A Time for Love

by Lynn Kurland

  “You, my lady,” he said, continuing to stand there as if he hadn’t anything more pressing to do than argue with her, “will use the pot.”

  “Robin, you great oaf,” she said in exasperation, “I am not one of your men to be ordered about!”

  “Would that you were! ’Twould make this all much simpler!”

  She poked at him with the dagger. “Move and do it now. I’ve no more time nor breath to waste on you. Even you should be able to recognize the difference between your father’s bedchamber and your tent on a battlefield.”

  “Aye,” he returned in irritation, “my father’s chamber has a pot! Were you in my army, you’d be standing behind a tree!”

  Robin of Artane was gruff, irritating, hopelessly rude. And he was lacking in the most basic principles of chivalry. Anne decided that it was futile to waste any more breath on him. She tossed his dagger at him point first and pushed past him while he was trying to fend it off. She crossed the chamber as quickly as her battered form would allow only to find Robin blocking the door before her. She glared at him.

  “Robin—”

  He looked at her, then slowly held up his hand in surrender. “I have no liking for this—”

  “I care nothing for what you do or do not like.”

  “But if you are determined—”

  “Very.”

  He sighed. “You are the most stubborn woman I have ever had the misfortune of—”

  She pushed him aside before he could finish. He pushed readily enough, which made her realize that it had no doubt been something he’d allowed. Had he planned to thwart her, he would have been as immovable as stone.

  He caught the door with his hand and stopped her before she could open it fully.

  “At least let me come with you and keep watch,” he said quietly. “Then should someone attack, you will be safe.”

  She looked up at him.

  And then she wished she hadn’t.

  His expression was grave, but it wasn’t the gravity a man wore like a shield when he faced a distasteful business or considered an unpleasant turn of events. His concern was plain to the eye—even her eye. His gray eyes seemed almost black in the torchlight and his weariness was easily seen. It would have been easy enough for him to send her on her way and abscond with her place on the bed.

  Yet there he stood, ready to guard her on her journey to the garderobe.

  “Robin, it isn’t as if we’re walking into a pitched battle,” she said, beginning to feel slightly ridiculous.

  “And if we are, Lady Anne, ’tis my privilege to protect you.”

  And with that, he took her hand and pulled her out the door behind him.

  Anne followed him, trying to dredge up the loathing she’d felt for him the night before. She dug deep for any shred of anger or irritation she’d felt over the past fortnight. Fortunately, as her body protested each and every movement she made, she had no trouble rediscovering any of those feelings.

  But struggling mightily to fight its way through the press of hurt and anger was a tiny feeling of something very quiet and very precious.

  It was his privilege to protect her.

  The words softened her heart and his actions warmed her soul.

  It was rather unsettling, on the whole.

  And then there was the feeling of his hand holding hers so securely behind his back. Mayhap he wanted no one to see what he did. ’Twas also likely that perhaps he feared being seen doing the like with her would shame him. But he didn’t release her until he had seen her safely inside her destination. And he took hold of her hand again the moment she had come back out into the passageway.

  “My lord Robin!”

  Anne found herself crushed between the passageway wall and Robin’s substantial self so quickly, she lost her breath. She heard Robin’s sword come from its sheath with a purposeful hiss. Then she felt him relax.

  “Jason, by the saints,” Robin snapped, “do not steal up thusly!”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but the lady Amanda sends word that she is weary of her confinement.”

  Robin sighed deeply, then resheathed his sword. He turned and looked at Anne.

  “Still breathing?” he asked.

  “Barely,” she wheezed.

  He sighed, and put his arm around her. “Jason, fetch Amanda and Isabelle to my father’s chamber. Have Miles come too.”

  Anne found herself escorted carefully back to Artane’s bedchamber where she was made comfortable in a chair while Robin saw to the fire. He said nothing, and he apologized not at all for squeezing her yet again between himself and an unyielding surface. Perhaps he was becoming too accustomed to doing the like. Anne watched him as he worked, his strong hands steady and sure as they tended the fire. Whatever else his flaws, she couldn’t deny that he was infinitely capable of protecting her.

  He finished with his task, brushed his hands off, and sat back on his heels. He looked at her.

  “I need to train,” he said, “and I have the business of the keep to see to.”

  “I know.”

  He frowned. “I hadn’t planned to leave you at all, but I can see now that isn’t possible.”

  “Of course.”

  “I will return, Anne.”

  She found that she could do nothing but nod. She knew she should have been telling him to keep himself gone as long as possible, that she had no desire to see him again, nor did she need his protection.

  But that little feeling of softness toward him was beginning to work a foul work upon her common sense. She was almost swayed enough by it to thank him for his efforts.

  “I’ll see food sent,” he continued. “Need you something to occupy your hands?”

  “I suppose so,” she said. “Since you won’t be here to throttle.”

  But she found that she couldn’t even manage any venom to deliver with that last sting. Robin looked unimpressed and rose with a half-hearted snort.

  “I’ll find you your sewing,” he said. “And if that doesn’t distract you, you’ll have my sister to listen to for the morn. By the saints, you can hear her complaining already!”

