The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept)

by Becnel, Rexanne

  Rosalynde noted with some satisfaction that at least his eyes were closed, but that was small comfort. It was clear the girl was there to offer him solace for his pain, but what sort of solace was highly questionable to Rosalynde’s mind. The two were so engrossed—her making soft clucking noises as she slid her hand back and forth on his shoulder, and him wincing as he tried to find an easier position—that Rosalynde had no idea how long she might have stood there before they would have noticed her. But when she saw the girl reach out for an old horse rag to wipe the sweat from Blacksword’s cruelly cut back, Rosalynde could not keep her silence any longer.

  “Don’t touch him with that!”

  At once two heads swiveled around to stare at her in wary surprise. The girl’s face quickly assumed an expression of guilt and subservience as she hitched her blouse higher on her shoulder. Blacksword’s face, however, altered from caution to curiosity and then, it seemed, to satisfaction. But it was suspicion that ultimately lingered as his gaze narrowed and his lips thinned in sarcasm.

  “ ’Tis a hard-hearted pair you and your father make. He sees the wounds formed with an unjust flogging, and you make sure no healing may take place. Do you begrudge me the ease of this kind maiden’s ministrations?” he finished with an ill-disguised taunt.

  Rosalynde was too aggravated to think straight. “Her ministrations … Her ministrations!” she sputtered. “If you wish the wounds to fester, by all means, let her minister to you with that filthy rag!”

  Had it not been for the mortified girl’s hasty exit, Rosalynde might have stormed away from the little stall herself. As it was, however, when the girl sneaked silently past her, she was left alone to face the scowling Blacksword. Under the circumstances she was hard-pressed to recall exactly why it was she had sought him out.

  For a long, uneasy moment he continued to glare at her. Then with a movement that seemed effortless but that she was certain pained him greatly, he rose to his feet and faced her. “What in the name of hell do you want?”

  In the narrow confines of the low-ceilinged stable, Rosalynde was suddenly intimidated by the powerful man who stood before her. He was the one who was hurt. He was the one who needed help. Yet she felt unaccountably like fleeing his awesome presence.

  “Well?” he prompted with a sneer. “You came here for a reason, so let’s have it. Or do I dare suspect that it was only jealousy that drew you here?” He smiled sarcastically. “ ’Tis not likely a newlywed like yourself would long abide her husband’s dalliance with the dairymaid.”

  It was that repugnant comment with its attendant innuendo which drove her at last to a furious response. “I’m no newly-wed bride and you are most emphatically not my husband! And I don’t care if you … if you—”

  “Be careful, my sweet wife.” He goaded her still further. “ ’Tis said that walls may have ears. Would you flaunt our marital discord so openly?” To this vile remark he added more insult by arching one of his brows in mocking superiority.

  “This is not marital discord,” Rosalynde hissed, but with a cautious glance over her shoulder toward the rest of the darkened stable. “This is not marital discord,” she repeated in a quieter yet no less adamant tone. “This is … this is … it’s pure dislike!”

  She stared at him belligerently, daring him to deny that she heartily disliked him. A part of her was firm in her position, ready to argue that she found him completely detestable and thoroughly unlikable. But that same small voice crept through her defenses to whisper that there were some things about him that didn’t repulse her. There were some things she didn’t dislike about him at all. But though she tried to ignore that irritating voice, as she glared at Blacksword it became more and more difficult. He was so overpoweringly masculine; he had such a commanding presence. In the closeness of the room as he stood bare-chested before her, she began suddenly to grow warmer as unwelcome remembrances of his heated embrace overwhelmed her. To make matters even worse, his thoughts seemed to follow the same path, for his implacable gray gaze slowly slipped down to take in every aspect of her appearance. Even though she was completely covered by the high-necked aqua wool gown, she felt the full force of that gaze, and its effect on her was immediate.

