Always

by Lynsay Sands

  "Wrong?" Shrewsbury didn't look pleased at that thought.

  "Aye," Rosamunde assured him firmly. "You are not supposed to kill Aric. That is why the drowning in the river and the pin in Black's saddle failed. Aric and Rosamunde are supposed to remain married."

  "Aric?" He looked confused for a moment, then peered blankly at the man he had tied to the bed and muttered, "Oh, aye." Then his eyes widened and he gasped in horror. "Oh, nay. Nay! That cannot be. They will bear fruit and spread their devil-spawn across the land. Nay." Straightening abruptly, he shook his head. "Nay. That was not God intervening again, 'twas Satan."

  Wonderful! Rosamunde thought impatiently. God stopping his attacks on her he could believe, but God stopping his attacks on Aric he could not? That had to be Satan's work. She was so put out by his reasoning that she almost missed the fact that she had moved close enough to the bed to slip Aric her dirk. She quickly did so now.

  "Aye, it was Satan interfering. And he probably sent you here to tempt me again," Shrewsbury charged bitterly, drawing her attention back to him. "Always to tempt me. To tempt me to give up my own vows as you did yours. To tempt me to be a sinner like you. To tempt me to--"

  "Oh, stuff it, Bishop," Rosamunde snapped, her patience with the drivel he was spouting breaking now that she had gotten the dirk to Aric.

  Rosamunde had inherited her father's temper along with his hair color. And after the stress and strain of the last couple of months--leaving the abbey, the only home she had ever known, adjusting to married life, her husband's jealous outbursts, her father's death, and the attacks on herself and then on Aric--she was understandably frazzled. Or had been. Today's events had, unfortunately, pushed her past frazzled to furious. Rosamunde felt as if she had aged ten years in just this one morning. Between the fear and anxiety she had suffered while Aric was missing, and her outrage and pain as she had waited outside the cottage listening to Shrewsbury not only confess to murdering her mother, but call her everything from sinner to whore on top of that. Frankly, she had had enough, and the temper her father had been infamous for was rearing its ugly red head.

  Shrewsbury blinked at her briefly, then drew himself up. "I--"

  "I do not want to hear it!" Rosamunde interrupted sharply. "I am sick unto death of listening to you go on about what a sinner my mother was and how she tempted you! She was not the sinner. You are!" She grimaced with distaste. "Standing about outside the cottage and gawking in here, watching them in their intimate moments like some depraved satyr! It probably excited you, spying on them like that. But that was not my mother's fault!"

  "She--" Shrewsbury began, flushing bright red, but Rosamunde interrupted him again.

  "She loved my father. She was not some whore who bedded everyone; she loved only my father. And you killed her. Murdered her. And even I, daughter of 'Rosamunde the whore' and Henry the 'spawn of the devil,' know that that is a sin. You are the one who is Satan's agent!"

  Sick of even looking at the man now, Rosamunde whirled on her husband impatiently. "Have you not gotten yourself untied yet?"

  Aric blinked as he gazed up at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes spitting fire, her chest heaving with her anger. In short, she was magnificent. And while he had managed to cut through the bonds of one wrist by holding the knife awkwardly between it and his flesh, it was slow going.

  "Almost," he told her, holding his free hand up for her to see.

  "Well, hurry--" Rosamunde began, her words ending in a gasp of surprise as Aric suddenly used his free hand to thrust her aside. Distracted though she was by trying to keep her feet, Rosamunde did catch a glimpse of the problem as she stumbled toward the end of the bed. Aric had been pushing her out of the way of a lunging Shrewsbury. Catching herself on the bottom bedpost, she glanced back in time to see Aric roll toward his still-bound hand and out of the way of the bishop's dagger. It slashed harmlessly into the bed, but his thrust had been meant for her, she realized. Her hand tightened on the ax still hidden in her skirts as she watched Shrewsbury straighten and whirl toward her.

  He looked pretty mad. The angry kind, not just the crazy kind, Rosamunde thought, some of her anger slipping away, replaced by momentary fear.

  "Go," Aric shouted at her, sawing furiously at his still-bound hand with the dirk she had given him. "Get out of here, Rosamunde! Run!"

