The Rose and the Shield

by Sara Bennett

  Restlessly, Rose turned again, gazing at the narrow dark shape of her window. She had opened the shutters earlier, hoping for a breath of air. Now lightning flickered, startling her into sitting up. Wearily, she climbed out of her bed, pulling a robe about her naked shoulders, tossing back the long braid of her hair as she leaned on the sill.

  The air beyond the window seemed cooler, but not much. A light breeze teased her hot skin and molded the thin cloth of her robe against her body. She felt a stirring inside her, a tremor that increased her unease. Lightning came again, illuminating the Mere and its islands. Burrow Mump loomed up in silent reminder of all she longed for and could not have. Rose knew she should be worried for the harvest—storms could flatten the crops—but what could she do? Order Gunnar Olafson to ride out there with his men, and shield the wheat with their outstretched arms?

  Rose smiled as she imagined them standing in the fields like big, nightmarish scarecrows. Then memories of the day returned to haunt her, and her smile faded. It was true she could do little about dead Gilbert and the threat of Lord Fitzmorton’s justice, or about the coming storm. But she could offer some comfort to Millisent. Mayhap the girl was still awake, mayhap they could talk…

  Rose knew then that she would never allow Harold to hang. The solution was simple after all. She would go to Lord Radulf and lay all before him. He would probably remove her from Somerford Manor forthwith—send her back to her father and all that that meant—but at least she would have saved Harold’s life, for Rose was certain Radulf would not hang Harold for what he had done. Not when he learned that Fitzmorton was involved.

  Aye, tomorrow she would send word to Lord Radulf, throw herself upon his mercy, and pray that Lady Lily eased his anger.

  Silently, Rose slipped from her solar and began her journey down the stairs, determined to offer this comfort to Millisent. One of the torches on the wall flared up against the darkness, making the shadows jump and jiggle. She pressed her hand to the cold, familiar stones as she made her way carefully downward to the great hall, where Millisent slept behind a curtain with Will and Eartha and her little son.

  So intent was Rose upon the curving, uneven steps, she did not see him until she was almost upon him.

  He was standing directly before her. A huge dark shape that came up out of the blackness so suddenly her heart leaped in her breast. She opened her mouth to cry out in fear and surprise. No sound came forth, frightening her even more. She turned to flee, her thin robe tangling about her legs. But he caught her easily, gripping her arm and swinging her in a dizzying arc. Rose collided with an extremely large and hard chest, and then a pair of big, muscular arms closed about her. It was like being in a warm, dark cave of male flesh.

  Rose opened her mouth, drawing in breath.

  “Do not scream, lady.” Gunnar Olafson’s warning voice was soft and deep, part of the warm night.

  Rose doubted whether she could have screamed, for he was holding her so tight. Her heart was knocking inside her, fast and shallow, while, against her cheek, his heartbeat was solid and sure. I should be afraid. He is a stranger, a violent man who hires out death for coin. I should be frightened of him.

  But she was not.

  This trembling in her body was not fear. This softening of breasts and thighs was not fright. Her fingers, trapped against his chest, crept upward, testing the soft linen cloth of his shirt, feeling their way over the hard muscles beneath. She turned her head a little, and found her nose pressed to bare flesh, where the laces at his throat were untied. Briefly, she felt giddy, like a child playing a spinning game, and then she pressed her palms to that solid wall of muscle and gave a sharp push.

  “Release me, Captain.”

  Not surprisingly, he didn’t move an inch. “’Tis not safe to be outside your chamber at night, lady.”

  “This is my keep!” she retorted, pushing again without success. “My home. I am safe here.”

  He drew her even closer, stilling her struggling with ease. His mocking breath stirred her hair, whispering in her ear. “Are you?”

  Was she? Now that she no longer knew whether Arno was friend or foe, was she really safe? And what of the mercenaries? They had sworn to protect her, and she had believed it…until now.

  “What do you here?” she asked sharply, leaning her head back to try and see him in the darkness. The torch farther up the stairs flared in the draft from her open solar door, and the flame seemed to catch in his eyes. He was smiling, but it was not the sort of smile to relieve her anxiety.

