Sheltered by the Warrior (Viking Warriors Book 3) (Historical Romance)

by Barbara Phinney

  It looked like bumpy parchment, a sheet of something upon which one would write a missive. Intrigued, and glad for the diversion, Rowena returned to her hut. She smoothed it out on the table and, finding a stick of charcoal from the cool edge of her little fire, drew a line along the driest corner.

  Oh, if she only knew her letters, this strange parchment would be perfect. Allowing her mind to wander, she began a simple sketch. Around and up again she drew, wondering if making this parchment could become a source of income. Mayhap she could sell the sheets, with quill-like bits of charcoal, or exchange them for reading and writing lessons for her son.

  Rowena stopped her sketching. She’d drawn a profile of a man. Of Stephen. Setting it away, she swallowed, then lifted the sheet again. She could draw? Who would have guessed?

  A noise sounded outside. She froze. ’Twas not that odd bird she’d heard earlier. Taking her lamp, she eased open her door and peeked out, hoping only an animal had brushed against her hut. Somewhere out in her yard came the quiet clucking of her now-freed hen. Rowena stood still as stone, listening, but her heart thumped so loud she was sure the whole village could hear it. To her left, above the distant manor house, the full moon had risen. ’Twas large and a brilliant yellow and—

  At the next noise, she spun, as if her hearing were connected directly to her body. A man lunged at her. Rowena threw up her arms as the man shoved her hard over her threshold and into her hut. Then he fell on her, his hands wrapping around her wimple and veil and squeezing her throat.

  * * *

  Stephen vaulted over the short fence in one single, sweeping movement and quickly reached the door of the hut. His blade arced downward, but the man shifted suddenly and kicked it from his grasp.

  He jumped onto the man, who swung his fist into Stephen’s midriff as he turned. Stephen staggered but caught his balance quickly. He plowed into the attacker, knocking him to the ground. In the next movement, he caught the cur’s arm and pinned it to his back. While the man cried out, Stephen hauled him up to face Rowena’s door.

  The guard rushed from around the hut, drawing his sword as he raced closer. But the man was just as quick, bracing himself against Stephen and pumping his legs in and out to connect with the guard’s chest. All three men fell, with Stephen losing his grip on the man’s arm as he broke their falls.

  Catching his balance first, the man sprinted away, loping over the short fence and disappearing into the night.

  “After him!” Stephen ordered as he and the guard leaped to their feet. Then he noticed the lamp, knocked from Rowena’s hand and still burning near the doorway. Immediately he strode over and ground both the flame and the pottery into the dirt with far more force than necessary.

  A groan, soft and weak and gasping, brushed past his ear and he spun. Rowena lay beyond the threshold, propped up on one elbow, touching her head with the other hand. Her wimple and veil were strewn on the dirt floor, obviously torn from her when the man turned to fight off Stephen.

  Stephen glanced toward the west, where both men had vanished. His guard was fast, but Stephen knew it would take two of them to catch the culprit.

  Collapsing, Rowena moaned again and Stephen immediately abandoned the other option. He dropped to his knees before her. “Stay still. You’ve had the wind knocked out of you.”

  Indeed she had. She struggled to inhale. He lifted her up and set her on her pallet. Then, feeling its thinness, he grimaced. “I will carry you back to the manor.”

  She held up her hand and he waited a moment before she rasped out, “Nay, milord. I’m better now. ’Twas no worse than when a cow once kicked me.”

  She could talk. ’Twas a good sign. After retrieving his sword, Stephen rose and rekindled the fire, hoping that ’twould light the hut sufficiently, for he’d ground her lamp to pieces in his zeal to prevent another fire.

  Leaning small sticks over the flame, he realized his hands were shaking. He set them down on the cold flat stones of the hearth to still them as he turned to face her. “I knew you’d protest my carrying you to the manor anyway.”

  Her gaze was wide with emotion. “You and your guard were close, weren’t you?”

