Roger's Bride

by Sarah Hegger

  She had fire and heart, and the life she planned for herself would have that pulled from her and stamped into dust.

  “Do not send me back to Anglesea.” She came to stand before him. “I can help you find Matty and I can help you bring her round.”

  Roger had no idea why, but he nodded and rose. “Let us get started. The day looks to be turning cold.”

  * * * *

  Kathryn tugged her chemise sleeves over her hands. Dear God, she was cold. A nasty wind came in from the east and gusted for the entire day. Moisture streamed from her eyes and froze on her cheeks.

  She rode in Roger’s wake, her head ducked to keep out of the worst of the wind. If she uttered one complaint, she had no doubt he would turn south and see them back to Anglesea as fast as he could.

  He kept them off the main roads, and stuck close to the trees. It took longer, but it did provide some shelter from the gnawing wind. Around midday he stopped and consulted with her on direction before they set off again. They kept to a walk so as not to tire the horses.

  The long day slid into a frigid evening. By the time they stopped for the night, Kathryn’s limbs had frozen in the saddle. Pressing her lips together to stop her groan, she tumbled off Striker. Icy shards of pain shot up her legs, and she took a moment to breathe deep, and breathe again.

  Roger, preoccupied with his mount, blessedly did not notice.

  She rubbed Striker’s legs with her cloak and tethered him deeper into the trees to keep him out of the wind. Roger worked beside her, also caring for his beast first. Thank the Lord, she no longer hid from him and a warm fire would help them through the night.

  While Roger unpacked their blankets, Kathryn gathered wood for their fire. Clumsy and near frozen solid with the cold, her fingers scrabbled on the wood.

  “Here.” Roger frowned and took the wood from her hands. He dropped it and cradled her hands between his palms. Shaking his head, he chaffed her hands. “You should have said you were near ice.”

  Hot prickles shot through her hands as he worked. Through chattering teeth, she tried to form words.

  Roger softened as he looked at her. The cold turned his cheeks ruddy. “You are a stubborn woman, Lady Kathryn.”

  “I am not a delic-c-cate f-flower.”

  He chuckled and blew hot breath onto her aching fingers. “Nay? But you are a frozen bloom.” When color returned to her fingers he sat her on a fallen tree trunk, and got to work on the fire. Deft, efficient movements soon had small flames eating up the kindling and licking about the larger wood. He took a fur-lined traveling cloak and dropped it about her shoulders.

  The cloak smelled of wool, horse and the faint trace of mint and lemons that clung to Sir Roger. It enveloped her like a cloud of happy and Kathryn hunkered into the warmth.

  He crouched by the far side of the fire and fed the flame. Once satisfied, he rose and came to her side.

  “Keep your hair on,” he muttered beside her ear. “I am going to warm you up again.” With his back braced by her tree trunk, he tugged her to him.

  Awkward with cold and exhaustion she allowed him to tuck her between his powerful legs, with her back to his chest. Her position was beyond immodest, and metal links pressed into her spine, but, Dear Father in Heaven, warmth. “Are you not cold?” She shivered hard enough to set her teeth clacking together.

  “There is a lot more of me,” he said. “And I have a gambeson on below my hauberk.”

  With the fire before her, and Sir Roger at her back, heat crept through Kathryn. With it came a sneaky lethargy that weighted her eyelids and turned her limbs to lead.

  * * * *

  Roger’s belly growled, but he stayed where he sat.

  Kathryn’s head rolled onto his shoulder, her pert nose pressed into the side of his neck and slept. Stubborn wench would rather freeze solid to her saddle than tell him she was exhausted and cold.

  He blamed himself. Irked that she had bested him and followed him despite telling her nay, he had pushed her harder today than he should have. Despite her pluck and spirit, she was a girl, a delicate flower. He chuckled softly, loath to wake her. She would have his ballocks for suggesting such a thing.