  Of a sudden she felt surrounded by his virile presence, suffocated by unwanted memories and wicked desires. She took a harsh breath as his eyes rose back up to meet hers, and in his gaze she saw a promise—a threat—of things to come. In a panic she stepped back, determined only that she must escape while she could. But Blacksword was too swift. As if he read her mind, he reached a quick hand forward to grab her arm. At once the two vials of medications she’d prepared fell onto the layer of straw between them. He glanced down at them, then back up at her again.

  “For me?” he asked with mocking courtesy. “Has my wood nymph come back to heal me? Can this be the same girl who had me flogged? God’s blood, but I believe she must be feeling guilty if she’s come bearing healing ointments.” He tugged on her arm, drawing her forward against her will. “Is that it, my wild Rose? Are you feeling sorry for the deep slice of those cruel thorns of yours?”

  “ ’Twas not of my doing,” she cried as she tried unsuccessfully to free herself from his firm clasp. “I’ve no cause to be feeling any guilt on your account!”

  But the truth was she did feel guilt, and to her chagrin he seemed somehow to know.

  “You feel the guilt,” he averred. “But it is no more or less than any noblewoman feels. A man risks life and limb while the fair maiden applauds and cheers. ’Tis only when the fanfare is done and the excitement over that she feels remorse for the injuries he suffers.” He released her hand abruptly and let go a cynical laugh. “Come, my fair Rose, assuage your guilt.” He turned his back to her and squared his shoulders. “Smooth your balm over my wounds. I daresay it will sting more bitterly than ever the whip did.”

  Freed of his confining grasp, Rosalynde’s first instinct was to turn and flee. But the sight of the angry red welts that crisscrossed his back and the brown crusted blood that had dried in place held her rooted to her spot. She had caused those terrible marks. She had caused him to suffer untold pain—to suffer it even yet. Despite her fear of his anger and her mistrust of his motives, the cruelly marked flesh before her would not let her leave. Her fury dissolved into hot choking shame, and tears blurred her eyes as she finally stooped, shaking, to retrieve the two vials.

  “I-I need water,” she whispered to that broad, unmoving back. “I’ll return directly.” Then she grabbed a nearby bucket and fled into the dark. But if Rosalynde thought to find some solace in the empty night, she was sorely disappointed. When she returned with the water, her throat was still thick with emotion and her heart pounded an unsteady rhythm. But her tears were gone and her hands trembled no more.

  Blacksword still stood as he had, although to her eyes he seemed not so erect as before. But he stiffened at her entrance and his voice was as taunting as ever. “Ready to begin, milady?” he asked with biting emphasis on that last word.

  But Rosalynde did not rise to his baiting words. She was too undone by the gruesome task before her and too distressed by her part in his pain. “Could you sit?” she asked in a small voice. After only a moment’s hesitation he once again sat down on the overturned hay bier.

  Viewed up close, Blacksword’s back was a dreadful sight indeed. Although she had a talent for healing, Rosalynde had never acquired the ability to stifle her stomach’s adverse reaction to the ravages of the flesh. Yet on this occasion, more than any other, she knew she must suppress the horror and force herself to hold steady. Her deepest dread was that in order to soothe and heal his fiery wounds, she must first cause him even further pain. But it could not be helped, and with a deep calming breath she set to her task.

  “This will be painful,” she murmured after she ripped a generous length of linen from the hem of her kirtle and soaked it in the cool water. Then, clenching her teeth against what she knew she must do, she pressed the cloth to the welt
s across his upper back. She felt the tremor through the fabric, the silent quiver as his tortured skin reacted to the pressure of her hands. Something in her quivered too, something deep inside, and she had to muffle her own moan of dismay. But he gave no voice to the agony he surely felt, and she could do no less. With hands as gentle as was possible, she swiftly soaked the crusted-on blood and washed it away. She braced her left hand against one of his arms as she worked, and oddly enough, it was the warmth and solidity of that unharmed skin which gave her the strength to continue. Down the valley of his spine and across the hard muscles she cleansed away the dirt and blood and tatters of hanging skin. The cleansing wash was next, and finally she gingerly applied the ointment, sliding it across welts and tears alike, smoothing it across his ravaged flesh, feeling it soften and melt against the heat of his skin. Only when Rosalynde was finished with her work did her rigid stance give way, and her slight sag must have transmitted itself to him.