  Rosamunde's fear fled as quickly as it had come at her husband's bellow. He did like to bellow a lot, she thought irritably. And he enjoyed ordering her about far too much. And just exactly what sort of woman did he take her for if he thought she should flee, leaving him here tied up and helpless? Well, half-tied, anyway, she corrected herself as his second hand came free and he sat up, reaching to start working on the ropes around his ankles. He was her husband. They were a team, in this together, she thought with satisfaction, raising the ax she had been shielding with her skirts and grimly facing Shrewsbury.

  The bishop froze as he saw the weapon, his gaze shooting to the dagger he held. Apparently he didn't like the odds, for he stumbled to the side suddenly, and Rosamunde was just feeling triumph rise within her, thinking he was fleeing, when he stopped at the fireplace and grabbed a log. Picking it up by an end that was not yet ablaze, he held it up, smiling at the torch he now held.

  "Wonderful," Rosamunde muttered as he started toward her.

  "Jesu!" she heard Aric say as he paused in his sawing to glance around. "Rosamunde! My sword!"

  "Well, at least he has stopped trying to get me to leave," she muttered under her breath, eyeing Shrewsbury as he approached.

  "My sword, Rosamunde! Grab my sword!"

  "I am a bit busy at the moment, husband," she snapped tartly, then dove to the side as Shrewsbury swung his torch at her head. The fiery club slammed into the bed post, its flames catching at the bed drapes. Old, withered, and shredded with time, the cloth went up with a whoosh. Flames quickly shot upward, encompassing all of the drapes above the bed even as it started a slow, but still dangerous descent toward the bed and Aric, who had freed one leg but was still working on his other.

  Distracted by her worry for her husband, Rosamunde was too slow to get out of the way of Shrewsbury's next blow. It was only her instincts that saved her. Raising the ax, she used it to block the blow, wincing as the torch and the ax met in the air in front of her face and sparks flew in all directions. They bit at her hands and face, and burned holes into her gown. Ignoring the stinging pain, Rosamunde concentrated on the matter at hand as Shrewsbury pulled the torch away and swung again. This time he brought it down toward her head.

  Crying out, Rosamunde shifted her hands on the ax as she raised it, holding each end in one hand as she again blocked the blow. Again there were sparks, but this time they showered down over her like rain. Painful rain. Closing her eyes, she turned her face away, then forced herself just as quickly to look at him again as she felt the weight of the torch lift from her ax. He was swinging back for another blow, she saw, and grimly prepared to meet it. But it never came. Just as he started to bring it forward, his chest seemed to shudder, his eyes widened incredulously, and his burning cudgel then slid from his fingers to the ground. In the next moment, he had collapsed to the ground atop it, and Rosamunde was left staring at Aric.

  Lifting his gaze from the dead man, he met her eyes as he lowered his bloodied sword. Stepping forward, he caught her close and pressed his face into her neck. "Oh, God, Rosamunde, if he had killed you--" Pulling back slightly, he cut his own words off by covering her mouth with his and kissing her desperately.

  It was beginning to get a tad hot in the cottage by the time he broke the kiss. They both glanced around to see that the bed was completely in flames, the fire spreading quickly across the floor. Added to that, Bishop Shrewsbury had landed upon the log he had used as a weapon, and the lit end and his dry robes had made him a human torch.

  "Come. Let us get out of here." Holding her close to his side, he guided her quickly from the cottage and out into the fresh air.

  "Aric!"


  Moving a safe distance away from the burning building, Aric and Rosamunde watched Robert Shambley and Lord Burkhart hurry from the trees and rush forward to meet them.

  "Thank God you are all right!" Lord Burkhart said, pausing before them and looking them both over quickly before turning to frown at the inferno the cottage had become. "What happened?"

  Aric shrugged the question away. "I shall explain later. How did you find us?"

  His father turned back with a grimace. "Well, when I told Rosamunde that I had seen you heading out into the gardens with the bishop, that news seemed to upset her. She rushed off before I could ask why, but I had a bad feeling, so I deposited your sisters back in their rooms and sought out Shambley."