  There was truth in that. Anne had no trouble hearing nor understanding Amanda, likely because Robin figured so prominently in her slander and those were words Anne had used more than once herself.

  The door burst open and Amanda swept inside. “I will not be kept prisoner in my own house!” she exclaimed. She stomped over to Robin and poked him in the chest. “And you’ll not keep Anne here either, you fool! Have you no thought for the gossip you’ve caused already?”

  Anne watched Robin grit his teeth. She looked down. His hands were clenched as well—never a good sign.

  “My duty is to protect her,” he said tightly. “And if that means keeping her prisoner in my chamber, then that is what I shall do.”

  “I could likely protect her with more skill than you—”

  “Amanda,” Anne interrupted with a gasp.

  “Well,” Amanda said, with an amazing amount of bluster, considering whom she had just insulted. “I could.”

  Anne looked at Robin, wondering if he would take a blade to his sister and prove her wrong. There was one thing a body didn’t do and live to tell of it and that was insult Robin of Artane’s skill with a blade. Rumors of his bastards might have reached her ears with questionable accuracy. Tales of his defending his abused honor rang true with every word.

  But Robin was either weary from his night in the chair, or he was trying to impress them all with his calm. He merely unclenched his hands, wriggled his jaw a time or two as if he sought to relieve a cramp there, then took a deep breath.

  “Sister,” he said with admirable restraint, “I have sworn to keep Anne safe. I will not have her blood on my hands when there is aught I can do to save her life. And if that means keeping her in my chamber from matins to lauds and every hour of prayer in between, then that is what I will do!”

  “Ha,” Amanda said, with a scowl. “But my blood you would likel
y wash off those hands readily enough.”

  “Would I?”

  “Aye, you likely would!”

  Anne watched the exchange with fascination. Robin and Amanda had ever been at each other with words and pokes of stiff fingers, and she had oft wondered if it might come to bloodshed some day. But somehow this time the game had turned entirely more serious and she couldn’t help but wonder about the outcome.

  “Then, sister, you know me not at all,” Robin said quietly, “for I would not have your blood on my hands either if there were aught I could do to protect you.”

  And with that, he grasped Amanda by the shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed her gently on the forehead.

  And then he strode from the chamber.

  Anne looked at Amanda. Her foster sister’s jaw fair rested upon her chest. Anne couldn’t help the laugh that seemed to come from a very tender portion of her heart. By the saints, Robin could be sweet when he willed it. And to leave Amanda speechless? Now, that was a feat worthy of a minstrel’s best efforts.

  “The oaf,” Amanda managed finally. She looked at Anne. “Did you see what he did?”

  Anne smiled. “I did.”

  Amanda scowled. “Bloody wretch. He’s a fool if he thinks that will keep me in this chamber for the whole of the day.”

  But Anne noted that Amanda sat without further comment and she didn’t complain about her confinement. And when Miles arrived with food and stitchery, Amanda accepted the both with no disparaging remarks about her eldest sibling.

  Anne took up her stitchery but her heart wasn’t in it. She finally put it in her lap and stared blindly into the chamber, reliving the morning’s events and wondering mightily over them.

  It had been, she decided finally, a most exceptional morn.

  She could scarce wait to see what the evening might bring.

  It was very late in the day when Robin returned and shooed his siblings out of the chamber. Anne rose with difficulty only to find herself almost plowed over by men bringing in a large wooden tub. Water followed and she was treated to several looks of frank speculation that she had trouble ignoring. She could feel her face flaming and she lifted her chin in answer to their challenge. She had done nothing amiss. Besides, ’twas no affair of anyone’s what she did or where she slept. As if Artane’s servants would actually believe she had shared Robin’s bed!

  She was, however, very relieved when the men were gone and Robin had bolted the door behind him. She shook her head regretfully at the sorry state of her life. She was locked inside a chamber with one of the realm’s fiercest warriors, a tub of bathing water sat not five paces from her, yet she was relieved to be free of potential rescuers?

  By the saints, she was losing her mind.

  “Make haste while the water is hot,” Robin said, startling her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Get in,” Robin said, gesturing toward the tub.

  She could only gape at him, speechless.

  Robin rolled his eyes. “I want you to bathe, Anne. You’re stiff and sore; your muscles will benefit from it.”

  Anne had taken her share of baths, under protest of course until she had seen the benefit of it for her leg, but bathe in front of Robin of Artane?

  Not even should the Fires of Hell themselves be warming the water from beneath the tub and several demons be prodding her toward the bath with their forked tails.

  Anne looked for a place of refuge. Well, the bed had served her well enough the night before. She set her sights on that haven and made her way toward it. She soon found, however, that Robin had somehow gotten in her way. She moved ungracefully to one side only to find him again before her. He reached for her and she slapped his hands away.

  “What do you?” she demanded.

  “I am endeavoring to aid you. Can you lift your arms? Nay? Bend over, then, and I’ll pull your dress off you as gently as I can.”

  Anne could hardly believe what she was hearing. “I am not bathing in front of you, you imbecile!”