  “I do not sleep well.”

  “If your bed is uncomfortable, Captain, you should ask for another,” she replied with studied coolness. “Unless it is your conscience that keeps you from sleep.” A man like this must have many heavy matters on his conscience, death and blood and betrayal.

  He laughed softly, untouched by her gibe. “’Tis not my conscience keeps me from sleep, my lady. Will I show you what keeps me from my bed?”

  She opened her mouth to demand a proper answer, and realized his hands were moving down her back, deftly following her soft curves. With a gasp Rose pressed closer, trying to escape him, but the movement only melded her body more firmly against his. Whichever way she turned, there was no escape. He was everywhere.

  Briefly he paused, spanning her narrow waist, and then his chest expanded on a deep, silent breath as if he had come to some decision, and he cupped her buttocks in his big hands, and drew her up firmly against him. The hard, unyielding ridge of his manhood answered her question.

  “’Tis you,” he murmured, his lips hot against her temple and traveling down. “I want you.”

  “No.” She sounded weak, a feeble thing. Her voice, her muscles, her will…all seemed to have been suddenly sapped of their strength.

  He nuzzled at her cheek, tasting her, his unshaven jaw abrading her, his narrow braids tickling her skin. Inside, her heart began thudding anew, while outside her skin grew hot, burning wherever he touched her. His mouth had reached hers, almost but not quite meeting, so close that she could feel him, all but taste him. Gunnar leaned down and oh-so-gently, sucked on her lower lip.

  She melted.

  “No?” he mocked, his breath hot in her mouth. His hand was sliding up between their bodies, searching for the opening in her robe. His fingers delved and found, slipping inside the thin cloth. The callused tips felt rough against her soft flesh, and so warm. His palm was hard from many years of fighting others’ battles, but she could not think of that. Not now, not now…His hand closed over her breast and she knew she must have found heaven.

  “Lady, this doesn’t feel like ‘no.’”

  Like the traitor it was, her body responded. Her nipple beaded into his palm, her flesh aching and swelling. He began to rub gently, back and forth, and she gave a soft groan. Rose felt him smile against her lips.

  And then, abruptly, he spun her around, making her cry out in surprise. The outer stone wall of the stairwell was against her back, cold against her heat. He placed himself a step below her, his body leaning heavily into hers. The glow of the torch reached them more easily now, like fire in his hair, although with his head bowed his face was in shadow. But he could see her, and he looked long, perusing the dazed glow in her eyes, the pink flush in her cheeks, the tremble of desire in her lips.

  “I think you want to say aye, lady. Your body tells me aye.”

  He bent and took her mouth with a savage, controlled thoroughness, stealing from her any last chance she had of denying him the truth. She did want him, oh so much, so much. It was as if all her life had been building up to this moment, with Gunnar Olafson, on the cold, dark stairs in Somerford Keep.

  Her arms came up, her hands clinging to his shoulders. He brought his thigh up between hers, pressing inexorably against her soft, swollen female flesh. The pleasure was undeniable, and nearly unbearable. Rose went rigid. He lifted his mouth from hers and smiled into her eyes, his handsome face hard with his own desire.

  “Tell me you w
ant me,” he said, an order, as if she were one of his mercenary troop.

  But Rose shook her head in denial, as if she weren’t all but lying in his arms, her robe open to the touch of his hands, her mouth swollen from his kisses.

  He laughed, as well he might. He lowered his head and began to suck on her breasts, finding the nipples, his tongue doing things she had never even dreamed of. The sensation was exquisite. Quite unable to prevent herself, Rose arched against him, catching at his hair, tangling her fingers in the smooth strands. Her legs trembled so much she rested her weight on his intruding thigh. A dark, voluptuous rapture spiraled through her as her most sensitive flesh rubbed on hard muscle. She moved a little against him, to ease the unbearable ache between her thighs. And made it worse.

  “Gunnar, please,” she managed, her throat dry and tight, her body trembling as though she were chilled and not burning hot.