  "We had no clue where to look at first," Shambley continued. "We were checking every path until we saw the smoke rising over the trees. We knew instinctively then that if we found the source of the fire, we would find the two of you. Trouble does appear to follow you lately," he pointed out wryly as Aric arched an eyebrow in question.

  "Aye, it has seemed to," he agreed with a sigh, then glanced down at Rosamunde. He hugged her a little closer before adding, "But no more."

  Shambley's eyes widened at the way the couple smiled at each other, then frowned as he noticed his friend's raw wrists. "What happened?" he asked; then his eyes widened. "Where is Bishop Shrewsbury?"

  Aric glanced toward the inferno that used to be the cottage. "In there."

  "In there?" Robert followed his gaze, shook his head slowly, then glanced sharply back toward Aric. "Surely he was not truly behind all the trouble?"

  "Aye. He was. The man was quite mad." Aric shook his head and opened his mouth to say more, but paused when his gaze landed on Rosamunde and he noticed the small burn holes in her gown and the small blisters freckling her hands and face. "I shall explain it all later," he decided. "For now, I think I should get Rosamunde back to our chamber. She has had quite enough excitement today."

  He started to usher her back toward the castle then, but they had just reached the edge of the trees when Aric's father called out. Glancing back to see the older man hurrying after them, they paused to wait for him.

  "Son," the older man began as he reached them, then grimaced. "I need to talk to you about something. Something that has been bothering me."

  "Can it not wait?" Aric asked with a frown.

  "Aye, but I am afraid you will hear the truth before I can explain," he said unhappily. Rosamunde placed a hand gently on Aric's arm, drawing his gaze.

  "It is all right," she murmured. "I am fine."

  Nodding, Aric glanced back to Lord Burkhart. "What is it, Father?"

  "Well..." Shifting uncomfortably, he sighed. "It is about all I told you about your mother."

  Aric arched his eyebrows. "Aye?"

  "Aye." Lord Burkhart grimaced again, then confessed, "Well, I thought at the time that what I said was for the best, but it has occurred to me since that you may hear the truth elsewhere." Sighing, he shook his head. "About your mother--"

  "Father," Aric interrupted quietly. "It does not matter."

  "Nay?" Lord Burkhart looked uncertain.

  "Nay. Whatever she did, she is dead now. Rosamunde is not my mother. Nor is she Delia. Confusing her with other women was my mistake. Rosamunde is Rosamunde. A gift to me from God and our king. And I shall treasure her until the end of my days."

  "Oh," Rosamunde said softly, tears sparkling in her eyes.

  "I see." Lord Burkhart cleared his throat and turned away to blink rapidly against a suspicious moisture in his eyes. He watched Shambley walk toward them, then murmured, "Well, I am glad to hear it, son. Rosamunde is a jewel, and I am proud of you for not allowing the past to affect your future."

  "Who are you talking to?" Robert asked curiously as he reached his side.

  Burkhart scowled at the younger man, then turned to gesture toward Aric and his young wife. The couple was gone. They had left while his back was turned.

  "Never mind," he muttered, starting toward the trees now himself. "Come, we should inform someone of the bishop's death--and get someone to put out that fire."

  "I do not think your father was quite finished," Rosamunde murmured as Aric rushed her back through the gardens.

  "Aye, well, he can finish later." Pausing as they reached the castle, he opened the door, then urged her inside and toward their room. Both of them remained silent until they had reached their chamber. Aric ushered her inside, then turned to close the door. When he turned around, it was to find Rosamunde digging around in her bags.

  "Sit you on the bed," she instructed as she straightened with a small bag in hand.

  Aric hesitated briefly by the door, then shrugged and moved to do as she said, settling himself and waiting patiently as she poured water from a pitcher into a bowl, then dipped a cloth in it and moved toward him.

  "Now hold out your arms," she ordered, setting the bowl on the floor at his feet and taking one of the hands he held out to begin cleaning his wounds.

  Aric watched her work, noting her frown with interest. "What are you thinking?"

  Her mouth tightened slightly. "I am thinking it is a good thing that the bishop is dead, else I would surely rake him over the coals for this," she muttered as she finished cleaning the wrist and began to wrap it. "Does it hurt very much?"

