The Flower And The Sword

by Jacqueline Navin

  Rogan knocked him down, tumbling with him on the dirt. He rolled, springing to his feet. The man stood, still clutching the scythe, staggering and squinting to focus on his attacker.

  Rogan drew his sword, displaying it to discourage the man. Lily was so close. With a flicker of his gaze, he saw she had not moved. He could barely stave off the need to rush to her side. “Move away or I will cut you down, man!” he growled.

  The red eyes glared, and large, liverlike lips curled in a snarl just before the lout charged forward. Rogan moved aside, smacking him smartly on the backside with the flat of his sword.

  Confused, the man stumbled past. A new voice distracted them both for an instant.

  “You killed the lady!” a young boy yelled, running straight at the large man. Ignoring the gleam of the scythe’s blade, the tyke launched himself at the man, pummeling his small fists against the beefy legs. “You killed her! I hate you, I will kill you myself!”

  The man seemed hardly perturbed. He merely kicked and sent the boy tumbling away.

  Rogan’s muscles hardened as he braced himself for full battle. “You do quite well with women and children. Let me see how you do against a man full grown.”

  The other stomped, pawing the ground like a bull, and snarled an incomprehensible reply. Rogan lunged, cutting swiftly with his sword. He connected with the scythe, which the man used like a staff to defend himself. With a vengeance, he swung blow after blow, knocking the man backward. His opponent had phenomenal brute strength, which he brought to bear in retaliation.

  Rogan saw his opening and quickly slammed the butt of his sword into the man’s forehead. He looked at Rogan for a moment in dismay before he toppled to the ground with a thud.

  He had barely hit the earth before Rogan was beside Lily. His vision seemed to blur for a moment when he wondered if he was too late. Then her eyes fluttered open. “Lily,” he said softly.

  “Rogan.” She smiled, her hand coming up to brush his cheek. Then her gaze slanted away to a spot just behind him. Her smile widened and she said, “Oliver.”

  Rogan looked over at the boy who had dropped to his knees beside Lily.

  “He di’n kill you,” Oliver whispered.

  Lily giggled. “You should know that you cannot kill a witch that easily.” Reaching out, Lily drew up the boy’s tunic to show the bare flesh underneath. Rogan glimpsed a collection of welts before Oliver snatched the clothing back in place, and snapped, “Hey!”

  Lily’s eyes caught Rogan’s. “I came for the boy. To take him home.”

  “I’m not goin’ wi’ you! When Da wakes up, ’e’s gonna be terrible mad!”

  Lily sat up, pausing and holding a trembling hand to her temple. “You will not be here, and you are not coming back to this place ever again. And do not talk that way, you know better.”

  Just then, Thomas arrived, puffing hard from having come so far on foot. He must have run the entire way. He stopped, then grinned. “Ye got ’er.”

  Rogan nodded, then jerked his head to the unconscious lummox. “Take care of him. I will bring your mistress home.”

  Lifting Lily, he spoke to the boy, “Get the reins of the horse. And I hope you are as fearless with beasts as you are with your father, for Tarsus despises the spineless.”

  The lad shot him a resentful look before obeying.

  Settling Lily on the saddle, he looked down at the boy. “I do not know why she wants you to come back to the house, but she risked a lot to get you. Until I have some answers, you are coming with me.”

  The boy looked at him with awe, nodding. Even more amazing, he allowed Rogan to lift him atop the stallion.

  “I know,” Rogan muttered to Tarsus as he took up the reins to lead him back to Linden Wood. “Women and children are not your preference. You long for the simplicity of battle, where you can know what to expect—and from what quarter!”

  The beast snorted in agreement. Casting a puzzled look behind him, Rogan nodded. “Me, too, friend. Me, too.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What the devil were you thinking?” Rogan asked, not unkindly, as he lay Lily down in her bed. He had insisted on carrying her up the stairs, despite her emphatic claims she was fine. She looked at him now, a touch of wariness in her face. However, she was wisely silent as he slipped off her shoes and drew the woolen blanket up to cover her. “The man was a brute, senseless with drink. He could have killed you without a thought.”

