A Knight and His Rose

by Catherine Kean

  “When can we go?” she asked. “Today?”

  “The sun will set soon. We will go on the morrow.”

  She looked disappointed.

  “Do not worry. No one will learn the tunnel’s secrets before us. I have told my captain-of-the-guard to post sentries and that no one is allowed to go down into the passageway.”

  “If I am to be here for yet another day, I really must inform my family.”

  “Aye. Your letter.” Osric pushed away from the wall and crossed to the writing implements on the table. “We can compose the missive while we wait for the food to arrive. How do you wish to start?” He opened the pot of black ink and dipped in the nib of the quill.

  “‘Dearest Father and Mother,’ I suppose.”

  Nodding, Osric set the quill to the parchment and began to write.

  ***

  Osric began to read the finished letter aloud. He truly had the most beguiling voice: richly-toned and mesmerizing.

  Do not fall for him. Never forget that he could destroy you, as well as your family.

  She forced herself to concentrate on the words he was speaking. The letter—intentionally vague—assured her parents that she was safe, but that she’d suffered an injury. She’d insisted they needn’t worry and that she’d be home soon. She’d wanted to say more, but the voice of reason inside her had cautioned she’d disclosed enough for now.

  Finished reading, Osric glanced at her.

  “Perfect. I will sign my name, so they know ’tis truly from me.”

  “You can write your name?”

  Disquiet raced through her.

  “I thought you could not read or write.”

  Had she just given herself away? Violetta scrambled for a good reply. “A lady I knew years ago taught me a few words and how to pen my signature. She believed ’twas important for me to know such, since I sought work in noble households and might have to make formal agreements.”

  While Violetta’s tutor had indeed been a lady, the rest of what she’d just said was utter falsehood. She prayed Osric would believe her.

  He pondered her words and then nodded. Her shoulders lowered on a silent sigh of relief as he brought the missive to her then pushed the bedside table over to her chair. Then he brought her the quill and ink. “Once you have signed, I will seal the missive with wax. Shall I also emboss it with the Seabrook seal?”

  Violetta shook her head. If her father saw the enemy seal, he’d assume she’d been abducted and might attack. She didn’t want Osric or anyone else to be harmed or slain because of her. Far better to admit to her parents where she’d been once she was safely within Darringsleigh’s walls. “Just plain wax will be fine,” she said.

  Once she’d signed the name Lettie—her parents would remember her nickname—Osric rolled up the parchment. “’Twill be sealed and delivered right away. Where should it be sent?”

  “The baker’s shop in the town.”

  His brows rose. “Your father is the baker?”

  “Nay, but he…receives messages via the baker’s shop.”

  Osric’s gaze sharpened, but before she could read his expression, he’d headed for the doorway.

  Just as he reached it, a rap sounded on the door. “Excellent timing,” he said. Opening the panel, he motioned for the maidservant outside to bring in the tray of food she carried. After she’d set it down beside Violetta, he handed the young woman the missive. “This is to be sealed with wax and delivered right away to the town baker.”

  “Aye, milord.” The servant curtsied and hurried out.

  As Osric closed the door, Violetta inhaled the wondrous scents of vegetable pottage and fresh, whole-grain bread.

  “Please. Eat,” he said.

  “There is only one bowl of pottage.”

  “I ate while you were asleep. What is on that tray is for you.”

  When she picked up the earthenware bowl and the spoon, he went to the end of the bed, close to her, and sat.

  She hoped she didn’t drip pottage down her chin and the front of her gown while she ate.

  Violetta spooned up some of the carrots, lentils, and chopped onions in broth. After she’d downed a few bites, Osric said, “Do you remember me telling you of Lady Molineaux, who went missing?”

  The mouthful she’d been in the process of swallowing lodged at the back of her mouth. She grabbed the mug of wine from the tray and drank. Thankfully, the fare went down.

  “I remember,” she said.

  “I thought you might like to know that she has been found.”

