Seeing no sleeping forms on the ground, she strode to the hearth, set down the book and lit a lamp to take downstairs. These early-morning hours belonged to her and she usually spent them in her special workroom in the crypt, one that she had made for herself, with wooden shelves to house her collection of books. Her sanctuary was where she kept all of her tomes and where she never worried that she would be disturbed. Only ghosts lived down there. Everyone but her claimed to have seen one.
She had just closed the metal lid when a rasp of cloth whispered from the shadows behind her. She was not alone.
She spun so quickly that her woolen robe swirled around her, then rippled softly against her legs. ―Jack?‖ she whispered.
The boy disliked storms. She worried he might be huddling in some corner, but she could see nothing in the darkness. ―Jack? Are you in here?‖
Lightning briefly illuminated the room, revealing a bottle of whisky on the dining table to her right. And it was open. She lifted the lamp.
Lord Roxburghe leaned with his back against the wall not six feet from where she stood. His dark hair hung wet and unbound past his shoulders. The damp cloth of his fine white linen shirt defined the braided muscles of his arms and chest and opened in a ―V‖ that showed a mat of dark hair. He‘d been outside in the storm. What fool would go outside on a night like this?
She had to have walked directly past him when she‘d entered the room. How could she have missed him? She had so skillfully avoided him all last night, even volunteered for scullery duty while the other older girls served him and his men their meals.
Her panic momentarily subsided with the cock of his brow. ―Jack?‖ The question was asked with amusement. ―Am I intruding on a lover‘s assignation?‖
―Lover? Jack?‖ She laughed outright at his conclusion.
―A pet perhaps.‖
―What sort of pet would I have named Jack?‖
―A bird? Rabbit? A cow?‖
―Jack is a boy,‖ she said, after a moment‘s silence, ―though I do not understand why it is any of your concern who I should be meeting.‖
His contemplation of her remained steady. He was toying with her, she realized. But as another flash of lightning lit the room, she noted something in his expression that surprised her, a moment of vulnerability unlike the fierce image she had of him, and she wondered what had brought him out of a warm bed on such a wretched night as this.
Then he stepped toward her. She stepped backward and bumped into the chair. The movement drew his attention. His eyes paused on her face and made her suddenly conscious of how she must look dressed in her nightclothes, the hem of her robe several inches too short, showing off her thin ankles and slipper-clad feet. To her horror he laughed. Then he reached for the whisky bottle, and she felt foolish for her initial reaction.
―Do you oft venture about at night in a state of undress seeking out boys?‖ Light glinted from the tiny silver ring in his ear as he brought the bottle to his lips.
She should walk away, except that he stood between her and the door. She held the lamp away from her face to better see his. ―Do you oft stand outside during thunderstorms?‖ she countered.
He lowered his voice as if they were sharing a secret. ―I asked my question first.‖
She tasted the warm scent of whisky on his breath and resisted licking her lips. ―Jack sometimes sleeps in here. I thought the noise I heard might be him. But I was not seeking him out. I am on my way to the crypt.‖
He leaned a hip against the back of the aged Tudor chair, one of sixteen around the table.
―The crypt?‖ His eyes swept her. ―Why am I not surprised? Any woman who braves books about Arthurian legends, metallurgy and electricity cannot be afraid of something as insignificant as moldering corpses. Please tell me you are not attempting to bring some poor soul back to life.‖
Rose barely stifled a laugh. ―And if I were?‖
He studied her. ―Then I would wonder how one so innocent could look upon a long-dead corpse and not feel horror by the stench alone. Death is not a becoming sight.‖ He took another sip from the bottle.
―I‘ve seen death,‖ she told him. ―Not so long ago a battle took place near here between the English and the Scots, a battle later decided on the hallowed grounds of Culloden. The cemetery is a mile from here.‖
―Twelve years ago, you would surely have been a child,‖ he said quietly as if children did not witness death.
She stole a glance at the half-empty bottle of whisky in his hand. ―I have been at this abbey since I was three. I have witnessed much in seventeen years. Nor do storms make me nervous. Yet, I would never go outside during one. Do you fear death? Or defy it, my lord?‖
He peered at her with amusement. ―You tell me.‖
Tilting her head to one side, she studied the parts of him not hidden in the shadows. For a moment, she was back on the street, watching him ride past, a sea of dust rising around her and her heart pounding against her ribs like a tabor. A suppressed wildness about him made a mockery of his refined manners. ―You are down here because you cannot sleep,‖ she said quietly.