  Nervously her fingers plucked at the rough wool. She looked like a penitent child. No, not a child. Never could this woman look like that, with her hair unbound and spilling every which way like a lion’s mane, the clear sea blue of her eyes cutting through to a man’s soul, and the sultry mouth that made his stomach tighten just to look at it.

  “And who is the boy?” Rogan demanded, drawing up a stool to settle down next to her.

  “Oliver,” she answered in a small voice.

  “Yes, I am aware of his name. Why did you go to him?”

  “His sisters told me that he was with his da, I mean father, and I had to get him away.”

  “Then you knew the man was a sot?”

  “I knew he mistreated his children. I never dreamed he would deal with me likewise.”

  Rogan sighed in exasperation. “Are you such an innocent, or merely a fool? If Thomas had not followed—”

  The downward flutter of her eyelids cut off his tirade. She looked too pathetic to scold just now. Rising, he said, “You will want to bathe. If you are hungry, I will have Sybilla bring you up some food. I will be back.”

  The aftereffects of fear made him gruff, but God save him, he was not truly angry with her. He still did not understand the entire episode, but he was far more amazed by his own reaction to pursue it just now.

  He was not the kind who was much fazed by battle. Renowned for his chilling calm when facing an enemy, he had felt completely different seeing Lily mauled by that insane idiot. He had fought for his life more times than he cared to remember, but never had he fought as he had today. For another. For Lily. And for the first time, he had felt an unfamiliar emotion. Panic.

  Such were the thoughts troubling him as he stepped into his chamber. He was met with a startling chorus of high-pitched squeals. Whirling, he cast about for the source of the ear-shattering noise to find a pair of small faces peering at him from the bed. Two little girls, terrified by the looks of them, clutched each other as they scrambled from under the blankets.

  “What the—?” he began, then shouted, “Lily!”

  The girls had wrested themselves free of the blankets and shot to the door, almost knocking Lily down as she raced into the room.

  “Anna, Lizzie.” They flung themselves against her, burying their faces in her skirts. Looking up at him, eyes shining in amusement, Lily said, “Rogan, these are Oliver’s sisters.”

  “What are they doing in my bed?” he thundered, sending the children into renewed fits of terror.

  “Lower your voice, please!” she snapped, surprising him into biting back his next remark.

  As if the situation were not confusing enough, Sybilla arrived just at that moment with an irate Oliver in tow.

  “Stop being such ninnies!” the small boy commanded. “This is the man who saved the lady!”

  Anna was the first to respond. “Saved her from who?”

  “From Da. He hit her. Would have killed her, too, but the man took him down.”

  “He took down Da?” Lizzie said in amazement, turning back to Rogan with a look of awe.

  It was ridiculous, the warm feeling that look of admiration gave him. “He was just a drunken fool,” he said more curtly than he had intended.

  “Whacked him on the arse with the flat of his sword!” Oliver declared, and the three erupted into delighted giggles.

  “Oliver!” Lily scolded, pretending to be offended.

  “Well, he did,” Oliver said sulkily.

  “Yes, well, this is all very interesting, but it does not answer the q
uestion of what they were doing in my bed.”

  “Sleeping,” the tiny one said simply.

  “I could see that for myself,” Rogan growled. He was getting mightily annoyed with all of this. Especially Lily, standing among the trio like a mother hen. “What I wanted to know is why?”

  The small girl’s bottom lip popped out, trembling as her eyes filled with fresh tears. “You don’ like me!”

  Raking his hand through his hair, Rogan turned away with a groan of frustration.

  Taking command, Lily said, “Nonsense, Lizzie, Lord Rogan is just surprised. And confused. I will explain it all to him, but you must go with Sybilla and she will warm some milk for you.”

  “I don’ like her. She is ugly!”