  Chapter Six

  Violetta fought to keep her expression neutral. “Lady Molineaux was found? Where?”

  “I do not know the details, but she is safe. My informants tell me Lord Molineaux has called off his search for her.”

  Violetta’s mind reeled. If what Osric said was true, did her sire know she was at Coltingstow Keep? He might be gathering an army to besiege the fortress.

  ’Twas also entirely possible that as soon as her sire and his men ventured onto Seabrook lands, they’d be attacked, imprisoned, or even killed. ’Twould be entirely her fault.

  Another unsettling possibility charged into her thoughts: Osric knew full well who she really was and was holding her hostage—while she believed him fooled by her deception and a guest in his household. She’d only be released once her father had paid an extortionate ransom.

  The unpleasant thoughts made her stomach rebel. She set down the spoon and moved to put the bowl back on the tray, but Osric shook his head. “You must eat.”

  “I have had a few bites; enough for now.”

  Concern touched his gaze. “I regret if speaking of Lady Molineaux has upset you. I am curious, though, why speaking of her should cause you distress. Would you care to explain?”

  She most certainly would not. Ending her ruse would increase the danger to not only herself, but her loved ones. Her predicament was her own doing; she must resolve it—and she must dispel Osric’s suspicions as swiftly as possible. “I am unsettled, milord, because while you said her ladyship is safe, you left a lot unsaid.”

  “Such as?”

  “You did not reveal whether she has been reunited with her family. While she may have been found, she could still be in peril. A prisoner, for example, of one of her father’s rivals, who is demanding a price for her safe return.”

  “Indeed, such things do happen.”

  His expression hadn’t changed. Was he holding her for ransom? Doing her best to keep her voice steady, Violetta asked, “Do you know if she is a hostage?”

  Osric’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not that I have heard.”

  Again, his answer left a great deal unsaid. When silence lagged, apart from the snap and hiss of the fire, she forced down another bite of pottage. She did need to keep up her strength for when she fled the fortress.

  “—for the morrow,” he was saying.

  “Pardon?”

  He chuckled. “I thought your attention had wandered. As I said, you might prefer to talk about plans for the morrow.”

  Oh, but she was looking forward to going belowground. That took priority over returning home, for she must gather as much firsthand information as she could to pass along to her father.

  “We will go to the tunnel early tomorrow morning,” Osric said.

  She nibbled on a piece of bread. “We will need torches.”

  “I have ordered several, along with some spares, in case the tunnel air is damp and the torches do not stay lit.”

  “What about bags, to hold any items we find?”

  “I suppose.”

  The reticence in his voice made her pause. “You do not wish to remove anything from the passageway?”

  “That depends what we find.”

  “If we discover treasure,” she said. “What then?”

  “How did I know you were going to mention treasure?”

  Violetta swallowed the bread she’d been chewing. He was studying her as though he believed her only goal
was to find precious gold and magnificent jewels that she could sell to make a profit. “I mentioned treasure,” she insisted, “because if we do find some, the riches should not be left for unscrupulous men to take and use to further their ambitions.”

  Osric’s eyes narrowed. “What ambitions, exactly?”

  She’d overhead her father and his most trusted men discussing the unrest spreading like a pestilence throughout England. Lords were forsaking their loyalty to King Richard to support his power-hungry younger brother, John Lackland. With the sovereign away in the East, a well-coordinated rebellion could very well succeed in making Lackland king.

  Yet, a commoner—especially a woman—wouldn’t likely be privy to details shared in confidence among noblemen.

  “I heard rumors in the town,” she said. “Talk of a possible uprising.”

  “Details of organized attacks, or—?”

  “Just men discussing the potential for unrest in the coming months.” When Osric’s jaw hardened, she added, “As a loyal subject of the crown, I do not want lost treasure to become a means to pay for a rebellion.”