  “I can tell you are stiff, Anne. ’Tis nothing I wouldn’t do for one of my men.”

  “I am not one of your men!” She had the overwhelming urge to clout him on the head and bring sense back to him. “You are not removing my clothes,” she spluttered. “Especially in front of yourself!”

  He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. “I’ll turn my back and you can do it.”

  “I don’t trust you!”

  He flinched, as surely as if she’d slapped him. Anne felt a sudden surge of regret, but that left quickly enough at his next words.

  “Why would I stir myself to gape at you, Anne?” he said angrily. “You said yourself that no man would want you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes at the words that felt more like a blow. But before she could decide if she should walk or run from the chamber, she found herself with Robin’s hands on her shoulders.

  “Anne,” he said, “by the saints . . .”

  Anne held herself stiffly away from him. Mayhap ’twas better that there be no mystery regarding his feelings for her. If he truly found her so revolting—

  But if that were the case, then why was he trying to pull her into his arms?

  She watched as he took her hands from off his chest, opened her arms, and stepped closer to her. He gently released her hands, then with a tenderness she could hardly credit him with, put his arms around her and drew her close. Anne was so surprised by it all, she couldn’t find her wits to move.

  And then she felt his hand skim hesitantly over her hair.

  It was her undoing.

  She knew she should have still been angry with him. She knew she had just cause to keep the fires of her hurt burning long into the rest of her life.

  But she also couldn’t deny that she had likely hurt him just as intensely.

  She wondered if there would ever be a time in their lives when they might have speech together without some kind of altercation marring it. And hard on the heels of that thought came the one that troubled her most: was there even a point in worrying about that? For all she knew, she would be packed off to some uncaring lord and never see Robin again.

  The feeling of Robin’s hand on her hair slowly and surely caught her attention through her miserable thoughts. She sighed lightly. There was no use in fretting over her future. Perhaps she would be far better served to think on her present. Besides, how often did she find herself in Robin of Artane’s arms, with both of them silent?

  And then there was the hesitancy of his touch.

  As if he truly sought to be gentle with her.

  She very slowly, and very carefully, turned her head and laid her ear against his chest. Robin gathered her more securely to him and she felt him sigh. His cheek came to rest on top of her head. He made no move, said no word. He simply stroked her hair and held her close. Anne closed her eyes against the sting there. Even so, she couldn’t stop a tear or two from leaking out.

  And then a feeling washed over her so strongly that she could scarce stand through it once she realized what it was.

  She had come home.

  She stood for several minutes with him exactly thusly, until she knew that the feeling of being in Robin’s arms was forever burned into her soul.

  And then she felt him stir and knew the moment was gone. But that mattered not; she could recall it now at any time.

  She pulled back and looked up at him. For the first time in years, gone was the roughness in his expression, gone was the mask he wore, the one he likely believed protected his heart. She looked at a man who returned her look with an expression that though it might not have been considered gentle by some, was gentle enough for her.

  “I didn’t mean . . .” he began, then he shut his mouth and tightened his lips, as if he had already said more than he intended.

  “Nor did I,” she said quietly.

  He pursed his lips, but a hint of a smile escaped just the same. “Perhaps you shouldn’t trust me, Anne. Many a beautiful woman
has been ravished in her bath.”

  “But I’m not—”

  A large hand was suddenly over her mouth.

  “Enough,” he said simply. “Go soak before the water cools so much that it no longer serves you.”

  She escaped his hand. “And you’ll be outside, I take it?”

  “You may need my help—”

  “Robin!”

  “Anne, I give you my most solemn word of honor that I will not look at you whilst you bathe.”

  She scowled at him.

  He sighed. “I’ll hide within the bed curtains. Will that soothe your maidenly reserve?”

  She folded her arms over her chest.

  “Bloody hell, I’ll tie a cloth over my eyes!”

  “Well,” she said slowly, “that might suffice me.”

  “I’ve given you my word,” he reminded her.

  And Robin was as good as his word. That much she could never doubt of him.

  Besides, hadn’t she said she trusted him? She had to have meant it or she wouldn’t have said it. Or so she told herself as she watched Robin cloister himself inside the bed hangings. She watched the bed for several minutes, just to assure herself that he wouldn’t pop out to see how she fared. Once she was convinced he would remain where he was supposed to, she turned and limped over to the tub. He was right about the benefits of a good soak. With any luck at all, she might have a bit of time to contemplate what had just transpired between them.

  It felt like a bit of a truce.

  She stripped off her clothes, biting her lip to keep from groaning as she did so. She sighed as she saw the bruises covering her body. It was a wonder Robin hadn’t broken half her bones with the way he had thrown himself atop her. She couldn’t deny, though, that he surely hadn’t meant to hurt her, nor could she deny that he certainly had saved her life. That was worth, perhaps, a bit of forgiveness. She eased herself down into the tub and a groan escaped her before she could stop it.

  “Anne, are you hurt?”

  “Nay,” she said quickly. “I am well.”

  Robin’s gasp was harsh in the stillness of the chamber. “Merciful saints above, what have you done to yourself?”