  Trusting as a child, she slept in his arms. The subtle scent of lilacs clung to her hair, almost imperceptible beneath the pungent tang of horse. He could not recall, what if anything, Lady Mathilda smelled of. Of course, he had not managed to get close enough to Mathilda to know much.

  Her desertion pricked his pride. Four days in the saddle, he had thought of it often, along with why in God’s name he hared over the country after a woman who had run from him. Some wounded male pride had sent him out of Anglesea, but the burn had eased. Now, he mostly enjoyed the freedom being out of the keep afforded him.

  With Beatrice married to Garrett and wrapped up in each other and their boys, Faye happily wed to Gregory and living at Calder, William ensconced with his bride in the north of England, and Henry off on some misguided holy pilgrimage, life at Anglesea seemed very different. The old keep echoed with the lack of their voices. Mother used the opportunity to press him to fill the castle with the sound of his children.

  He would like that, too. Children brought life to a keep. Aye, Mathew remained, but the lad grew forlorn with just himself amidst all the adults. It had taken Roger these days of travel to name the empty feeling within him. He felt lonely.

  Despite what he said, he wanted a wife. A warm body in his bed, a sweet smile over his trencher, a light, feminine voice to answer him. But he did not want just any woman. He had grown to manhood seeing the way his father would light up from within when his mother entered a room. Heard their soft, quiet laughter when they thought all the children slept. Happiness wrapped about his parents. When Bea found her Garrett, she had the same look his mother wore when she glanced at her husband. Soft, gentle, loving. When a woman looked at a man in such a way, it filled his soul, and Roger’s soul felt empty, bereft.

  In his arms, Kathryn snuffled and pressed closer.

  He tightened his arms about her, and she sighed. The sort of contented, feminine sound that made a man want to rip the moon from the sky to keep her safe.

  Jesu, he was a stupid sod. One lovely woman curled into his arms on a cold, clear spring night, and his head filled with ridiculous nonsense. Hunger trifled with his thoughts.

  Best he made use of her and find Lady Mathilda. When he found his bride, he could put to rest this nonsense and see to the business of getting married. Lady Mathilda was a lady in the true sense of the word. She did not careen about on horseback, brandishing a sword and yelling like a lusty Scot.

  What a sight Kathryn made on horseback. His sisters rode well, Father had seen to that, but Kathryn moved with her mount, as if they shared one mind and spirit. He’d never met a woman who could ride to unseat a knight. Come to think on it, he’d never met another person, man or woman, who could follow him for three days before he spotted them. If he hadn’t obeyed his instinct and taken a very wide sweep last night, she would still be silently on his tail.

  Kathryn stirred in his arms, her lashes tickling his neck as she opened her eyes. “Roger?”

  “Aye?”

  “Is there aught to eat?”

  And, he laughed, she had a man’s appetite to go with her man-sized spirit his Lady Kathryn.

  Chapter 7

  Kathryn sat up straight in her saddle, excitement sparked along her spine. They had entered the quiet village through the far end, but as they approached the green it bustled with life.

  She twisted in her saddle to speak to Roger who followed in her wake. “It is market day.”

  A group of shrieking boys ran past his horse and set the beast to dancing. He frowned and fought for control. “So it would appear.”

  From the middle of the green, pipe music floated their way, played by a small traveling band of minstrels. There would be dancing later, or she missed her guess. “We should stop.”

  �
�Indeed.” He nudged his horse to the left, forcing Striker to alter his course.

  “Look!” Kathryn pointed to a gaggle of girls decked out in their best bliauts, streamers floating from their gleaming loose hair. “They have a maypole.”

  Roger quirked his eyebrow at her and dismounted. “Have you ever danced around a maypole?”

  “Aye.” Kathryn tapped her fingers to the sprightly tune. “Every spring.”

  “You do?” He stared at her, arms braced on his horse’s back.

  “I love to dance.” Kathryn pulled Striker up beside Roger’s destrier and leapt to the ground. Roger’s destrier was a truly beautiful, powerful beast. Tall and dark, muscle rippled beneath his gleaming coat. Like rider, like horse. She smirked at her forbidden thought and followed Roger’s broad shoulders through the crowd.

