The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept)

by Becnel, Rexanne

  When he took a step toward her, she let out a squeak of alarm and scrambled down from the rock wall.

  “Have you any weapon?” His eyes ran down her dirty, lumpy form then up again to her face. “A dagger, perhaps?”

  Rosalynde froze in indecision. Should she pretend to be weaponless—and thereby appear completely at his mercy? Or admit to having Cleve’s small knife and perhaps have him take it from her? She hesitated and tried to break the hold of his perceptive gaze, but before she could formulate a reply, he gave her a cold smile.

  “You have one,” he stated knowingly. “Come, give it to me.”

  “No.” Rosalynde backed away from him warily. “You may not have it.”

  “I can just as easily take it from you. Come now. Just hand it over.”

  As best she could, Rosalynde affected a measure of calm as she removed the meager weapon from the strap that held it to her leg. But she was shaking with fear and dread. Then, when he started toward her to retrieve it, she swiftly lifted it up and pointed it at him threateningly.

  “Stay away from me!”

  Her whispered warning slowed his pace, but a smirk curved his mouth into a half smile, and he looked at her in amusement.

  “How now, wife?” The smirk grew broader as she stiffened at his use of that turn. “Is this any way to greet your new husband?”

  “You’re not my husband!” she hissed. “I only went along with that pagan ritual to get your help.”

  “You married a condemned murderer expecting his help?” He shook his head in mock disbelief even as he took another step closer. “It seems much wiser to ask the authorities for help than a ‘convict’ like myself. Why not go back and speak to the ‘lord’ mayor?”

  “He’s drunk. They all are,” she answered, taking a wary step backwards. “Anyway, his friend grabbed me and then he accused me and—”

  “Accused you? Of what? Thieving, perhaps? Are you a cutpurse, or maybe a whore?” One of his brows arched and he gave her a thoroughly insulting once-over. To her chagrin, she did not know whether to be relieved or angry at his obvious lack of interest in her womanly attributes.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “Nor have I,” he said sarcastically. “Do you believe me?” Then, at her look of disbelief, he let out a short, mirthless laugh. “I see you do not.”

  “I don’t care about what you’ve done. If I had I would not have saved you from the hangman. But I did save you and now I want to be brought safely to my home.”

  “As I said before, I’ve needs enough of my own to occupy me, brat.” His eyes narrowed until they appeared as dark as obsidian. “Where, pray tell, is your home?”

  “Stanwood Castle. Have you heard of it?” she added hopefully.

  But he only shrugged. “How did an urchin like you get so far from home?”

  “I’m not an urchin!” she burst out. But at his clear look of skepticism she sighed in resignation.

  “I-I was living at Millwort Castle and my brother … my brother died. I go to tell my father.” She did not realize that her posture had slumped as she thought of her brother, nor that her hand had lowered somewhat with the dagger. “We were attacked. Everyone was killed but Cleve and me, and—”

  “Cleve?”

  Rosalynde stared at him doubtfully. How much of the truth should she tell this man? Should she reveal that she was a noblewoman and Cleve only her young servant? Should she let him know that Cleve was hurt? She needed to convince the brute that he would be well compensated for any help he gave her, but she did not want to appear so helpless that he might take advantage of her.

  She was spared the necessity of reply by his sudden, lightning-fast lunge. In an instant he had her wrist in an unbreakable hold. She struggled frantically to grab the dagger with her other hand, but he swiftly jerked her against him, then spun her around so that her back was pressed against him and her other arm was pinned by his implacable grasp.

  “Drop the knife,” he muttered hoarsely in her ear. Then his hand tightened painfully around her wrist, cutting off her circulation until her fingers began to feel numb. “Drop it,” he ordered once more.