  Stephen could not tear his eyes from her. His palms chilling as they lay sealed to the stone, his knees aching from his prayerful position, he could do nothing but stare into her pale eyes.

  What had he been thinking, using her as bait? ’Twas risky enough for a soldier, let alone a woman. His chest felt tight, and a cold wash shivered through him.

  “Do you think I would simply leave you alone out here?” he finally whispered, not fully trusting his voice. “You said yourself that only a fool would bait a trap and abandon it.”

  “But—” She stopped as understanding blossomed on her face. “Those bird calls! From no night bird I had ever heard before. You two? What were you saying?”

  “We signaled each other when we were in position.” He hastily finished his task, then rose and sat on the bench beside her. The fire grew and warmed her hut. He wanted to promise her that his guard would catch her attacker, but he wasn’t sure ’twould happen.

  She looked past him into the dark night. “Your guard is wasting his time. ’Twas a Saxon and they are good at disappearing into the woods.”

  “How did you know he was Saxon? Did you see his face?”

  “I saw everything. He is Saxon.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  Rowena shut her eyes, and Stephen knew she was recalling the face. When she opened them again, she shook her head. “Nay.”

  “He wasn’t one of the villagers?” She hadn’t been here that long. ’Twas quite possible she had not seen them all yet.

  A thought struck him. What if the attacker was a Norman, someone from a nearby holding? Dressed as a Saxon, he could easily skulk around the village unnoticed. This man who’d attacked her was strong, used to fighting, for he employed the tactics of close combat. Stephen kept his own soldiers in as good a condition as possible, and the very way the man fought had been practiced in the yard behind the manor.

  He’d been such a fool not to realize how much danger Rowena was in. If he hadn’t been here, she would have died.

  He needed more soldiers. This cowardly act would not have happened if he had more guards. A good show of force did wonders to deter violence. But to acquire more soldiers meant a trip to London, and that would mean leaving Rowena alone.

  “I know what he looks like. His face is burned into my mind,” Rowena whispered, touching her throat. “I watched him as he grabbed my neck.”

  Stephen took her shoulders and turned her toward the growing firelight. His gut clenched. Aye, welts were forming on her neck. “That cur! I should have gone after him myself and throttled him.”

  Her hand reached to cover his. He could feel it shaking. “I much prefer you here. I saw how he fought you. He could easily lie in ambush to kill you.”

  “Nay, I’m not that foolish to chase blindly after him, and my guard will be careful, also. But that man needs to pay for his crimes.”

  “He will.” She leaned forward, thankfulness evident on her face as she searched his expression. She gripped his arms. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She slid her cool hands up to his neck. He felt them shake as they caressed his jaw. He’d chosen a plain, dark tunic to blend into the night. He’d left his cloak back at the manor for ease of travel but now wished he’d brought it to wrap around her.

  With the veil and wimple torn from her head, the firelight danced off her hair, giving it unexpected warmth.

  He watched her, awed by her maturity. Most villagers saw her full of folly. He saw something in her he never expected: inner strength.

  She was determined to live. Nay, not just live, but thrive. It burned in her expression.

  Incredibly, she still smelled of those roses beside the chapel. Their scent filled his head, dried his mouth and caused his heart to pound.

  She caught and held his gaze. Her voice was as soft
as summer rain. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  She whispered her soft supplication, slurring the words as he strained to hear them. How could he leave her? He didn’t want to be alone, either. All his life, he’d been by himself. Even in platoons of soldiers, or halls filled with women vying for his attention, he’d felt keenly alone.

  Not tonight, not in this rude hut after that ugly attack. He was sharing a moment like no other with a woman like no other.

  Her gaze dipped slightly, glancing off his lips before rising again to his eyes, capturing them and pleading something he wasn’t sure he understood. Something he didn’t dare to believe for fear it would vanish like morning mist.

  He tilted his head to one side and eased toward her, still watching her. Her eyes drifted shut, her lips parted farther, and he was sure her breath, like his, had stalled in her lungs.

