by Sara Bennett
Slowly Rose changed position again. Last night had been raw enough, but meeting his eyes like this seemed particularly decadent. Why then did she feel a tremor of excitement? Why did his watching her as she reached her peak make her tremble and sigh against him? She might as well admit it to herself. Nothing mattered now but having Gunnar Olafson between her thighs and in her bed.
The movement of his body upon hers was bringing its own pleasure—before she had needed his hand, but now it seemed as if she could find paradise without his aid. Rose gazed into his eyes and read in them the hot rise of desire, and more than that. Satisfaction, maybe, and a glow that frightened her with its intensity.
“Let yourself go, Rose,” he murmured intently. “Now, now…”
One more thrust, and Rose was arching upward with a low trembling cry. She slipped away, beyond the familiar chamber, out into the summer dawn, to dance on the cool breeze. With a low groan, Gunnar followed after her.
When he moved off her, swinging his legs onto the floor, Rose was surprised enough to open her eyes. He had said he would go, but somehow she had still thought he would stay.
Fool! Did you imagine he would remain here all day? What would your people think of that? What would Arno and Lord Radulf think? You cannot just forget your troubles because of the mercenary’s handsome face.
Gunnar Olafson was tugging on his breeches, tying them about his waist. The light was creeping across the land, and now shone weakly through her open window. She could see his back, the muscles rippling and tightening as he bent to pull on his boots. His skin was golden smooth apart from a collection of white scars. The scars had been invisible last night, but now she saw where a sword had struck him a glancing blow, and a knife had slid across his shoulder blade…Each scar must have a tale to tell, and each scar could have meant his death.
Rose shivered.
Gunnar lifted his sword from its place on the window seat, buckling it about his hips. If she had forgotten what he was, then she was reminded now.
A mercenary.
A man who fought and killed for coin. A Viking savage. And yet he had shown her things last night that Rose had never seen or felt before, and she knew deep in her heart that he had changed her forever by simply being with her. How could she ever be the same again?
Her body ached with unfamiliar use, but it was a pleasant ache. Aye, her body was well used and content, but inside Rose felt like weeping. The day was coming upon her so quickly, and bringing with it all the temporarily forgotten problems. And questions. All the decisions still to be made. She faced the fact that she would have liked this moment to go on forever. Jesu, why could they not have lost themselves in each other for a little longer?
He was drawing his worn linen shirt over his head. There was a mend beneath one sleeve. Mayhap, Rose told herself, she could find him a new one. Sew him a new one. And then she stopped the thought cold, remembering what she had said at the beginning. I will give you no gifts. If she went back on her words he would think her weak. Aye, a weak, easily swayed woman—a woman sick with love for him.
You can have my body, but my heart is my own.
He had said that to her last night when she had asked about other women. He had warned her then—Gunnar Olafson was no lovesick ninny. He had given her what she commanded and no more, and now he was leaving.
He was dressed.
He turned to face her, and now he was again that calm, distant man she had grown to know…and God help her, to trust.
“Sleep, lady,” he said. “’Tis early yet, and you are weary.”
Before she could answer he strode to the door, lifting the bar and opening it a crack to look out. Evidently there was no one about, for he slipped quietly through and closed it behind him without a backward glance. There was silence, but a silence more complete than any Rose had ever experienced.
He was gone.
Rose closed her eyes, stubbornly vowing not to think of him. Today she must write a message to give to Steven, a call for help to Lord Radulf. She must sign over her own fate for the good of her people and Harold’s life. Today she must put aside her own happiness for the sake of others.
But at least, Rose told herself, she had had last night. The wild pleasure that Gunnar had given her in the hot darkness was more than she could ever have imagined. It would live with her forever, no matter what became of her. A talisman against the frightening days ahead.
And then she gave a bitter laugh, for despite her vow she had thought of him after all.
“I saw them over there, Captain. Three full days before the village was burned. Half a dozen men, maybe more. I didn’t think to mention it until now…there was so much talk of merefolk, and these men weren’t.”