  "Not much at all," he assured her with gentle amusement as she turned her attention to the other wrist. "What of you?"

  Her eyes slid to his in surprise. "Me? What do you mean?"

  Using his free hand he gently brushed her cheek, running a finger over the small sprinkling of red spots and blisters there from the sparks from Shrewsbury's torch. "Do they hurt?"

  "Nay." She shook her head, concentrating again on his wrist. "They shall heal quickly."

  "As will my wrists," he murmured, grabbing her hands as she finished bandaging him and would have moved away.

  Still clutching the now bloodstained cloth she had used to clean the wounds on his wrists, Rosamunde peered at him questioningly.

  "You disobeyed me...again," he said quietly, and Rosamunde's eyes widened at the solemn pronouncement, then narrowed warily as he went on. "I distinctly recall telling you to wait here in the room for my return. But you did not do that, did you?"

  "Oh, well,..." Rosamunde's gaze began dancing around the room behind where he sat, but jerked back to him when he drew her between his legs until her knees bumped against the bed.

  "Nay," he interrupted firmly. "You did not do what I asked."

  Reaching up, he began to undo the ties of her gown. "Instead you left the room and came in search of me, even managing to save my life in the process. And for that..." He finished with her stays and slid one hand behind her neck to draw her head down toward him.

  "For that I am eternally grateful," he whispered against her lips, then covered her mouth with his own, kissing her at first with gentle tenderness, then with a passion that built quickly to consume them both. Rosamunde was vaguely aware of his hands skimming down over her breasts, across her stomach, then lower over her hips and down the outside of her legs. It wasn't until his hands slid their way back up, his callused fingers caressing her bare flesh, that she realized that he had been removing her gown and undertunic.

  Shuddering under his touch, she moaned into his mouth, her own hands moving to his shoulders to brace her weight. His hand caught and cupped one breast as his tongue delved into her mouth. Pulling his lips away, he kissed a wet trail down her neck, then dropped suddenly to lave the nipple of the breast he cupped. Then he breathed the words, "Thank you for saving my life."

  His words were spoken against her wet skin, his breath warming the damp flesh and making her shudder. Opening her eyes, she watched him continue to lave her breast, then caught her fingers in his hair and urged his head away. When his eyes opened and he peered up at her, she said softly, "Thank you for saving my life, too."

  Smiling, he stood and pulled her into his arms, pressing his bo
dy against hers as he again covered her mouth with his own, his lips strong and searching, until they were both panting and breathless. His hand suddenly dipped between her legs and found her warm, wet heat. She gasped.

  "I need you," he said gruffly against her mouth, then moved his lips to her ear and nibbled there briefly. "Until you arrived in the cottage, I thought I was a dead man. That I would never hold you again, never touch you, taste you--"

  "Hush," Rosamunde murmured gently, hugging him tightly and closing her eyes as his fingers began to move, stimulating a rather urgent sensation inside her. "Husband, I--" she began a bit breathlessly, then moaned as he slid a finger inside her, stretching her gently.

  "Aye?"

  Rosamunde curled her fingers into his tunic, her head turning into the nibbling kisses he was applying to her ear, even as she shifted into his caressing hand. "You have too many clothes on," she muttered in frustration, tugging at the tunic.

  "It is a sin to fornicate unclothed, wife," he teased, then groaned when her hand found him through the cloth of his brais. She squeezed gently at first, then with a stronger grip. "Do that again and I shall--" He bit his words off when she did so again.

  "You shall what?" she taunted, aware of her effect. He grew firm and bulged against the cloth of his brais.

  Growling, Aric bit her ear gently, then used his free hand to push at his brais until his swollen flesh sprang free. Her hand closed around him at once, sliding along its length like a sheath.

  "I feared I had lost you, too," Rosamunde admitted suddenly, her grasp tightening. "I thought--"

  "Shhh," Aric murmured, ensuring her silence by covering her mouth again. He caught her around the waist and lifted her slightly, taking her down onto the bed with him. Nudging her legs apart again, he brushed her hand away and took himself in hand as he shifted between her legs. He brushed himself against her, making her groan.

  "I need you inside me," she said in a moan, wrapping her legs around his hips and attempting to pull him nearer. "Now."