter.”
Crawford’s eyes glinted. “If you did, I vow you could defeat him. Your sire insisted on a well-stocked armory—”
“—which will be used if necessary. However, Violetta’s stay here gives us an opportunity to reassess the enmity between our families.”
“Reassess?” The steward sounded appalled. “Need I remind you—?”
“I have not forgotten the past.”
“I should hope not.”
Sometimes, when speaking with Crawford, Osric felt like a young boy again, who could never do anything right.
“When should I send the letter, milord?”
“As soon as possible. When Molineaux replies, I wish to be informed right away.”
Chapter Five
Violetta woke with a start. Lying on her back, she blinked several times, the shadowed fuzziness of what was above her focusing to become rough-hewn lengths of timber. She’d been dreaming of her grandmother; she and Jacqueline had been sitting by an open window, sunlight streaming in as they embroidered blue roses onto linen pillowcases.
As Violetta fought the grief that stirred whenever she thought of her grandparent, she recalled that the ceilings at Darringsleigh Keep were whitewashed, not unpainted beams.
You are still at Coltingstow, a guest of Osric Seabrook.
A sharp breath rushing from her, she pushed up to sitting; the blanket that someone had draped over her while she slept tumbled down to puddle at her waist.
She reached to draw the blanket aside and heard a muffled snore. Near the hearth, Osric sprawled in the chair that had previously been at her bedside, his legs spread out before him.
Enticed by his masculine beauty, she studied the man she’d been destined to hate; she’d never dare to be so brazen if he was awake. Eyes closed, he appeared sound asleep, his chin propped on his right hand, his elbow braced on the chair arm, his dark, unruly hair brushing his cheek.
Even relaxed in slumber and cast in the golden glow of firelight, he looked a formidable warrior, an opponent she’d be wise to elude, no matter how hospitable he’d been so far.
She slid her legs over the bed. When she looked to the chamber door, mentally gauging how many steps ’twould take to reach it, she spied the set of crutches leaning against the wall. How kind of Osric to have acquired them for her. But, he wouldn’t have done so if he’d known who she truly was.
Gripping the oak side table with her left hand, she rose. The bed ropes creaked slightly. Hopefully the noise hadn’t woken Osric.
Lifting up her right foot, she readied to hop forward—
“Hold.”
She startled, wobbling on one leg.
Osric’s heavy-lidded gaze locked with hers. Either he was a light sleeper or he’d been pretending to be in a sound slumber.
He stood and crossed to her, his footfalls loud on the planks. He halted in front of her, near enough that she caught his masculine scent: a blend of rosemary, likely from soap he’d used to wash; horse; and fresh summer air. A wildness stirred within her.
“What are you doing?” His voice was little more than a growl.
“Stretching my legs. I mean, leg,” she corrected.
“Why?”
“I…was tired of lying abed, milord.”
“You are healing. Rest is—”
“—something I can do once I am home.” Her voice wavered on the word home, and she silently cursed that she’d betrayed such vulnerability.
“I see. So, if I have this right, you were going to get the crutches, use them to make your way out of the castle and across the drawbridge then through the field until you reached your home, which is somewhere in the town.”
“I was.”
“Without even saying goodbye.”
Oh.
Guilt tugged at her. “You were sound asleep. Snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
“You do. I heard at least one very distinct snort.” When he frowned, she swiftly added: “I did not want to wake you.”
He chortled, a harsh sound that intensified her guilt.
She sighed. “I was taught that a sleeping lord should not be disturbed, unless there is a matter of vital importance that requires his attention. Thus, I decided not to bother you.”
He reached up and tucked hair back behind her right ear, his touch incredibly tender. “I would rather have been woken than slept on only to find out later that you had come to harm while journeying home.”
His gentle tone sent shivers racing through her. “Surely you do not care so much about me.”
“You are my guest.”
“I am…no one of importance.”
He smiled. “I disagree, love.”
Warning tingled at the back of her skull. Before she could reply, Osric’s left arm slid around her waist, and he pulled her in against his warm, muscled body.
Her stunned gaze flickered up to meet his. “Lord Seabrook—”
“I am only trying to help,” he murmured, “since you are supporting all of your weight on one leg.”
How did she tell him she could barely breathe, being so shockingly close to him?
“T-thank you,” she said.
“You can thank me by promising you will not try to get home on your own.”
Violetta averted her gaze. Now she was staring at his mouth. Of all treacherous things, she couldn’t help wondering what ’twould be like to kiss him. No doubt he’d be good at kissing. He had a fine mouth, with full and pleasingly formed lips. If he tasted even half as delicious as he smelled—
“Lettie.”
Right. The promise he wanted. She couldn’t make such a vow, but she could answer in a way ’twould satisfy him for now. “I promise that if faced with such a situation again, I will wake you. And, I will say goodbye.”
His arm around her tightened a fraction. She tried to resist the pull of his embrace, but standing on only one leg, ’twas impossible. She gave in, to press flush against him. Her breasts crushed against his rock-hard torso, the brazen contact both thrilling and intimidating.
“Milord—”
“Mmm?”
“Your arm around me—”
Mischief glinted in his eyes. “’Tis hurting you?”
“Not at all, but….” She could hardly say ’twas improper for a lord to hold an unwed lady so intimately. To him, she was a commoner with whom he could do as he liked.
“My embrace makes you uncomfortable, then?”
She could lie and say nay, but lying in this instance would gain her naught, and she’d already told more falsehoods in the past day than she had in her entire life. “In truth, it does.”
His arm remained around her. “If I may be so bold, are you unsettled because you are frightened of me, or because you have limited experience with men?”
Holy Mother Mary.
Violetta’s mouth gaped.
He laughed, a brazen sound. “I have shocked you.”