  “Well done, milady,” he mocked in a voice low and filled with tension. “But know you not that the gentlest touch of a beautiful maiden’s fingers causes far more torture to a man than does the severest flogging?”

  She jerked upright and glared at the back of his tawny head. “Is it as painful as the hangman’s noose?”

  At that his head twisted slightly and he peered at her with eyes of the deepest slate gray.

  “That’s something I cannot answer with any degree of knowledge.”

  “Well, I can answer it!” she snapped, furious that even in the midst of his pain he could still mock her. “Those men hung there, choking and … and twisting. They tried to breathe … You heard them! That could have been you! Why cannot you be content to at least be alive!”

  In her outburst of anger and frustration and awful memory she was not immediately aware of the tears that filled her eyes. When they spilled over her dark lashes to splash down her cheeks, she brushed them away with the back of one hand, humiliated to cry before him. But as she turned to flee his presence, he stood up and caught her wrist once more. For one galvanizing moment her shimmering eyes locked with his glittering stare. Then his grip tightened and his eyes narrowed with emotion.

  “I am very glad to be alive, milady. But content? I’ll only be content when what is rightfully mine becomes mine.”

  “But … but I tried to get your reward for you,” Rosalynde stammered. “I really did—”

  “And what of yourself?” he interrupted her. “You are mine by right of your handfast vow.” His eyes bored into hers with an intensity that was frightening. “You are mine by right of possession.”

  “No,” she whispered, wishing to deny the terrible truth of his words. “No, I am no possession, most especially not yours.” But saying the words did not make it so, and she quaked at the awful truth of what he said. There was a long, tense silence before he dropped her hand.

  “Will you tell your father, or shall I?” he asked in a voice low and quiet, yet filled nonetheless with menace.

  “You can’t be serious,” she gasped. She stared up at him in horror. “Surely you know that would be a death sentence.”

  “Shall you tell him we are man and wife—truly and in every way—or shall I?” he persisted, as if he’d not heard her words at all.

  “I shall deny it.…” Rosalynde shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. “You are mad,” she whispered when she recognized the dark determination in his face. “He will have you slain,” she insisted. “You will not live to spread your tale.”

  “ ’Tis no doubt he would not see the truth come out any more than you,” he replied caustically. “But as for me—” He stopped and his expression grew grim. “There are things I must do. Things I will not delay.” He reached for his shirt then turned a mocking smile on her. “Take heart, Lady Rosalynde. If he is so bloodthirsty as you believe and has me struck down for saying the truth, then you will at least be free of me. After all, that is what you desire most, is it not?” Again he fixed her with a piercing look.

  Rosalynde was flustered and confused by his paradoxical words. She was not sure at all what she wanted of this man, but one thing was certain: She did not want to see him struck down, especially at her father’s hands.

  “I would not wish you dead,” she answered, so quietly that the words went all but unheard.

  He cocked his head slightly, and one brow lifted skeptically. “You refuse me to husband but you would not see me dead,” he mused aloud as if he pondered a weighty matter. Then his gaze sharpened and his voice grew harsh. “Unfortunately, there appears to be no other choices. If the truth comes out you say I shall be slain, and yet I cannot live with less than the truth. So you see.…” He trailed off with a mocking smile that seemed to make light of the words which struck her so deeply. “There is no middle road. You may have one or the other, but nothing else.”

  “But why?” she cried, more unsettled than ever. “Why must it be only one or the other? Why can you not be content—”

  “Because the vow was made,” he cut her off as he dropped the shirt and grabbed her by the arms. “Because we are handfast wed.” His head lowered and his searing gaze met her stunned eyes. “Because you are my wife. Mine.”