  When her nerveless fingers finally did release the short dagger, Rosalynde let out a small cry of despair. But whatever dreadful fears she had for her own safety fled as he immediately released her and grabbed the knife, almost seeming to forget she was even there. He ran his thumb assessingly over the hard steel blade and hefted the bone handle in his palm. “Small but effective in hand-to-hand combat.” He gave her a piercing look. “I’ll see you safe to the next village. That’s the most I can do for you. Perhaps there you can get the help you need.” He slid the dagger into the wide leather thong at his waist.

  Rosalynde was too undone by his clear intention to abandon her to weigh her words well. “You cannot just leave me off wherever you wish! I saved your miserable neck so that you could help me and Cleve! Have you no feelings whatsoever? Have you no honor?”

  His expression turned black at her shrill tone and accusing words. Rosalynde knew it was reckless to berate a man such as he. She knew her words were foolish and rash. But too much had happened; she had been witness to too many horrors and had been too agitated in the last few days to care anymore.

  “You have no honor! No … no soul! No heart at all in your chest!” Then she snatched one of the carrots out of her soiled tunic and flung it furiously at him.

  He deflected it easily enough, but his scowl did not relent. “Think carefully, my thorny little Rose. If I have no honor, no soul nor heart either, then you are on precarious ground indeed. Count it a blessing that I have consented to take you to the next village. Do not think to get anything else of me. Now let’s go.” So saying, he scooped up the battered carrot, stepped easily over the ancient stone wall, and strode out into the open wastelands beyond.

  Rosalynde watched him go with a mixture of hopelessness and fury. How could he be so cruel and heartless—so unfeeling? He had taken the knife, and he obviously had no compunction about abandoning her at the first opportunity he found. Even though that might be for the best, there was still Cleve to consider.

  He was almost a third of the way toward the distant tree line, his tall form beginning to blend into the long shadows of dusk, when she finally made up her mind. No matter how awful he was, he was still her only hope. And he was heading in the wrong direction!

  As fast as she ran across the open wasteland, she thought she would never catch him. He was almost to the trees when he paused briefly at her breathless shout. But then he turned and continued on his way, and she had to force her bruised feet and aching lungs to continue on.

  “Wait!” she cried as she finally caught up with him and grabbed the hem of his tunic. “I said wait!”

  He stopped so abruptly that she ran full force into him. When she raised her dazed eyes to his face, he was once again glaring at her.

  “A woman who orders a man around—whether husband or no—takes the risk of being severely cuffed for her impudence.”

  “I’ll pay you!” Rosalynde blurted out as she stared up into his shadowed face. In the waning light he appeared more beast than man, a shaggy creature of supernatural strength, all her direst fears brought to unholy light. But her worry for Cleve and her terror of being alone in a strange, dark place overpowered her fear of his anger. “I’ll pay you. You’ll be well rewarded,” she vowed, half sobbing in her desperation.

  “With what?” Then he smiled coldly and gave her a distasteful once-over. “I hope you don’t think to bribe me with your womanly favors. If I wanted that I would simply take it. After all, we are handfast wed.”

  Rosalynde was aghast as much at his disgusting assumption of her means of payment as by his humiliating rebuff. But she was not about to let him leave. “My father will pay,” she insisted. “He will reward you well if you but bring me safely to Stanwood Castle. And Cleve too.”

  This time he did not respond so quickly, and Rosalynde felt the tiniest gli
mmer of hope. But then he laughed and pushed his long matted hair back from his brow. “What will he give me? A broken-down cow? Half of his wool from the fall shearing? Or perhaps a share in his already meager portion of the rocky ground he farms for some noble lord? No.” He shook his head bitterly. “I seek much more than that.”

  “My father is no mere cottar, no farmer to pay you in leeks and mutton!” she cried. “He is Lord of Stanwood. He will pay you in … in …”

  “In gold? And jewels?” He laughed sarcastically and put his fists on his hips. “Yes, I can see now that you’re quite the lady. How foolish of me not to have noticed. Here I thought I’d been wed to a mere village urchin, one who wanted a husband perhaps because she was already with child.” One of his brows arched and his gaze moved down to the lump of vegetables inside her tunic. “No doubt your father will reward me with castles and land and riches far beyond my wildest dreams.” He laughed again and started to move away. “What a poor liar you are.”