  Lily saw Sybilla bristle. “That is not a mannerly thing to say,” Lily said sternly, “and I want you to obey me. I will be down in a little while.”

  “Come, Lizzie,” Anna said, though she herself seemed not at all sure of the sour-faced woman who waited to take them away. “The lady would not send us to any harm.”

  When Oliver made to follow, Lily caught him by the scruff of the neck. “Not you, Oliver. You will take a bath first, then you may join your sisters.”

  The look of outrage on his face was enough to tell what he thought of this plan, but Lily held up a single finger to stem the tirade before it began. “Unless you wish me to stay here with you and make sure it gets done. You will not sit at my table unless you wash that filth off you.”

  The boy stomped over to the tub and peered suspiciously into the water. “It smells.”

  “I will fetch you some new soap, one that is not scented. And wash your hair and behind your ears. Leave your clothes for Sybilla to collect and she and I will mend and clean them for you.”

  He rolled his eyes eloquently but said nothing.

  She looked as of she would have fussed over the boy some more, but Rogan had reached the limits of his patience. Seizing Lily by the elbow, he steered her out of his room and into hers. “Now, I will hear all of it.”

  She told him everything, from the first stolen pie from the windowsill to how the girls had come to be in his bed. Through the tale, he listened patiently, finding his anger receding with each word. In its place, a strange amazement grew and, with it, a grudging admiration. She had shown remarkable courage on behalf of these waifs.

  “And what do you intend to do with them now?” he asked when she had finished.

  “I really had not thought of it. I suppose they should stay here with me.”

  He frowned. “That is hardly a practical solution.”

  If the story of how she had rescued the children surprised him, then it was an added shock to see the hard, determined look come into her eyes.

  “I am not sending them back to their father. You saw him—he is little better than an animal.”

  “What of their mother?”

  “Anna told me she died several years ago. The children live alone with that beast of a man.”

  “No, they mustn’t return,” he agreed.

  “They would be no trouble here. I would teach them their chores. They would not be a burden to anyone.”

  The strength of her determination impressed him. “All right, but I want no problems from all of this,” he began, but the rest of the statement was cut off when she launched herself at him with such force it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” she cried. She was on tiptoe, her arms flung around his neck, her body pressed against the whole length of him. With her arms still wrapped around him, she leaned back to look up into his face. “I will give you no cause to regret it, I swear.”

  The effect of this unexpected display was like the weight of a ton of bricks slamming into his gut faster and harder than an Arabian mare at full gallop. Her eyes danced, the clear blue-green seeming to glow from within. And it had been a long time since he had seen her smile like that. Not since Charolais…

  He wanted nothing more than to kiss her right at this moment, but as pressing as that desire was, there was an equal amount of resistance. This was what he had lost, this Lily with her shining face and merry eyes filling him with a feeling he had not thought himself capable of anymore.

  As if of their own volition, his hands came around her waist. He wanted to say something cruel to wipe the unguarded delight from her face, for he couldn’t bear it. But a part of him was fascinated by it, as well, and the words didn’t come. Instead, the urgent need to topple her onto the bed and ravish her screamed in every nerve in his body.

  If he made love to her now, as he so longed to do, he would lose everything. It wouldn’t be as the husband taking the wife, it would be as a lover.

  Slowly he extricated himself from her embrace, gently peeling away the graceful arms from his shoulders. With a pang of regret, he watched the veil come over her features again, melting away her happiness and replacing it with the familiar reserve.

  Lily stepped away. She smoothed her skirts and cleared her throat. “I will go tell the children they are to stay.”

  He was glad when she was gone. It took several moments to get his breathing even again. When that was done, he went to hurry Oliver out of the bath so he could have his solitude.

  Rogan spent the rest of the day in the stable. There was not much to do there, but even restless boredom was preferable to the domestic confusion going on inside the house. From time to time, he heard an outburst drifting from the upper windows. The young buck, Oliver, voicing his displeasure with something or other, he assumed. Later, a clash of pottery from the kitchens and Sybilla’s angry tones indicated some problem with the evening meal.