  Then his lips descended on hers with a fierce ardor that rocked her back on her heels. Anger, pain, and desire flared between them in that kiss. He was harsh and demanding, forcing her mouth open, slipping his tongue between her startled lips. Yet any rational thoughts of repugnance and horror melted away in the heat of his emotion. The very savageness of his kiss, the hard possessiveness of it, seemed perversely to make her softer and more pliable until she was fitted intimately against him, tilted backward in his implacable embrace.

  When he at last pulled back from her she was off balance and gasping for breath. Their eyes met and in that instant Rosalynde felt as if he’d discovered some secret about her, as if she’d somehow given herself away. Then he smiled and she was suddenly sure of it. She struggled out of his arms, confused and frightened by the unsettled feelings inside her.

  “There’s no reason to put if off, Rose. I would have the truth of our union made known. Already I have delayed too long, dallying at your skirts when there are urgent matters that require my attention.” He halted and his features darkened. For a moment he seemed lost in thought.

  In the brief silence Rosalynde found her voice. “Dallying at my skirts!” She sputtered in outrage. “You cannot blame your foolishness on me! Oh, but you are truly quite mad!”

  “Perhaps I am, Rose. Only time will tell. So run to your father and tell him. Tell him I kissed you in the stable. Tell him I made love with you in the forest.” He laughed at her wide-eyed look of shock. “Tell him we are man and wife, or else I will. And then my blood will be on your hands.”

  It was this last that lent wings to her feet. She fled through the stable, uncaring of where she ran so long as she escaped his mocking words and taunting laugh. Out into the castle yard she dashed, across the dusty bailey until she reached the great hall and the narrow stone stairs that led up the east tower. But even when she attained her own chambers and slammed the door closed, she was not able to dismiss his tormenting words from her mind.

  She was gasping for breath as she hastily disrobed, still panting as she nervously twisted her long hair into one thick plait. She could not tell her father the truth. Yet would it not go even worse for Blacksword if he was the one to reveal it all? Torn by her conflicting emotions—he was horrid and deserved whatever hand fate dealt him, but she could not bear to see him hurt again—she climbed into her bed and flung a heavy sheepskin over her. The dark warmth of her bed, however, was of no comfort whatsoever, for no matter what she did—tell or keep her silence—it would all come to the same end. If her father knew, he would most certainly have Blacksword punished, undoubtedly to the point of death. She knew that with a surety she could not shake. And then, just as Blacksword had said, his blood would be on her hands.

  She buried her head in her ar
ms, wishing to blot out the entire world as she huddled in her misery. Why must he be so stubborn? Why must he be so inflexible?

  But as her utter exhaustion gave way to the numbing relief of sleep, she was not entirely certain whether it was Blacksword’s inflexibility that disturbed her so, or her father’s.

  14

  Rosalynde was awake before dawn. As she made her way down to the great hall, the fire was just being lit and the tables were being assembled by four menservants. Two harried women came in carting fresh pitchers of ale and baskets filled with the previous day’s bread for breaking the night’s fast.

  The rushes were more than disgusting, Rosalynde noted in passing. They appeared even worse by day than by night. Yet the many tasks that faced her in order to put the castle to rights were not uppermost in her mind. Not at the moment.

  She had slept fitfully, waking over and over again to worry about the ultimatum Blacksword had given her. Either she would reveal all, or he would; that summed up his unyielding position. Yet she was equally determined to keep their secret from her father. Now, as she slipped past the tall oak door, she intended to confront him once more. If she could just get him to delay. If she could just convince him to hold his tongue, even if it was only for a little while.

  On the ramparts the guards were changing, while in the castle yard servants and men-at-arms both were beginning their day’s tasks. A gang of young boys made their way to the well, carrying empty buckets on either side of their shoulder yokes. They ceased their boisterous chatter when they spied her and speedily doffed their assortment of misshapen caps. But they gaped at her with mouths half opened and stared without the least thought for their manners.