  “Neither do I. Still, we may not find riches at all—not riches of precious metals and fine jewels. The stone circle is proof that ancient folk lived in this area. Since they likely created the tunnel, the treasure we find may be items they used, like earthenware pots and arrowheads.”

  Peddlers often sold bits of pottery, coins, and other items they’d claimed had come from ruins. “What do you think the tunnel was used for?”

  “My guess? ’Twas part of a burial mound. One long forgotten until you happened upon it by accident.”

  ***

  A keen ache weighed upon Osric. Violetta seemed as enthralled by what they might find as he was; her passion beguiled him. Soon, though, he’d have no choice but to uproot her deception—she couldn’t remain his guest forever—and they’d be enemies again.

  “If ’tis indeed part of a burial site, what will you do?” she asked, while her spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl of pottage.

  He was glad to know she’d almost finished the fare. “If we find human remains, we will leave them where they are. I will inform the town sheriff and would hope the area can be protected. ’Twill likely entail some kind of formal charter ratified by Wiltshire officials and even the crown.”

  “’Tis very kind that you would honor the ancient folk buried on your estate.”

  The admiration in her voice ignited a warm glow within him; he liked that his words had pleased her. “People lived on these lands for centuries before Coltingstow was ceded to my ancestors. The ancient folk had as much right to be here as I do.”

  Smiling, she nodded. After downing the last mouthful of pottage, she set the bowl and spoon back on the tray.

  “Are you still eager to go into the tunnel, even if we encounter the dead?” he asked.

  “Of course I am.”

  “What if we see spirits?”

  Excitement lit her eyes. “I would not be afraid, but intrigued.”

  Obviously no one had tormented her in childhood with stories of the thief said to have perished at the site. Osric still remembered his nightmares in vivid detail; visions of a wailing man, drenched in blood, and with a crushed-in head, chasing him through murky castle passageways.

  If he ever had the misfortune to see such a spirit, he’d probably faint—not at all ideal for a battle-hardened warrior.

  She squinted at him. “Why do you look queasy?”

  “Do I?” His voice had hitched. He cleared his throat.

  “Do you believe we will see ghosts?”

  She was clearly hoping he’d say ‘aye.’ “I have never seen a ghost,” he answered evenly. “I do not know anyone who has. I have to wonder how many of the old tales were started by madmen and drunkards.”

  She brushed breadcrumbs from her skirt. “A few, mayhap, but not all of them.”

  “You told me you have lived in this area all of your life,” he countered. “Have you ever seen a spirit? Has anyone in your family?”

  With a grudging smile, she shook her head.

  “I vow ’tis safe to say we will not meet any ghosts. I do not even know why I brought up the subject.”

  “Dare I say you were concerned I might be squeamish? That I might have a screaming fit and a bout of hysterics?”

  “I gather you are not squeamish, then?”

  She laughed. “Mayhap a little, but I will not scream or become hysterical, I promise.”

  Osric grinned. “What about swooning?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Not likely.”

  “What a brave woman you are.”

  “I like to think so. However, tomorrow could well be the first time I swoon.”

  Now she was teasing him. “You will have your crutches to prop you up.”

  Her gaze turned coy. “You will not rush in to catch me when my eyes flutter closed? I thought knights enjoyed rescuing damsels.”

  “I do, love.” His grin broadened. “You do not have to swoon, though, to be in my arms.”

  The air between them suddenly charged with a potent sense of anticipation. Kiss her. Give in to the white-hot desire crackling in your veins. Osric pressed his hands into the coverlet on the bed to keep from reaching for her. “Speaking of crutches,” he said, “mayhap you should try out the ones I brought.”

  “A wise idea, since I have never used them before.”

  “’Tis not hard.” When she eyed him expectantly, he added, “Many months ago, I twisted my left leg while fighting Saracens. I had to be carried from the battlefield and hobbled around on crutches for nigh a sennight.” He fetched the crutches and, once she was standing, handed them to her.