―Drinking but not drunk. On first glance, one would think you were afraid of lightning storms.‖
―And on second glance?‖
She measured him for the space of one breath. Two. Three. His lack of a riposte gave her the answer she sought. Aye, the Black Dragon had a human side. One that she doubted few people ever saw. ―I would conclude the opposite, but not for reasons you might think. Lightning is the most powerful force on earth. It intrigues, tempts, and taunts you. You cannot master it but it makes you feel something powerful. Only a man who cannot feel life seeks to find ways to destroy his own, if only to define his own existence.‖
One corner of his mouth crooked. For a pair of heartbeats he said nothing. Then, ―Are you suggesting I am suicidal?‖
She shrugged, for it was possible she had not read him correctly, though she doubted it. She possessed a gift for reading people‘s hearts and Ruark Kerr‘s was dark. This man had killed. Yet, he was troubled by death.
―I am suggesting you are a man unsure of his purpose. Or you are afraid of storms. Either way you are a fool to stand outside in one. This abbey sits on high ground.‖
―Aye . that it does.‖ She almost jumped when he touched her cheek as if to brush away tendrils that had fallen from her braid. ―You have not told me your name.‖
Certain that she was flushed, she lowered the lamp. For if she could see his face, then he could surely see hers. ―Rose. My name is Rose.‖
His gaze touched the thick rope of her hair lying over her shoulder. ―A rose that smells like lilacs. It must be your room I was given earlier this evening. The linens smell like you.‖
No one had ever told her she smelled like lilacs and it came as a shock to feel another nervous flutter in her stomach. ―Yes, the room is mine.‖
Next to Sister Nessa, she had been at Hope Abbey the longest. Sister Nessa had not wanted the room nearest to the hall, but Rose had. It faced south and was the warmest in winter when the trees were barren of leaves. In the summer, shade cooled the room. But it was late springtime, the season Rose loved the most for the lilacs bloomed and she spent weeks making her soaps from the flowering vines outside her window.
He offered her whisky. ―Would you care to join me, m‘lady Rose?‖
Common sense told her to go. ―I don‘t drink.‖
―Anything?‖ His devilish eyes raked her. He was baiting her now. ―I had not believed Tucker gave up his taste for spirits but I have seen nothing here.‖
Only Friar Tucker‘s closest friends knew that he no longer drank spirits. ―You have known each other long?‖
―Long enough to be aghast he has left his flock to the wolves.‖
She scoffed at his sarcasm. ―The presence of one male at this abbey would hardly keep wolves at bay, my lord. We live in the borderlands. Friar Tucker has not abandoned us. He will be back the end of the month. His u
ncle passed away. He has gone to Redesdale.‖
Roxburghe‘s expression altered minutely. ―Redesdale? Near Kirkland Park? Lord Hereford‘s lands?‖
―If you know Friar Tucker then you know he lived in the area long before Lord Hereford‘s return last year. You need not worry that he holds allegiance to Hereford. He does not.‖
Roxburghe seemed to study the bottle in his hand. ―Did he know Countess Hereford and her daughter then?‖
His tone as much as the query gave Rose more than pause. She now understood Roxburghe‘s reasons for coming to the abbey.
He was following rumors that Lord Hereford‘s wife and child might be alive. Believing that the daughter might hold some value, he was looking for a way to rescue the half brother Hereford had incarcerated. If Roxburghe and Friar Tucker were friends, then his lordship had come here for help. Rose also knew Friar Tucker would not help him.
She didn‘t want the earl of Roxburghe‘s problems to be her concern. Not now. Looking down at the lamp sputtering against the draft, she cast about for a way to change the topic but could find nothing to ease the tension in her heart. ―I am sorry Lord Hereford has your brother. You must know ‘twould not be in the warden‘s political interest to harm the boy. I cannot believe he would.‖
Roxburghe set down the bottle. ―You are familiar with Hereford enough to make that manner of observation?‖
―I know that he came home a hero, too. He was once a captain in the Royal Navy. He has medals for valor. I know that your brother was caught cattle lifting along with two of his cousins. I know that no one is without blame.‖ She awaited some hint of Roxburghe‘s reaction. When she saw nothing, she added, ―I also know a dead hostage is useless to everyone, and that most people in your position would just surrender to the ransom demands. But then I imagine you are not most people.‖
He lifted her thick braid and wrapped it around his fist, ever so gently. ―What else do you know about me?‖
Rose knew he was dangerous. She‘d once heard he‘d left Scotland because of a woman when she married another, and that gossip linked him to beautiful women across Britain, France and Italy. He‘d left a trail of broken hearts and shattered marital aspirations that kept most noblemen with unmarried daughters and sisters far away from him.
Divided between wariness and curiosity, she slid her braid from his hand and tilted her chin. It was a rare man who forced her to tilt her chin. ―I know you are a hunter at heart and you are no longer attempting to disguise your intentions toward me behind casual conversation. But I am not your prey.‖
―I am not hunting tonight,‖ he said in a low voice. ―If I were, you would already be mine.‖
She held back a gasp, yet she made no effort to escape him. ―You . you overreach yourself, my lord.‖
He made no effort to move either. The ever-present smile on his lips remained, but something had changed between them. Something as imperceptible as a hawk‘s path through a current of air, yet, there all the same between them. ―How so?‖ he asked. He reached in slow motion to ease the braid from her shoulder, and his featherlike touch suddenly filled her with inexplicable emotion. ―Does a virgin stand before me, Rose?‖
The man was outrageous. No one had ever asked her anything so utterly private and intimate, or so erotic her entire body reacted.