  When he removed his thigh she made an instinctive sound of protest, but he was only shifting her, lifting her, his hand opening her robe until she was bare to his touch from neck to toes. His fingers drifted down over her belly, combing through the dark hair at the juncture of her thighs, and slid into the hot moist core of her.

  Shocked, startled, Rose pushed against him, just as he rubbed his thumb against that swollen, wanton part of her. A blazing jolt of excitement rippled through her. She groaned and felt his fingers work their magic again, opening her still further to his touch. No man had ever looked upon her like this before; no man had held her captive with the power in his hand.

  “I can give you pleasure, lady,” her Viking savage whispered teasingly in her ear. “Let me show you.”

  “Gunnar, I don’t…”

  “You do, Rose, you do.”

  “But this is not…”

  He rested his brow against hers and sighed. He was shaking, she realized suddenly. And he was burning up. It wasn’t just she who was affected by this violent storm of desire. He, too, was as caught up in its toils. Somehow, knowing that made her feel less his slave and more his equal. Made everything all right.

  “You will feel better…after,” he promised her. “You will be able to sleep.”

  “And will you, too, be able to sleep?” Her voice was breathless, husky, sensual.

  He laughed as if he were in pain. “Don’t think about me, my Rose. This is for you. All for you.”

  “To sleep would be nice,” she began cautiously. “But do you not think Constance’s mulled wine would do just as well?”

  His thumb moved again, gently, subtly, teasing her aching flesh. Despite herself, Rose moaned deep in her throat, following his movements, allowing him freedoms such as she would never have believed herself capable of an hour ago.

  “No,” Gunnar told her with clear certainty, “I don’t.”

  Again that subtle shifting, and the throbbing between her legs was raised to a new level. One finger, two, slid inside her, stretching her, making her long to clench her body about him, hold him close, while his thumb did such things…

  Could this be right? Rose asked herself feverishly. Was it possible to feel like this? Her legs were trembling so badly she was resting entirely on his hand, while her arms clung about his neck, afraid if she let go she would fall down. His mouth was on hers again, his tongue tasting her, thrusting into her, tangling with hers. She was moving of her own accord now, rubbing herself against him, unable to help herself, unable to stop herself.

  Never before, never before, the voice whispered in her head.

  Never before had it been like this.

  Outside the keep, thunder rolled, the humidity increasing, but the storm just seemed part of the waking dream Rose now found herself in. And then it happened, a wild uncontrollable clashing of her senses, a tempest inside her as well as out. Rose cried out, a hoarse gasping cry, feeling her body turn as warm and liquid as Constance’s mulled wine. As she fell, he caught her in his arms, holding her hard against him, covering her mouth in a kiss to muffle the sound, and then smoothing the loose wisps of hair back from her face with a tenderness she was too dazed to recognize.

  Just for a moment he was her dream, her ghostly warrior, who had finally found her and made her his.

  And then he laughed, and spoiled it all.

  Rose felt a chill. Had he laughed because he was pleased? Because he had made her into nothing more than another lustful woman, unable to resist his handsome face and hard kisses? Fodder for Gunnar Olafson, and his own high opinion of himself! Aye, she thought blankly, that must be it.

  She should be angry. Mayhap in the morning she would be, but suddenly Rose just felt very tired. He was right in that, at least—she wanted only to sleep, and this time she knew she would.

  “Let me go,” she whispered, a catch in her voice, and pressed her palms once more against his chest.

  Gunnar went very still; he must have sensed the change in her. He searched her face in the dim torchlight as if he were trying to see inside her. “I did not hurt you?” he asked sharply, and she realized with surprise that the thought that he might have caused her pain worried him.

  Confused, Rose shook her head, and embarrassment came to join the maelstrom of emotions already battering her. To be speaking to a man she hardly knew about matters so personal, so private, was beyond awkward.

  “I gave you pleasure?”

  For such a confident man, he sounded oddly uncertain, even vulnerable. Surprised, Rose forgot her raw feelings as she met his gaze. There was a hot glitter in his blue eyes; aye, she did not need the bulge in his breeches to tell her he was still very much aroused. He had given her pleasure, but he had taken none for himself.

  “Aye,” she said, “you did.”