  “Now, this is a smooth floor.” He moved backward while she tucked one crutch under each arm. “Be careful not to slip on the planks. If these crutches work for you, I will see what can be done to roughen up the bottoms.”

  With the dull thud of wood touching wood, she took a slow but competent step.

  “Well done.” Nodding in encouragement, he moved back another pace.

  “’Tis simple enough.” She continued forward. “I am sure—”

  The right crutch skidded sideways. In his mind, Osric saw her landing hard on her injured ankle. He lunged, slid his arms around her, and hauled her flush against him to break her fall.

  When their bodies touched, Violetta gasped.

  She froze, trembling in his arms, her face barely a breath away from his. Eyes wide, she stared at him, wariness but also hunger in her expression. The right crutch clattered to the floorboards.

  Osric didn’t move to pick it up. He couldn’t. All he wanted—needed—was to be right where he was, holding her.

  “Milord,” she whispered.

  Kiss her, the sinful voice inside him urged. No matter who she is, you have every right, as lord.

  He pressed his lips to hers.

  His senses flooded with exquisite sensations: the warmth of her mouth; the sweet, feminine scent rising from her skin; the softness of her tresses brushing his wrist as his arms tightened around her. Heat whipped through him. He’d kissed many women through the years, but this intoxicating awareness was unlike any he’d ever experienced before.

  As he lifted his mouth from hers, their breaths mingled. Her eyelids remained closed, as though she was still caught up in the kiss. How he wanted to kiss her again, more passionately, more thoroughly, to learn the luscious contours of her mouth, but she might not—

  Her right arm slid around him. Her palm flattened to his back while she rose on tiptoes. Even as he drew in a startled breath, their mouths collided.

  Pleasure.

  A groan of pure, undeniable lust rumbled in his chest. She kissed him deeply, crushed herself against him, her breaths hungry rasps.

  Desire consumed him. All he knew was the incredible taste and touch of her. His lips left hers for an instant, pressed kisses to the corner of her mouth, her chin, her neck, while she quivered in his embrac
e.

  He kissed his way back to her mouth. He never wanted to let her go.

  Never wanted to—

  Voices, outside the chamber, reached Osric. Breaking the kiss, he lifted his head to listen.

  She froze, just as someone rapped on the door.

  A strangled cry warbled from her. He pushed her to arm’s length, and once he knew she’d gotten her balance—by some miracle she’d kept hold of the left crutch—he retrieved the fallen one and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” Her mouth was swollen and red. Her face looked flushed, as though they’d enjoyed a lot more than a few kisses.

  Not a thing he could do about that right now.

  He opened the door.

  “Aye, Crawford?” Osric said, as the man bowed.

  “Forgive my intrusion, milord. A missive just arrived for you.”

  “Fine. Leave it in my solar.”

  The steward shook his head. “I strongly suggest that you read it right away.”

  ***

  Violetta tightened her grip on the crutches and took a careful step. Aye, she’d slipped earlier, but her entire body itched to move. She couldn’t stand idle while Osric talked with his man named Crawford.

  She’d recognized the surname. The Crawfords had served as stewards at Coltingstow for years. Crawfords, doubtless from the same family, were stewards at several other castles in Wiltshire.

  She’d never met any of them, though. At eight years old, she’d been sent away from home to become a ward of her father’s youngest brother, and had lived at his fortress until her return last summer, when she’d moved back to Darringsleigh to finish preparations for her wedding—arrangements that had to be cancelled upon Melwin’s death.

  Whenever she’d gone into the town, she’d been escorted by guards who had ensured no one got close to her. Her father had pointed out Anson Crawford to her one day at a tournament most of the local folk had attended, but hopefully, that one instance wasn’t enough for the man to recognize her now, especially when she wore common garb.

  Still, Violetta avoided facing the doorway and kept her head down.

  Step number six. Step number seven.

  ’Twas not easy to keep her mind from those wondrous kisses.