Edward pointed with a steady finger, his stumpy legs planted on the firm ground at the Mere’s edge. Gunnar narrowed his eyes. Water and mud and islands, nothing more. If the men Edward had said he saw came from out there then they were long gone.
“What were these men doing, Edward?”
The old man answered readily enough. “They met with someone, Captain. They all stood about a moment and argued and waved their arms, and then the men got back in their boats and paddled away. The someone they met with walked off toward the keep.”
“And you did not recognize who this was?”
“Whoever it was was cloaked from head to toe, Captain, but ’twasn’t a big figure. Shortish for a man, or…mayhap even a woman.”
Rose.
The name came to him instantly, and all his old mistrust rose up. At the same time pain curled deep in his belly, as if he had eaten something rotten. Could Rose have been meeting with these men, plotting with them to burn down her own village?
“I’m near enough to certain the men with the boats weren’t merefolk,” said Edward.
“What did they look like?”
“It was dark.” Edward was cautious.
Gunnar turned and fixed his calm gaze on the old man. “Were they Normans?”
Edward was no match for Gunnar Olafson. “They looked like soldiers, sir.”
Probably Lord Fitzmorton’s men, hiding out in the Mere, ready to attack. Rose had met with them, and they had planned the details of the assault, and then she had gone home.
It did not ring true.
Gunnar looked out again, across the watery levels toward one particular island of dark, brooding appearance. He was weary from last night. His body was finally relaxed after days of rigid tension and he wanted nothing more than to sleep, but there was to be no sleep for him yet. He had questions to answer, and Somerford to take care of.
If not Rose, then who could it have been that night? Not Arno—to put himself in a position of possible capture or disclosure was not in his nature. Nay, more like he would send a note. Or a messenger. Would Arno have sent someone in his stead, someone he trusted, who was party to his treason against Somerford and Lord Radulf? Did Arno have such an ally at Somerford Manor?
“Could it have been Brother Mark?” Gunnar asked quietly, and watched Edward’s wrinkled face.
The old man thought hard, and then nodded uncertainly. “Aye, ’tis possible, Captain. Brother Mark be shortish, and he wears a cloak. Aye, mayhap ’twere Brother Mark.”
Gunnar nodded with a sense of satisfaction. Another mystery solved. Arno and Mark were friends, and they were both in the plot with Fitzmorton to take Somerford. Probably Arno had only brought Mark there for that reason—the man was certainly no priest. He bore the scars of battle upon his hands and his knowledge of priestly matters was abysmal. Not that that prevented him from being a priest, for Gunnar had met some poor excuses for priests, but there was something cunning about the man, something base that gave the lie to his claims of piety.
“Thank you, Edward,” Gunnar said at last, and smiled. “You have helped me much and I will not forget it when the time comes.”
Edward glanced up at him sharply, perhaps hearing some note in his voice he did not like. “You do be on the Lady Ro
se’s side in this matter, Captain? We Somerford folk do love our lady. Don’t be thinking otherwise. ’Tis Sir Arno we don’t like. He shows us one face but he has another he keeps well hid. Ever since he came here, he’s been watching her, hoping for more than he has a right to. Lady Rose trusts him because her heart is good; she doesn’t believe he’d betray her.”
“She is fond of him, then?” The words were careless, as if it mattered to him not at all. Gunnar was surprised how difficult it suddenly was for him to assume such a pretense.
Edward snorted. “You think they be lovers, Captain? Nay, they’re not lovers! Lady Rose is too good for Arno, Captain. He was Lord Edric’s friend, and so she trusts him for that reason. Do you know he swore allegiance to her over Edric’s deathbed?” The old man raised a cynical eyebrow. “Edric made him do it.”
“And you think…?”
“I think Lord Edric knew very well what Arno was about. I think he made him swear his allegiance to Lady Rose to keep him true to her. Mayhap he hoped Lady Rose would marry again, to a man strong enough to deal with the Norman. He didn’t realize our lady would see that Arno did not love her people as she did, and so for our sake she would stand alone. Lady Lily helped her in that—Lady Lily be a strong woman herself.”