  He smiled, that dazzlingly beautiful smile. She almost reached out and touched him then. Until she realized that if she did, he would follow her up the stairs to her chamber.

  Was she ready for what would happen after that?

  Rose had hesitated too long, and doubts swooped in. He was a stranger, a paid mercenary. Aye, he was handsome and she had found ecstasy in his arms just now, but it was not safe to allow a man to take control of you in such a way. ’Twas true this was only lust, but it seemed that even lust had its dangers.

  He knew. His face was shuttered, his desire under control again. “Go back to your bed, Rose,” he told her softly. “I will be here. I swore to protect you, and so I shall.”

  Rose licked suddenly dry lips. His control slipped, and he watched the movement with such avidness it frightened her, and yet thrilled her, too. On one level she might have submitted to him, allowed him to teach her some of the pleasures a man could give to a woman, but she had lost nothing by it. Mayhap she had even gained.

  She wanted him, but he wanted her, too. And because he was Gunnar Olafson he had given her the power to say him aye or nay, and that was a mighty power indeed.

  Catching up her robe, feeling like dancing, Rose fled back up the stairs to safety. And sleep without dreams.

  Chapter 10

  The warmth of dawn was softening the harsh lines of Somerford Keep and raising white mist upon the surface of the Mere, when Gunnar Olafson found his bed at last.

  He lay down and closed his eyes, trying to sleep, but she was still there, as she had been since last night when he held her in his arms. Rose, stepping down the stairs with the torchlight behind her, her pale, glorious body clearly visible through the thin stuff of her robe, her eyes dark and secret. Rose, flushed and feverish, wild with the pleasure he was giving her. Gunnar, please…Why was it, when he remembered those words, he felt an ache in his chest that was every bit equal to that between his thighs?

  He groaned and turned on his side. He had been hard for so long he’d forgotten what it was like to have release. Maybe he was damaged in some way…It didn’t matter. He wanted her, more than he had ever wanted any woman before, and last night had been worth the pain he was suffering now.

  “Gunnar?”

  This voice was deep and gruff, as differe
nt from Rose’s as it could be. Gunnar kept his eyes closed. He felt Ivo lean over him, and then a sharp blow to his shoulder with a fist. Gunnar’s eyes opened unwillingly, and he squinted up at his friend.

  Ivo looked as if he had been running his hands through his black hair. It was in wild disarray. His eyes were just as black and wild in a face ravaged by emotion.

  “You have heard about Miles, then,” said Gunnar warily.

  “Sweyn told me. It would have been better if I had heard it from you, Captain.”

  Gunnar sat up and faced his angry friend as calmly as he could manage with his body aching from very little sleep. He had known Ivo too long to believe he would really throttle him, despite the barely controlled savagery that seemed to envelop him. Ivo might be fierce and intemperate, but he would never murder a friend.

  “Miles is Fitzmorton’s man. He came seeking the dead Norman, and has now given him a name—Gilbert. Lady Rose sent him off with the body, but I fear he will be back. Fitzmorton wants Somerford, Ivo, that is what this is all about, and Miles will get it for him.”

  Gunnar remembered Fitzmorton’s handsome face, lined with discontent, the hour he had spent in his company. Gunnar had been playing a part, on Radulf’s say so, but Fitzmorton didn’t know that.

  “You are good at obeying orders, Viking?”

  “If the rewards are adequate, my lord.”

  “Oh they will be, they will be. I have had a request from Somerford Manor for mercenaries.” He held up the letter Radulf had allowed to be delivered. “They are having problems. Do you think you are the man to solve them?”

  “A sword will solve most problems, my lord. But I thought Somerford Manor belonged to Lord Radulf.”

  Fitzmorton had laughed. “Did you? Radulf might have might and the king’s ear on his side, but I have blood, Captain Olafson. My own flesh and blood.”

  Ivo was staring at him, his face contorted. And then he rubbed his hands roughly across his skin—the dark stubble grated. When Gunnar had first come across Ivo, he had had a black beard as wild as his hair. A truly frightening and fearsome sight. Now he was just fearsome.