  They met, lips barely brushing. Stephen wrapped his arms around her, enticing her to close the space between them. Molded around each other, they continued to kiss, deepening the moment of intimacy as they forsook the events that drew them together.

  She filled his senses. He could smell those roses, feel her warmth, see her, taste her. Her fingers plowed into his hair and gripped his curls, for he’d abandoned the Norman fashion of shaving the back of his head. Rowena was as she should be to him—strong, yet all woman, vulnerable, but only to him, trusting that he would be all she needed. Aye, he would be. She needed someone strong to be there for her.

  He stalled. That wasn’t him. And he couldn’t do that. He hadn’t even been able to stop the sword that pierced his brother’s mail, and look at him tonight. He’d plunked her down as bait because he was a soldier who used people for his own benefit. And he’d failed to capture the man who’d taken that bait. He didn’t have just one good reason to prove he wasn’t good for Rowena. He had two.

  He would not fail again.

  You will if you’re not careful.

  Holding Rowena close, reveling in her kiss like a boy on the cusp of manhood, Stephen was putting them both at risk should that cur backtrack. One swing of a sword could silence them both forever.

  He had to pull away. He could not, nay, should not, have this moment with Rowena. Hating this, he peeled her from him and set her back, his lips the last to release her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “We must focus on the situation,” he told her, his voice husky.

  “Aye, but there is something more. Something terribly sad.”

  Ah, that natural sense she had. “I don’t want to be distracted. It happened once before.”

  “Your brother, Corvin? You were fighting for your life.”

  “I should have been protecting him.”

  She sat back. “If you continue to blame yourself, ’tis as bad as keeping bitterness in your heart.” Her voice dropped. “I know.”

  He stood, needing to focus on the situation and not on their foolish emotions. “’Tis time to turn the tables and start fighting back.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You said his face was burned into your mind. You would know him if you saw him again?” Stephen asked, looking down at her.

  Rowena blinked and swallowed as she wet her lips. She struggled to fight the fog that wrapped around her mind the way his arms had wrapped around her body. What did he say? Would she know her attacker if she saw him again? “Aye. I saw him clearly.”

  She shook off the mists of their intimacy and suddenly straightened. “I can do more than recognize him. I can draw him!”

  She faced the table, then gasped. Her drawing of Stephen! It lay between them. Quickly, she flipped the sheet.

  “What’s that?” Stephen turned over the parchment.

  Heat flooded into her cheeks as he tilted the paper to catch the dim light. His eyebrows flew up. “’Tis of me!”

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “I have not seen my reflection in some time, but I know ’tis me.”

  “Aye,” she recanted.

  “Remarkable. ’Tis excellent! I didn’t know you could draw.”

  “I didn’t, either, until I picked up the charcoal stick and began.”

  He flipped the sheet, examining it with his fingertips. “What is this? I’ve not seen anything like it before.”

  “’Tis from the tow fibers I smeared on the side of the water trough. They’re short and don’t make good threads. My mother would soak them in water and feed them to the animals.”

  He looked at her, compassion warming his expression. “Was she also cruel to you?” he asked.

  Rowena’s mouth tightened. “She didn’t do anything to help me, if that’s what you are asking. My sisters would sometimes give me food, but our father would tell them he’d send them out to the barn, too, if he caught them. That would mean no food for them, either.” She went silent for a moment. “I suppose he said the same thing to my mother. He was always talking about losing his land to the king, and how he would never have enough coinage to purchase it back because of all the girls my mother gave him.” She looked down at her hands. “She felt guilty for it.”

  She heard Stephen’s heavy sigh. “Why were you soaking those plants? You have no animals to feed.”

  “I was retting stalks to weave a net for my hen’s coop.”

  “I remember. ’Tis like making rope.”

  “Aye. This parchment is what’s left of the inside fibers. ’Tis not fine like vellum, though. You can see bits of the fiber in it.”