Shock didn’t at all encompass what she was feeling. “Why do you ask me such questions?”
He shrugged, and his chest muscles shifted and flexed against her with a most tantalizing friction. “I am merely curious.”
She struggled to keep a clear mind. Between his enticing scent and scandalous embrace, she could easily surrender to the temptation to kiss him—but she mustn’t. “Do you ask such questions of all women?”
“Only the privileged ones.”
Privileged. The word implied he knew she was a noblewoman.
Icy coldness pooled in the pit of Violetta’s stomach, but defiance stirred too, insisting she must keep up her deception until she had no other option. “If you mean that I am privileged to have been rescued and cared for, you are absolutely right. If you had not found me, I might still be in the tunnel.” She shuddered. “I could have been there for days.”
His breath stirred the hair falling over her forehead. “’Tis not quite what I meant.”
“W-whatever you meant, milord, the answer to your first question is nay. I am not frightened of you.”
“I am glad, for—”
“I would like you to release me not because I am inexperienced with men—I was betrothed once—but because we barely know one another. We only met for the first time last night.”
Still, he didn’t withdraw his arm.
He dipped his head slightly, and his lips touched her brow in the lightest of kisses; the heat of his kiss curled around her heart. “If I understand your answer correctly, love, you are not an innocent maiden?”
Violetta’s pulse lurched. While she hadn’t lain with Melwin—young ladies were to remain virgins until married—she wasn’t completely innocent. She’d kissed him in a secluded part of Darringsleigh Keep’s garden the last three times he’d visited. Judging by his groans during and dazed expression afterward, he’d enjoyed their kissing immensely, although she’d found herself wishing for something a bit more awe-inspiring.
Her betrothed had been a handsome and chivalrous young man, however, and she’d rationalized that kissing would become more thrilling once she’d gained more practice—although those hopes had shattered when she’d received the sad news of his mortal injury. She’d wept not just for the man she’d lost, but for what might have been between them.
Osric was clearly waiting for her answer. But, did he have a right to know about her prior experiences? Such revelations would be disrespectful to her late betrothed. Meeting Osric’s gaze, she said: “Your question about my innocence, milord, is both bold and personal.”
He didn’t even blink. “Aye.”
“I would rather not answer it.”
“I hope you will, for my sake.”
“Your sake?” Whatever did he mean?
His mouth slowly ticked up at the corner. “Knowing whether another man has a claim to you, love…. Well, it just might keep me from doing something rash.”
***
Osric could hardly believe what he was saying, but he did want to know if she belonged to another. While her betrothed had died last autumn, she could have become engaged again; the news may not have been made public yet.
Hellfire, he had to know.
Her eyes shimmered with uncertainty. Determined to coax the truth out of her, Osric trailed the fingers of his free hand down her cheek.
Her long lashes fluttered, acknowledgment of his caress, but still, the uncertainty lingered.
“I have had suitors,” she blurted, sounding breathless.
He fought a pang of jealousy. “As I expected of one so lovely.”
She turned her head so his hand lost contact with her skin. “Please. Release me.”
“I will. But, tell me: You said you were once betrothed.”
Sadness shadowed her features. “I was, but am no longer.”
Relief washed through Osric. “No suitor holds your affections?”
“Nay.” She frowned. “That does not mean I can be wooed, even by you.”
He longed to point out that most women of humble birth would be overjoyed to know they’d caught a lord’s interest, but at that moment, her stomach growled.
“I guess I am hungry,” she said with a sheepish laugh.
Osric mentally kicked himself for being so caught up in his lust for her that he’d neglected her wellbeing. “We must get you some fare, then. Can you get to the chair by the fire?”
She assessed the distance between the table and the hearth. “I can, if you will get me the crutches.”
Fetching the crutches would mean leaving her standing on a leg that must be tired by now. Osric bent, slid his arm under her knees, and scooped her up in his embrace. She sucked in a quick breath while her arms went around his neck. “Milord—”
He strode to the hearth and set her down in the
chair.
Looking flustered, she righted her garments. “I could have managed myself with the crutches.”
“Carrying you was faster. Besides, I must get used to having you in my arms.”
“Do I dare ask why?”
Grinning, he crossed to the door, opened it, and ordered one of the guards outside to have fare sent from the kitchens. Then, Osric returned to the hearth. He leaned one shoulder against the stone mantel as she stared up at him expectantly.
“Well? Will you honor me with an answer to my question?”
“I will.”
When he delayed divulging more, she scowled. “’Tis not fair of you to keep me wondering.”
In the flickering firelight, her hair glimmered as though painted with gold. Glossy strands trailed against her neck and tempted him to brush them aside, but the way his body burned after having her in his arms, he’d be wise to keep his distance. “I have been thinking about exploring the tunnel,” he finally said.
“And?”
“You can accompany me, if you wish.”
Her face lit with joy. “Really?”
“Really.”
She appeared more delighted than if he’d handed her a chest filled with jewels.
“With the crutches, you should be able to move around as you like belowground. If not, I will carry you.”
“’Tis a most chivalrous offer.”
He wasn’t being entirely selfless. He remembered, from when he’d rescued her, that part of the tunnel continued onto her father’s estate. ’Twould be best to have Violetta with him in case they were discovered by her sire’s men and Osric needed to negotiate his way out of being taken hostage.
Her brow furrowed with a frown. “I will need help getting down into the tunnel.”
“You will hold onto me, love, while my men lower us down by rope.”
She hesitated, mayhap because his suggestion meant they’d be intimately pressed against one another once again, but then nodded. “A fine plan.”
“I am pleased you agree.” How bloody ironic, that a Seabrook and a Molineaux found themselves in agreement.
A Knight and His Rose Page 6