No proper lady would have stood for such impropriety. But then no one had ever accused her of being proper, and she was no coward to retreat on the first salvo. She was, after all, self-reliant, driven as much by curiosity as she was by her passions. ―I am not ignorant of such things. I have read many a conspectus of the medical sciences, my lord. This is farming land with horses and cows and pigs. I know the names of body parts no one speaks of in polite company.‖
Amusement shone in his eyes as he pointed out, ―That was not my question.‖
―You will receive no other answer.‖ She met his gaze and knew he was gauging her.
―You are quite at your leisure to conclude what you will. But I assure you, I am no lady.‖ She had not meant the statement as it sounded. ―What I mean is that ladies are frail creatures . ‖
He laughed a clear baritone sound that startled her with its temerity. He was a rogue, and to the devil with you if you didn‘t like it.
She understood now what attracted her to him, something even more compelling than his looks. She could admire a man who thumbed his nose at conventional mores, who defied authority with the courage of his convictions. His gaze fastened on her mouth and, from the lazy-lidded heat in his eyes, he must have recognized the same passions deep inside her as lived inside him. And just that fast in the cold, dark cavernous dining hall with the world asleep around them, they were two people quite different from what the world saw.
―You are not coy or pretentious. A commoner . maybe. But not at all common. What family would give someone like you to a convent?‖
―My mother died when I was young. I . I barely remember my father.‖
―I remember mine. I have forgotten what it is like to be so innocent.‖
The trod of boots coming from down the corridor suddenly inserted itself into the heated silence. The mood shattered. Panicked that someone would see her alone in the night with a man—this man—in her sleeping clothes, she stepped around the chair just as Roxburghe moved to intercept her. She landed against his chest. His hands went to her waist to steady her.
―What are you doing?‖ she breathed out in a rush. ―Someone will see us.‖
But someone had already seen them.
A man stood in the archway backlit by lamplight. Only then, did she realize Roxburghe‘s body shielded her face from the visitor‘s sight. If she had gone running from the room a moment ago, she would have collided with the hapless fellow. She hid her face near his chest, feeling absurdly safe in his shadow.
―The storm is passing.‖ The man‘s voice carried to the shadows where she stood. ―Dawn is on the horizon.‖
―I‘ll be outside in a moment,‖ he said, the warm breath from his words rippling her hair.
The man hesitated. ―Aye, captain. We will be awaiting your orders.‖
Rose listened to his steps fade like the storm that had surrounded the abbey most of the night. But the silence brought another storm to bear on her, one far more perilous. She slowly raised her chin and found Roxburghe‘s eyes on her face with unmistakable attention, a look he instantly shuttered as he eased his hands from her waist. The heat where his palms had shaped to the slim curvature of her waist lingered as she watched him walk to the end of the table and drag a jacket from the back of the chair.
She set the lamp on the table. ―You are leaving the abbey before daybreak?‖
He shoved his arms into the sleeves and turned, his eyes going over her. The stubble shadowing his jaw seemed to darken his gaze. ―It is best if no one knows we were here. I will return for my horse when it is safe to do so.‖
―You would risk your life coming back here for your horse?‖
―If not a horse then what is worth dying for?‖
Rose frowned. ―That reeks of cynicism. Have you no care for your life?‖
He laughed. ―My life is of utmost importance to me. So is my horse.‖
He clasped on a wide leather belt as he watched her with a predatory readiness in his movements and smiled lightly as if she were a curiosity encased behind glass. It was an action borne of a man comfortable in his own skin no matter his faults or his sins. Or hers.
And for some reason his self-possession unsettled her more.
―His name is Loki,‖ Roxburghe said.
The meaning was not lost on Rose. Loki was the Norse God of destruction, an ironic name for the gentle horse she had briefly glimpsed last night, but not incongruous when one considered the stallion belonged to the Black Dragon.
―It is not safe to cross the bridge while the river is high,‖ she said, walking around the table to face him at the other end. ―There is another rarely used crossing two miles west. The br
idge is older but on higher ground. Only the locals use it. You should be able to cross unseen.‖
He picked up two pistols and shoved them into his leather belt. He truly did look like a freebooter as he approached her from around the table‘s head, his boot spurs jangling. ―I am relieved,‖ he said.
Rose had always thought herself to be sensible and levelheaded, but this man had worn on her nerves. ―For what?‖
―You do not wish me to drown.‖
―Do not be so confident of that. This is former reiver country. Lord Hereford‘s men are not the only ones you should fear.‖ She straightened before she started retreating from his enormous presence. ―I have no desire for anyone to learn you were here either. I would not wish them to steal your horse.‖
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