  After an unflattering inventory of her travel preparations, Roger had insisted they visit the nearest village.

  “You know I have no coin to buy supplies.” She lengthened her stride to keep up with him.

  Roger grunted and gave a quick nod.

  The sweet bite of roasting apples teased her nostrils and she turned like a hunting hound toward the smell.

  “What is it?” Roger strode back to where she stood fixed to the spot.

  “Pies.” Merely saying the word made her salivate. “Apple.” She took a deep sniff. “And peach.”

  “Come on.” Roger tugged at her arm. “We have no time to linger. This cold weather may hold for a few days and we need to get you well-provisioned.”

  Kathryn bit back a sigh. Pies should never be gobbled, but left on the tongue and savored through every bite. They did not often have sweets at Mandeville because Father did not partake. But when they did, Kathryn and Matty perched themselves at the kitchen table and waited. Before the pies finished baking came spoons and bowls for licking, bits of leftover fruit stewed in treacle for shoveling up.

  Roger took her hand and wove them through a throng of farmwives as the women gossiped and picked over the offerings of fruit and vegetables. Her hand disappeared in the warm, calloused clasp of his great paw. No wonder he could swing a sword with such power. Swordplay started with a firm grip and it helped to have hands big as a hambone. They also made a girl feel safe, if a girl was the sort who needed protecting.

  “Here.” He drew her to a cloth and garment merchant.

  Good, serviceable clothing hung from pegs. More clothing, of lesser quality, dyed yellow and brown sat on the ground cloth.

  The merchant eyed Roger as one would a plump partridge, all ready for the plucking.

  “How much for that one?” Roger pointed at a fur-lined cloak of russet wool.

  “My lord has a fine eye.” The merchant smoothed back his thinning sandy hair and oozed closer. “It is my very finest wool. And the fur—”

  “How much?” Kathryn stopped the merchant before he went into a frenzy of delight.

  The merchant stiffened. Peering down his thin nose at her, he sniffed. “I could accept no less than one mark for it.”

  Roger nodded and went for the pouch at his waist.

  “One mark?” Kathryn threw her head back and laughed. “You must be daft. Three shillings and nothing more.”

  The merchant planted his legs apart, chin jutting out. “Surely you jest? Three shillings for this?” His stroked the cloth with spindly fingers. “See the wool, russet it is. And fur lined. Thirteen shillings.”

  Kathryn snorted. “Four.”

  “My lord.” The merchant held the cloak out to Roger. “Surely a man of your taste can see the value?”

  Roger folded his arms. He looked at her with a wry grin. “The lady speaks for me.”

  With a deep breath, the merchant scowled at her. “Ten shillings.”

  “You are a funny man,” Kathryn said. “But not that funny. Five.”

  “Nine.”

  “Five.”

  “Nine.”

  “Six,” Roger said. “And I do not bash your head in for trying to cheat me.”

  Grumbling the merchant snatched up the cloak and handed it to Roger.

  Roger took it, paid the merchant and laid it over Kathryn’s shoulders. His fingers brushed her chin as he tied the fastening.

  “I could have got him down to five,” Kathryn said as they walked away. “See how useful I am? I saved you seven shillings.”

  Roger snorted a laugh. “I am indebted to you.”

  “Indebted enough to buy me a pie?”

  Turning on his heel, he shook his head.

  Kathryn scrambled after him. Her step got an extra spring when she saw his direction. He stopped short and pressed some coins into her hand. “Go haggle yourself a hat.”

  “I do not need a hat,” she said. “See, my cloak has a hood.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Pies it is then.”

  * * * *

  Roger tried not to grin, and lost the battle, as Kathryn worked her way through two apple pies and a peach one. Her look of abandoned delight dragged a smile out of the dour-faced baker.

  Her pink tongue darted between her fingers as she caught the last sticky remnants. She ended by sucking on her fingers with a soft moan.

