The Flower And The Sword

by Jacqueline Navin

  He urged Tarsus into a run. They cleared the gatehouse at full gallop and headed straight for the stables where he dismounted. He was anxious, impatient and single-minded. He wanted Lily.

  “Rogan.” A feminine voice cut into his thoughts. He looked up, blinking away the clinging reverie.

  “Alyce. Hello.”

  “I was just on my way to the ladies’ solar when I saw you and remembered we had a wager.”

  Rogan frowned. Damnation, but his brain was fogged. “Wager? I do not recall.”

  She made a pouty face in mute umbrage. “You really have forgotten? You insisted my horse would never clear the fallen tree. And she did.”

  “Ah. I remember now.” It was difficult to concentrate on the conversation.

  “Well,” she said with a smile, “it is a gorgeous day and you do owe me an afternoon ride. That was the wager.”

  He shook his head. “I just brought Tarsus in. And now is not a good time. Tell me, have you seen Lily?”

  He thought he detected a flash in her dark eyes. “Yes, actually. She seemed rather cross. I saw her duck into your solar.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and stepped around her. Calling over his shoulder, he added, “We shall take in that ride soon.”

  Alyce’s smile was tight as she answered, “Of course.”

  Whirling, Rogan set off down the corridor only to collide with someone heading in the other direction. His left shoulder glanced off the man’s right side, knocking Rogan sideways. He snapped his head around just in time to see the fellow duck and turn, as if he were hiding.

  Ridiculous, Rogan thought, wondering whether the other was afraid Rogan would berate him for his clumsiness. Anyone who knew the master of Kensmouth knew short-tempered abuses were not his way. Had he been thinking clearly, the oddity of the encounter would have registered a note of interest. As it was, Rogan merely cast a curious glance at the hunched, retreating form before hurrying on his way.

  When he arrived at the solar, he entered without warning. To his utter shock, his wife was standing with his sister-in-law, their heads bowed close together. Both faces swung toward him, eyes wide and mouths open in a perfectly matched set of Os.

  At this somewhat guilty reception, Rogan’s keen instinct tweaked somewhere in his gut. He cocked a jaunty brow. “Wife.” Turning to Carina, he said, “Sister.”

  Carina inclined her head regally. Rogan had to admit her lack of breeding did not show. In fact, it never had. “I am feeling fatigued,” she said in her faintly accented way. “I shall take my rest.”

  Rogan bowed respectfully as she passed, waiting until she had closed the door before turning back to his wife.

  Her pallor, if it were at all possible, had increased. “What is it?” he said, concerned. Moving toward her, he extended his hand. “Are you unwell?”

  She skittered away. “I am a little ill. It is nothing serious, just a touch of fever, I fear.”

  “Come sit,” he offered. She seemed to float slightly beyond reach.

  “I think I will take to my bed,” she murmured.

  Rogan was mildly surprised. Lily, as long as he had known her, was not inclined to midday rests. Then he noticed her hands clutched in front of her, knuckles white, and his eyes narrowed. She was upset, nervous. She was keeping something from him.

  He made his tone conversational, with a hint of solicitude as he moved closer. “Are you certain you are well? Would you like me to call for the physician?”

  “No!” she exclaimed, cringing from him again. Her lips jerked into a poor attempt at a reassuring smile. “No, I am fine. I simply need rest.”

  He swept his hand toward the door. “Then, by all means, allow me to see you to bed.”

  She stared at him, seeming as if she would object. In the end, she put her head down and complied without protest.

  Wordlessly he ushered her to their chamber. She was up to something, he could feel it. What the devil was she hiding?

  A cold, hard feeling was winding its way around his aching heart.

  “Undress,” he said in a low voice as he shut the door behind them.

  “Please call my maid,” she said.

  “I will be your nursemaid.”

  “Rogan, I am not so ill as all that.” Again, the forced smile. “I refuse to keep you from your work.”

  “Not at all, my lady,” he said.