As Gunnar returned to the keep he felt almost light-headed with relief. It must be so. Edward was right. Rose was no treacherous lady. No, he was the treacherous one. He quickened his pace, full of a dark, unfamiliar anger. He was here as Rose’s man but he was actually Lord Radulf’s spy. Worse than that, for he was seeking to steal what was hers. And when Rose learned of it she would feel betrayed.
She would probably never forgive him.
Constance had been watching Rose since she entered the bedchamber that morning to help her dress. The old woman had a gleam in her eye, but as yet, to Rose’s relief, she had said nothing. With luck she would believe the signs of exhaustion on Rose’s face were due to no more than a restless night—Jesu, it wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty of troubles to keep her awake! She didn’t want to speak of Gunnar yet. She felt too unsettled to consider what would happen now, and Constance would force her to think hard.
“Lady? The red gown today with the blue undergown?”
Rose nodded, allowing Constance to choose, standing docile while Constance tugged the cloth over her head and settled it into place. Constance’s gaze fixed on the bed and instantly Rose tensed. Although she was sure she had smoothed away all evidence of Gunnar’s occupation, he was such an overwhelming presence, it was as if some sign of him remained. Would Constance sense that he had been there?
Thus far the old woman had not said a word.
“The plaited gold girdle, lady? And the red calfskin shoes?”
“Aye, Constance, thank you.”
Constance finished with the girdle and shoes and set to brushing her lady’s hair, strong strokes through the curling, midnight thickness. Rose sighed for the dozenth time, wondering how she would look at Gunnar today—yesterday had been bad enough, but now there was much more between them.
She closed her eyes, remembering despite herself. It had not been at all as she imagined. She had thought he would lie with her once and leave, mayhap even use her like a…a camp follower. Instead he had taken her with relish, lavishing his body upon her. She had feared from the first moment she saw him that he would enthrall her senses, and so he had, but in return he had given her a new sense of her own power over him.
She had not expected that.
Rose had learned last night that Gunnar Olafson was not the invulnerable warrior she had thought him. She could make him sweat, she could make him shudder, she could make him groan for release. He was a man, capable of feeling pain and pleasure, hurt and joy. And knowing that had changed everything.
Constance had begun to braid her hair, standing close behind Rose, her fingers still quick and sure for all her years.
“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “the character of a man is more important that his bloodline.” She nodded to herself, twisting the dark strands into one thick rope. “A man with honor, a strong man who can see right from wrong, aye, he would be a far better option than a man with powerful friends who whores and swears and cares not at all for his wife and family.”
Rose had stiffened, staring straight ahead as if Constance held a dagger at her back. So much for thinking she had escaped Constance’s eagle eyes, she thought despairingly.
“I have heard tell that the Vikings are near enough to kings, in their own country.”
“They are savages and murderers in ours,” Rose retorted in a small, hard voice.
“Lady, your own father is no shining example. Old Edric was frightened of him, but he still married you, and not only because Radulf, his overlord, told him to. He did it because you were beautiful and sweet, and the old man lost his heart to you. Maybe he even felt sorry for you, when he met your father and saw what he was. One day you will have to wed again, and your second husband may not be as easy to manage as your first.”
Rose shook her head; of all her people, Constance was the only one who knew of her past. “Constance, this is not helping…”
“To marry beneath your family and position may not be ‘beneath’ you in other ways, that is all I mean to say.” Constance finished with a rush, determined to complete her speech.
Rose took a deep, slow breath. “I see that you have guessed what happened between Captain Olafson and myself. It was lust, Constance, nothing more. You said yourself I needed a lover, and last night I took one. That is all. Please don’t think it more than that.”
Constance finished the braid and let it fall gently against Rose’s straight back. “Do you truly believe that? I have seen the look in your eyes…in his eyes, and I know there is more to this than lust.”