  Not a clue. He glowered at a young yeoman caught wide-eyed in the innocent sensuality Kathryn employed. He would bash the little cur’s head in for thoughts no decent man should be thinking. Like how her tongue could be better used.

  “Are you done?” His voice came out a little brusquer than he intended.

  She blinked at him. “I do like pie,” she said with a flush.

  “Here.” The beaming baker nudged him with a cloth-wrapped bundle. “I will only have to toss them later, and it does a man good to see someone enjoy his wares like your pretty lady.”

  Roger opened his mouth to explain that Kathryn was not his lady, but shut it again. He accepted the parcel with a nod of thanks. As far as the village knew, Kathryn was his lady. For her sake, they needed to keep thinking that, because they travelled alone, her an innocent, and him an unmarried man. “Blast!”

  Kathryn’s head came up. “What is it?”

  Clueless! He wanted to shake some sense into the damned girl. Had she even given the prudence of their traveling arrangements a thought? He’d wager not a one. “Sod it!” He spun on his heel and stomped to their horses.

  Villagers cleared from his path. An apple-cheeked matron snatched her toddler to her bosom.

  “What is it?” Kathryn trotted along in his wake.

  The stupid girl had fixed them up tight. If they didn’t find her sister, he would have no way of explaining their journey together. He could protest their innocence until cows sang mass, but the damage was done. No other man would touch Lady Kathryn when they discovered how she had spent the last few days. He did not care how much she protested she did not intend to marry. Women like Kathryn needed a man. A firm hand on her wayward nature, a guiding force to direct her spirit, and a warm body to soak up all the sensuality she exuded.

  She had just volunteered him for the position. And he had let her. Out in the woods, sticking to back roads, the immodesty of their situation had not occurred to him. Add her father’s eagerness for a match with Anglesea to the brew, and he might as well find a priest and be done with it. “Get on your horse, we are leaving.”

  “But there will be dancing later.”

  “Now.”

  * * * *

  Clearly, she had erred in some way because Roger appeared to be enjoying a fine sulk as they rode along. He had barely said a word to her since commanding her to get on her horse. Commanded? More like bellowed. Even Striker had sidled away from him when he had done that.

  They traveled southeast. She had given him the general direction, and with a grunt he had moved that way. He made no mention of Anglesea and on their current route they would slip past the keep to the north. The new cloak kept the sharp spring wind off her chest, and she snuggled into its warmth. The cloak must me
an he had accepted her on this journey with him. Please God, let it mean such because she could not go back to Anglesea and face Father without Matty. His rage over her actions made her shudder. Her only hope to pacify him would be in handing him the marriage he so dearly wanted.

  Herds of cattle, released from their winter confinement dotted the lands through which they traveled. Spring calves pressed weak-kneed and clumsy against their mother’s bellies. In another month or so, they would be gamboling across the new green grass.

  They passed a group of peasants turning the soil for spring planting. Their bent backs spots of color between the earth and the dull sky. Kathryn waved as she went by, and a few of them looked up and waved back. Riding out in the open was definitely easier than lurking around following Roger.

  Her stomach reminded her that midday had come and gone, and still they rode in silence. She ate her leftover pie, and even offered Roger some.

  He shook his head, jaw clamped shut.

  The sharp wind freshened and blew brisk and icy at their backs. Another cold night on the way. At least her new cloak would keep the worst of the chill off. Or perhaps Roger would wrap his arms about her again, and share the heat of his big body with her. His embrace warmed her deep within, and brought a strange tingle to her skin. Heat quivered low in her belly. An odd sensation, not unlike the feeling when she fought with her sword, or galloped Striker over the fields.

  With Matty’s coming marriage, this year brought new promise for Kathryn. Even in his present dark mood, Roger showed no signs of temper or cruelty. He would make Matty very happy.

  “Shall we go for a gallop?” It always helped clear her fidgets and glooms.

  “Nay. We need to spare the horses.”

  She grew tired of the back of his head. “Are you afraid I might win?”