  He had not liked his reaction today to his wife’s spontaneous embrace, not one bit. If he were honest, he would have to admit it had shocked him that the old infatuation could be rekindled. Passion he could understand, for she was the most desirable woman he had ever laid eyes on. But tender emotion—that he could not comprehend. How could he forget for an instant what she was, what she had done?

  With a heavy sigh, he decided he was too tired to sort it out tonight. It was late to go back to Kensmouth now, and things had been quiet enough in the house to assure him that the situation has settled down. After a good night’s rest, it would be clearer in the morning, he reasoned as he headed into the cottage.

  Someone had lit a fire in his room, and Lily’s door stood open, revealing it empty. Beyond, a small crack in the third bedroom showed a sliver of light.

  He could not resist. Careful not to make a sound, he crept down to the door, inching it open to peer inside. The room was dimly lit by a single rushlight. In the bed, Oliver lay asleep, his head thrown back, mouth agape. Beside him, the serene form of the older girl lay curled up prettily, hands folded neatly under her chin. On a straight-backed chair, Lily cradled the youngest child. She was rocking her, and singing some soft melody in a low voice. The flushed face of the girl was relaxed, her mouth pursed with her thumb poised at the lips as if she had just lost the comfort of it in the relaxed state of sleep.

  Slipping inside, he grimaced as the board groaned under his foot. It sounded impossibly loud in the quiet. He cringed, and stopped. Lily looked up and pressed a finger to her lips. He nodded.

  She tried to stand and was having a difficult time doing it while holding the child. Rogan took Lizzie from her and laid the child next to her sister.

  Beside him, Lily tucked the blanket around the girl, who had not stirred one bit. “She was afraid,” Lily whispered. Before folding the last of the coverlet into place, she lifted the hem of the girl’s dress and frowned at the bruise on her side. “How could anyone harm an innocent child?”

  Rogan’s head snapped toward her. She wasn’t looking at him, but he could see her face in profile. Her expression was a blend of pity and anger as she gazed down at the sleeping girl. She was unaware of him, lost in troubled thought.

  Something bitter and hard knotted in his stomach. In this moment, he could almost be
lieve he was wrong about her. It was an extraordinary thing for her to say, she who had used him, seen him beaten and almost burned alive. Yet it was said so sincerely, with no effort to effect a response from him. There was no sideways look to gauge his mood, no dramatic sighing and moaning about it all. Just that simple comment, though the cleverest of speeches could not have moved him more deeply.

  She looked at him then. Without thinking, he brushed a stray curl from her cheek. She smiled back, and he could see her as she had been in the garden the first night they met, awkward and blunt and achingly innocent.

  The knot in his gut tightened. God, he was a fool! How he missed her—that Lily, the woman who had caught his eye and then his heart. He would never admit to another soul that he had loved her. But he had. Oh, he truly had. It was what had made the rest of it so wretched, like a living nightmare from which there was no waking.

  She slipped silently to the doorway and paused, waiting for him. Rogan wondered for the hundredth time what was happening to him. The cold, sterile luxury of his rage was slipping away, yielding to…what? A need. A need for Lily.

  He walked rapidly to the door, closing it softly behind him. His wife waited for him in the hall.

  Wordlessly he took her by the elbow and steered her into his room. She opened her mouth to say something, but never had the chance. He kissed her, hard at first, then more slowly, letting the tension ease as desire kindled to life. As always, she came to him willingly, melting against him. It felt like a homecoming and his arms tightened around her.

  There was a sense of slipping away. There were words inside of him, but he didn’t know what they were. He wanted her, wanted to make love to her and bury himself inside of her in the mindless taking and giving that they found together. But even that was not enough.

  A surge of fear, like a man drowning who finds the energy for one last lifesaving kick to the surface, made him pull away. His breath rasped in his throat, belying the casual way he turned his back on her.

  “I will not press you tonight. You have been through much today. Go to your room.”