“No.” Rose pulled away and stood up. Her heart was pounding, her eyes wide, her hands shaking. “Please, let me hear no more of it, Constance. I will hear no more!”
And she was gone, all but running down the stairs. Constance stared after her with a humorless smile. “Aye, my lady, you may run this time, but there will come a time when you can run no more. And then you will see that this old woman was right.”
Chapter 13
“Steven?”
He looked up at her warily. The youthful face had a greenish tinge, and brown hair hung into redrimmed, hazel eyes. Rose bit her lip to prevent a smile. Radulf’s messenger had overindulged last night and was now paying the price. Belatedly he struggled to stand, but Rose put a gentle hand on his shoulder to prevent him.
“No, Steven, rest your legs.”
“My thanks, lady.” He sounded as if his throat had formed a crust.
“You have been with Lord Radulf long?”
He managed a wan smile. “Aye, lady.”
“And you revere him? Aye, I see you do. You must be more than thankful his lady is delivered safely and he has his heir.”
The smile was broader now. “I am thankful for both. Lord Radulf is…is very fond of his lady.”
“Besotted, in fact?” teased Rose, who had seen the couple at first hand. “They are very lucky, Steven, you do not know how rare ’tis for such a union in these times.”
The boy nodded seriously, but his eyes held a puzzled look as he watched her, wondering what she wanted from him.
Rose got to the point. “I wish you to give a message from me to Lord Radulf and Lady Lily.” She held the parchment in her hand, the wax stamped with Edric’s seal, a large fish swallowing a smaller fish.
Steven cleared his throat. “Aye, lady, I will deliver your message safely.”
She smiled without humor. “It says that the people of Somerford Manor celebrate the birth of a son for Crevitch, and that one day he will be our lord.”
“Aye, lady.”
“There is more.” Rose met his eyes and noticed the glazed look clearing from them as Steven sensed her anxiety. Carefully, she placed the parchment on the table before him. For a moment she
was tempted to speak the words aloud: I am asking Lord Radulf for his support—one of Lord Fitzmorton’s men has died in Somerford village and my miller has admitted to the crime. But there were circumstances…But she shook her head impatiently; better if Radulf read them himself. “Tell him that he must come as soon as may be,” she said hastily, and even then wondered if she had said too much.
“Aye, Lady Rose, I will tell him that. He must come to Somerford.” He hesitated uncertainly, and then rose to his feet, tucking the parchment inside his tunic. He was as tall as she—not a boy then, despite his youthful face. “Do not worry, lady, whatever is wrong Lord Radulf will put it to rights.”
Wryly, Rose smiled her thanks, and went on her way.
In truth she felt numbed. It was done and soon Steven would be gone, taking the fateful message to Radulf at Crevitch castle, some five leagues to the west. Lord Radulf would understand the danger and send his men, if he did not come himself. Somerford Manor would be safe from Fitzmorton, and Harold would live on to be an old man. Aye, all would be well.
Except for Rose.
She would lose Somerford Manor. No longer to be the lady here, no longer to be loved and respected, no longer to sit in her hall and feel she belonged.
No longer to lie awake at night worrying for the welfare of your people. No longer making decisions that give and take life. No longer butting your head against the stubborn, brutal stupidity of men like Miles de Vessey…
There was that. But, as Rose was aware, such decisions were all part of being the Lady of Somerford. And would the new lord be as fair, as mindful of the people as Rose had been? Mayhap it would be someone like Arno, selfish and uncaring, looking upon his English people as mere cattle.
But at least it will not be Lord Fitzmorton.
No, at least they would be spared that awful fate.
Rose glanced at Brother Mark as she left the great hall. He was watching her, and bowed his head slightly in response. He had written her the message that morning, copying as she dictated, his pen scratching busily upon the parchment. When the letter was sealed, she had sworn him to silence, and he had given his word. As he was the only person at Somerford who could read and write, Rose had had no choice but to trust him with this important task.