  Hesitant, she finally kicked off her slippers and, with Rogan’s aid, shed her gown. He could not suppress a shudder of desire as he viewed her lithe body draped only in the thin gauze of her chemise. Resolutely he turned his mind away from such temptations and settled down in a chair as she nestled onto the furs.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he waited, wanting to see how far she would take her playacting. To his utter amazement, his wife was asleep within a pair of minutes, leaving him more puzzled.

  He ordered dinner to be brought to the room, eating alone when Lily did not awaken. Eventually he stretched out beside her, courting sleep to stifle the swarm of suspicions filling his head.

  * * *

  Realization woke him out of a sound sleep. His eyes flew open and all of a sudden he simply knew.

  It was the man from Charolais! The one in the hall—they had nearly collided. His name…his name was Phillip—no! Phillippe. Rogan had seen him numerous times while in Cornwall, having taken note of the swarthy complexion and the thick French accent as something out of the ordinary.

  Rogan sat up, glancing at Lily curled next to him. Her mood yesterday…could it be the presence of this Phillippe was known to her? It would explain her confused state, her loss for words. Her fear.

  Looking at her now, her face in repose appearing angelic and reminding him of her younger sister—she of the cherubic countenance and demonic soul—an old thought burst unbidden and unwelcome into his mind. Did Lily’s beauty hide a similarly corrupt nature?

  Dear God, would this agonizing uncertainty never end!

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed and all but leaped out. Restless, irritated, feeling as if his heart were going to burst out of his chest, he clenched and unclenched his fists as he paced.

  Bloody hell, where was Andrew? He needed him right now.

  Speaking with Alexander on the matter was out of the question. The duke would condemn Lily without a second thought. Rogan needed the truth.

  Gazing at Lily still asleep, he shook his head silently. She would not give him the answers he sought—her earlier behavior had been proof of that.

  This man, this stranger, had come between them, threatening the fragile trust they had begun to build. Had the swarthy knight come to Kensmouth to blackmail Lily over the past, with information she would not wish Rogan to know? Perhaps proof of her duplicity. Or perhaps he was here as her friend, conspiring with her to gain her freedom.

  Impossible to know. But he would find out in due time.

  Meanwhile, he stayed by his wife as she slumbered deep into the night. His insides felt as if they were shriveling and an ache pressed against the solid wall of his chest, so strong he could scarcely breathe. He prayed. And he thought, with a sinking sense of despair as the hours waned, of what on earth he was going to do if Lily had betrayed him again.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The first ray of sunlight fell across her face, waking Lily all at once. She blinked, smiled and reached her hand out toward the warm presence of her husband lying beside her. Memory hit, freezing her in midmotion. The babe growing inside her. She had forgotten for a moment. Withdrawing her hand as grief flooded through her, she rolled over and curled herself into a tight ball.

  The illness was with her again today. She had heard advice to newly pregnant women about taking dry bread in the morning to still the churning of the stomach. She wished she had some. It seemed that now she knew of her condition, the nausea was stronger.

  She was not sure how long she lay there, fighting sickness, before Rogan awoke. She felt him rise from the bed, heard his soft footfalls on the
rushes as he headed to the washbasin. The splashing of water signaled his morning ablutions. She could picture him in her mind’s eye, rubbing the cold water over his face and through his russet hair. It would drip off his chin, puddling just before his feet as he lathered his face and ran the razor over the whetting stone.

  The smell of his soap brought a ripple to her stomach. She tried bravely to fight it, but had to admit defeat in the end and dash for the chamber pot.

  Rogan paused, razor hovering over one cheek, and watched her as she emerged from behind the screen.

  “If you are still ill, you should stay abed. I will send someone to see to you.”

  She was about to say it would pass, but caught herself in time. It would surely arouse his suspicions, for the morning sickness was a well-known symptom, one of which even a warrior would be aware. “Thank you,” she said weakly, and climbed into bed.

  He finished shaving and came to gaze down at her. She raised her eyes, wondering when he had ever looked so hard as now, or sounded as cold as a few moments ago. His eyes were the color of slate as they regarded her.