  Stephen studied the parchment, then the sketch it held. “This is truly amazing. ’Tis like looking at myself in Josane’s mirror, only better.” He smiled at her. “I look ugly in her mirror. What made you think of drawing me?”

  Because all she’d done since they met was think of him. Nay, she would not say that, for they matched like oil and water. And he’d broken their kiss as if he’d realized its folly. ’Twas a folly for her, too. He’d wanted to use her. Taurin and her father had used her, too, even though this time, ’twas for her benefit. Nay, Stephen’s main concern was not for her safety. He couldn’t be trusted.

  Her heart lurched. What would it feel like to completely trust the man you cared for? And to know he wouldn’t put some fool thing like money or power ahead of your life? Or duty.

  She would never know because she would never trust a man. They always hurt her.

  Tears stung her eyes as she took back the parchment and flipped it over. Her hands shook as she reached for the charcoal stick she’d left on the table. “I discovered making this parchment by accident. And then I considered making it and offering it to anyone who would be willing to teach Andrew how to read and write when he’s ready to learn.”

  “We will find someone for him, I promise.”

  She shut her eyes, partly to hide her pleasure and partly to recall her attacker’s face. “Give me a moment.”

  Holding her breath, she pulled free the memory of her attacker. Her heart pounded, and fear clutched her throat as his hands had done. Nay, I can do this. She would sketch his face, and they would find him, and stop this madness and fear once and for all.

  For if the guard had caught this man, he would have returned by now.

  Keep the guard safe, Lord.

  Stephen lingered close. She shifted away. “Please, milord, give me some room.”

  He eased back. “Rowena,” he said quietly, his voice dissolving her concentration as warm water dissolved honey. “’Tis time you called me Stephen.”

  Her eyes flew open and she gaped at him. She could barely breathe. And surely Lor—Stephen could hear the thumping of her heart, for it pulsed loud in her own ears.

  Don’t answer him. Don’t let him see how his words weaken you. She looked away and began to sketch with a shaking hand.

  Her mind raced. Nay, she could not allow herself to be wooed by Stephen’s gentle words. He was a man, and they took more than they gave.

  But did he not say he woul
d find someone to teach Andrew his letters? Did she not believe him?

  He’d also asked her to find someone to care for Andrew, should she die.

  She would have died tonight if not for Stephen.

  ’Twas not the time for pondering what could have happened. Maybe after the cur was found. Her sketching grew feverish and she focused hard on her vision of the man. His round face and squat nose, his longish hair and tufts of beard that seemed at odds with the bushy brows all grew on the parchment. One of his bulging eyes tilted up and his jaw was too big for his face. She shaded where the bones of his jaw protruded, the play of light and shadows coming to her as naturally as breathing. Finally, she set down the parchment.

  Aye, ’twas the man! She’d sketched out broad farmer’s shoulders and a cowl that tipped to one side as if sewn by someone half-blind.

  Rowena shoved the sketch across the table. “Here,” she said quickly, “’Tis he, I’m sure.”

  Stephen frowned at her expression before lifting the parchment. She held her breath as he stared at it. He still sat close to her, still made her feel foolishly addled and all too warm inside.

  Stop it, she ordered herself. She could no more allow this attraction to blossom than she could let her life be ruled by fear.

  Stephen shook his head. “I don’t recognize him, and I have been working with the villagers building that palisade.”

  “I haven’t seen him here, but—” she paused “—Stephen, he could be one of many Saxons hiding in the forest. I remember my father ordering me to lock the barn doors every night because the men in the forest often came in to steal food.”

  Stephen looked at her, his eyes dark, yet compassionate. Was that vulnerability she saw in his gaze? Nay, not in him! She fought the urge to slip closer to him. She would not torture herself with this...this growing interest in him. Aye, that moment in his arms felt so right, but ’twas just born of the danger they’d shared. Relief did that to people.