  “He’ll give you weapons!” Rosalynde shouted in desperation. “A horse. And … and … and gold! Yes, he’ll give you gold if you just bring us safely home.” When that didn’t convince him, when he gave her a last skeptical glance, she could not prevent the tears that spilled over her long thick lashes. “If you don’t believe me then ask Cleve. By the holy rood! If you’ll just talk to Cleve! He’ll tell you. He’ll tell you who I am and who my father is.” She clasped her hands tightly before her mouth. “Please,” she begged in little more than a whisper. “Please.”

  After a heartbreakingly long moment he turned to stare at her. His eyes were dark; his expression was unreadable. When he spoke his voice held a note she could not decipher. Had he been moved by her tears, or by her pleading? Or was it only his greed?

  “What an odd little wench you are. What a thorny little Rose.” Then he crossed to stand before her, and with one finger beneath her chin he tilted her face up to him. “Show me this Cleve of yours. But be cautious,” he warned as the quick light of relief lit her face. “I’ll not countenance any lies from you. Be truthful with me and we shall get along. Lie to me.…”

  He left off without finishing, but Rosalynde was well aware of the threat inherent in his warning. Still, she was fairly certain her father would reward this Blacksword for any help he provided her. She did not pause to worry about that, however. As the violet light of nightfall began to shade the countryside, she quickly began the return trip to the castle where poor Cleve lay ailing. She did not let herself think about what would happen then, what Cleve would say, or about the days to come. She refused to dwell on the fact that she was entrusting herself and Cleve into the care of a condemned murderer who might, but for his previous capture, have been one of the bloodthirsty gang who had beset them yesterday.

  Instead she concentrated on the knowledge that he wanted the reward. He was big and strong. And mean. He would get them to Stanwood safely in order to collect his prize. Then he would be on his way.

  She drew her hood around her neck and shivered a little at the cool evening. No one need ever know about the handfasting, she decided. In a year and a day the vow would be broken, and she would be free to make a true marriage. Neither her father nor her future husband would ever have to know. She glanced curiously at the man who strode beside her in the dark moonlit night.

  He would keep the secret, she assured herself. After all, he was not the sort who wished to be tied down to a wife. Besides, she recalled, pursing her lips in annoyance, he had already indicated his distaste for her. No, he would not tell anyone about the handfasting. With any luck she would be rid of him within a fortnight.

  5

  Rosalynde was cold, hungry, and long past exhaustion by the time they neared the ruined castle where Cleve was hidden. The moon had risen, a meager crescent in the eastern sky, and cast thin, ghostly shadows over the countryside. Trees, shrubs, stone outcroppings—in the pale metallic light each one appeared more sinister than the next. Her heart pounded with dread, for she expected at any moment that they would be beset by foul attackers.

  The silent man who strode before her was small comfort, for she was sure he would be glad to be rid of her, even if it meant fighting his way free. He had agreed to see Cleve, and she wanted to believe that he would then be convinced she was not lying. But as they traipsed along the overgrown trail that led up to the ominous castle remains, she was hard-pressed to be optimistic. What if Cleve was out of his head with fever? What if he couldn’t convince this Blacksword?

  What if he wouldn’t?

  At that disconcerting thought she stumbled over a root and nearly fell headlong onto the path. Ahead of her, her taciturn companion only sent her a glance over his wide shoulder, then kept on at the same sure pace. Ungrateful wretch! she thought to herself. But she could not afford to dwell on such venomous thoughts. Instead, she needed to solve this new wrinkle. What would Cleve say when he found out she had bound herself to this menacing stranger, this condemned murderer? Although he was just a boy and only a servant, she was well aware of his protective nature toward her. Hadn’t he proved that yesterday when he had attacked that horrible man at the river?