  “I am going to ask you a question, Lily.”

  Her stomach was heaving again. She swallowed convulsively and nodded.

  “Did you have any visitors yesterday?”

  What an odd question. Lily thought for a minute, wanting to take care that she hadn’t forgotten something. “No,” she answered truthfully.

  “What of the last few days? Anyone?”

  “No. No one.”

  His eyes seemed to bore into her. “Are you truly ill?”

  The question startled her, “Of course.” She feared she was about to demonstrate the fact for him once more.

  He gave a curt nod. “Yes, you may be. I have one more question for you. Do you remember a Frenchman in your father’s household, a dark fellow. I believe his name was Phillippe.”

  Lily was aware she was being watched closely. “Yes, I know of him. He was Catherine’s man. He served only her, not my father. He was a dreadful man.”

  A strange look passed over Rogan’s features before he abruptly turned away.

  “I will send your maid in to check on you from time to time.”

  He left without another word, leaving behind a void full of question and uncertainty.

  Rogan paused, tilted his head back and exhaled a great breath. She was lying.

  Rubbing the back of his neck, he tried to rein in his thoughts. She was ill. Perhaps that was all there was to this strange behavior she was displaying

  Even while he formed the idea, he rejected it. He had seen Lily face crisis before—one he had served up himself. He had watched as she had confronted the venomous Sybilla and quietly mastered the entire castle, even held her head up in the presence of a duke. Therefore, Rogan found it difficult to believe an illness would so completely undo her.

  His hand curled into a fist. He wanted to strike out at something. He heard someone call his name and snapped his head around.

  “What?” he snapped.

  It was Alyce. Rogan groaned. He did not have time for the woman, and lately her cloying ways were wearing on his nerves.

  An excuse to beg off froze on his lips when he saw her expression. He stepped forward, grasping her arm. “Alyce, my God, what is it?”

  She was as pale as winter’s first snow, her large eyes swimming with a glazed look.

  “You shall hate me, I know you shall. But I am so afraid.”

  “Alyce, tell me.” He had known this woman since she was a girl, yet never had he seen her thus. She was plainly terrified.

  “I never meant harm. It was a game, to gain favor. I wanted to protect you—you were falling under her witch’s spell. You were in danger! There was no one else for me to go to!”

  Her panic was contagious, combining with his own knowledge that something devious was afoot. Rogan snapped, “Tell me!”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I have been receiving messages from Lady Catherine Craven.”

  Rogan reacted to that name. Alyce saw, and continued in a wheedling voice. “I thought perhaps she could give me some advantage, something with which to use against Lily. But she turned the whole matter about. She wished to kill you.” She held her hands out to him in a halfhearted gesture of pleading. “Dorvis was her messenger, but he agreed you should never be harmed. He killed her, to protect you because of my orders, Rogan. So you see, I saved your life.”

  She dropped her hands to her side. “I thought it was over until Dorvis told me he saw her knight here, skulking about the castle, and—”

  Rogan interrupted, “Phillippe. The Frenchman.”

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “I saw him.”

  “He means you harm, Rogan,” she said. “I came forward only because I am terrified for your safety. Dorvis says you are in grave danger.”

  “Catherine is dead,” Rogan muttered, “and still Phillippe is here. Why?” He blew out a deep breath and raked his hand through his hair. The one question that plagued him the most, Alyce could not answer: what was Lily’s part in all of this?

  Or perhaps it was Lily, not himself, who was in danger.

  Rogan broke out of his thoughts, infused with a cold pall of apprehension. He shouted to a passing servant, “Summon my captain.”

  He started away when he remembered Alyce.

  Rogan looked over his shoulder at the beautiful redhead. His heart was hard, but he had learned the folly of allowing his rage to rule. “You came forward to warn me, even at risk to yourself. I give you your freedom, but you are no longer welcome in my castle. When the matter of Phillippe is settled, you may leave to take up another life anywhere else but here.”

  Alyce gasped a choking cry, though whether of relief or misery, he could not tell.