  She bit her lip in dismay and debated her choices. If she told him that Blacksword was just someone she hired …

  He would be skeptical and alarmed; however, he would have no reason not to believe her. But if he knew they were handfast wed … She shook her head and sighed. No, she could not tell him that, for even as small as he was, Cleve would very likely attack any man who dared claim his mistress’s hand in such a vulgar fashion. And she could not imagine this Blacksword taking such an affront lightly. She did not like to lie, but if she and Cleve were to get home safely it seemed the only way. But she still felt uneasy as they approached the black shadow of the semidemolished adulterine.

  “Where is this Cleve?” Blacksword finally spoke as they came upon a breach in the stone coursework wall.

  “In an old lean-to,” she answered as she tried to get her bearings. The night made everything look different, and for a moment she panicked, unsure now where she had left the page. But then she saw the overgrown herb garden and she was reassured. “This way,” she said as she clambered over the rubble and started across the littered bailey. “We’re nearly there.”

  But when she finally located the right shed and called out to Cleve, she received no answer.

  “Cleve? Cleve?” she called more shrilly. Was she too late? Had he been hurt far worse than she had thought? An icy dread washed over her as she pushed her way into the roofless little building. “Cleve, are you here? Are you all right?”

  “Milady?” The whisper came soft and shaky from the deepest recesses of the room. “Lady Rosalynde?”

  In an instant she was at his side. She did not see the man behind her stiffen at the boy’s mumbled words. In the impenetrable darkness she fumbled for Cleve, and even through his tunic and her cloak, which he clutched around him, the heat of his fever was unmistakable. She did not pause at all as she plotted what must be done.

  “We need a fire. And water too.” She found the broken bit of crockery and turned to where Blacksword stood, silent and faintly silhouetted in the gaping hole where a door must once have been. “The well is toward the far end of the bailey, opposite where we came in,” she said. Then when he did not respond, her voice grew fierce. “Here. Take it.”

  “You go for the water and wood. I’ll wait here with your friend.” His answer was cold and unemotional, and for a moment Rosalynde’s confidence wavered.

  “He needs my help,” she began. Then she paused as his concern suddenly became clear to her.

  “This is no trick, Sir Blacksword, or whatever your name is. Cleve is hurt. Dear God, he’s just a boy!” she cried. “Come and see for yourself.”

  There was an achingly long moment when he did not move. Then he advanced warily and when he squatted down near her, she reached for his hand to let him feel for himself the fever that consumed poor Cleve. But at the first
touch of her hand on his arm he tensed. Had she not been so worried for Cleve, she would have pulled back from him, for she again felt that frisson of heat, like a warning jolt of danger when they touched. But her cause was too important. Cleve’s very life might be at stake.

  “Feel his head,” she insisted as she tugged at his rigid forearm. “Feel for yourself.” In the inky darkness she could see very little, but she felt when his arm relaxed, and she guided it to Cleve’s overheated brow. “You see? I need water to cool him, and a fire for light to work by. I implore you, if you ever had a friend or a comrade you cared for, please, help me care for him.”

  Rosalynde could not hear the sincere plea in her own voice. She could not know that the meager moonlight shimmered in her dark hair much like a halo might. In the grueling afternoon she had appeared a dirty-faced ragamuffin, a desperate urchin scrabbling as best she could for survival. But shielded now by the night, and flattered by the silver glimmer of the moon, she was a different creature entirely. The man, Blacksword, did not need to reason out the sudden confidence he had in her story. She had not lied so far, not about the boy nor about her noble rank. He’d heard the sick boy call her milady. And she had taken quick control of this new emergency as well, much as any accomplished chatelaine might. He stood up abruptly, taking the crockery with him.

  “You’ll have your fire, my thorny Rose. And your water. But we may not stay here overlong. I give them till their heads stop pounding—midday at the latest—before they come searching me out once more.”

  “Then you’ll do it? You’ll take us to Stanwood?”

  “Aye,” he slowly agreed. “For the promise of reward I’ll take you to Stanwood.”