  He found their chamber empty. Asking about, he was informed his wife was in the garden. He found her seated alone and quite still, hands resting on her lap, back rigid as she watched the play of a pair of sparrows. As he moved closer, he could see she was not watching the birds at all, for her eyes were focused on some faraway point. He paused. Whether it was uncertainty or some primitive flare of instinct, he didn’t know, but his delay allowed him the vantage point with which to see danger as it approached.

  There! Something dark flitted among the foliage, so quick it was almost undetectable. There again! Advancing. Toward Lily!

  He almost shot forward, his impulse to protect Lily overriding seasoned intuition. Then he remembered his advantage, for the archway where he stood gave him anonymity and a clear view of the garden. With a supreme effort of will, he stopped himself, though his every muscle protested this act of reserve.

  Flattening his body up against the side of the alcove, he watched the dark shape. Even before it emerged, Rogan knew it was Phillippe.

  Lily didn’t see the stealthy intruder at first. Then all at once, she sprang to her feet. Her hand flew over her mouth, not quite stifling the scream that tore from her throat before it choked off. Everything, from the horrified look in her eyes to the way she staggered backward, told Rogan what he needed to know.

  As much as he wanted to rush forward, Rogan stayed where he was, assessing and planning the most effective means of attack.

  They were too far away for their conversation to be audible, but Rogan could see Phillippe was speaking to Lily in a casual manner, not overtly threatening. Yet Lily cringed before him.

  Slipping out from under cover, Rogan ran to the nearest line of shrubs. This was infinitely painful, for it meant allowing Lily out of his sight. Every nerve in his taut body screamed in agony as time seemed to suspend forward motion. If she were harmed he would never forgive himself.

  Why had he foolishly persisted in casting her the villain, in doubting her character even when he saw her courage and spirit prevail at every turn? Through all he had dealt her, she had remained steadfast.

  God help him, he had been so absorbed in his bitterness he had ignored what was so blatantly obvious. Even
Andrew had come to see it, but Rogan had refused, clinging to the old hatred because he was a coward. Yes, a coward—too afraid to take the chance again and welcome love.

  Gritting his teeth, he crouched and sprinted along the hedge. If Phillippe hurt Lily, Rogan knew his life was over.

  He could hear their voices. The oily tone of the Frenchman answered Lily’s almost hysterical one. Moving more cautiously now, Rogan inched nearer until he was within reach. Keeping low, he peered at his wife and the dark-skinned man.

  “Think of the children, chérie,” Phillippe was saying. “They could come to great harm if you do not cooperate. I have been watching for some time now. Those urchins are like your own babes. You could never allow anything to happen to them.”

  Lily’s face was ghostly white. Rogan’s arms ached to hold her, shelter her, rescue her not only from her present tormentor, but of all the ill he himself had done her. He made himself wait.

  “You cannot touch them!” she cried.

  “Ah, but I will. I shall find a way. I managed to find you alone, did I not?”

  “I shall tell Rogan, he will kill you!”

  Gladly, Rogan thought, wanting badly to rush the man. But Phillippe was too close to Lily. There was danger he could grab her and hold her as hostage.

  “Ah, chérie, but he will have to find me first. And I am not so easy to find. I may even go away for a while and wait for the day when you think I have forgotten all of you. It may be soon, or perhaps not. But I will return one day, and you will lose one of those sniveling brats. Who shall it be? The little girl. Non, the obnoxious boy, I think.”

  Rogan’s world went red. He struggled for control, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the fury.

  “All I am asking of you is a simple favor.”

  “Simple favor!” Lily exclaimed. “My God, you are mad! You are demanding I kill my husband!”

  So, that was Phillippe’s plan. Kill me, and make Lily a murderess!

  “I cannot understand why it is so troubling, after all he has done. He locked you away in that terrible house. We heard of your humiliations. He despises you. Now, I give you a chance to rid yourself of him, and with great benefit. As his widow, you would be rich. And all you need do is empty this vial of poison in his wine.”