The Rose of Blacksword (Loveswept)

by Becnel, Rexanne

  For a full minute they stared at one another across the span of his stiff arms. Rosalynde fought for breath and for control of her spinning senses, only partly aware of his equally breathless state. But she could not hide the bewilderment on her face, nor the impossible desire.

  “For such a kiss,” he began, still fighting for breath. “For such a kiss you have my silence, sweet Rose.”

  “You … you will not confront my father?” she asked, hardly able to gather her wits again.

  “It cannot be avoided forever,” he warned her. Then his eyes moved to her reddened lips and he let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “But should I pursue the matter too hard, I suspect you now know how to silence me once more.”

  So saying he released his hold on her arms and then pushed his hair back from his brow. “And now, as much as I would like to tarry with you, I fear our absence might soon be noted.” He gave her a low, sweeping bow before straightening up. Then he gave her a bawdy wink and turned back to his tasks.

  Rosalynde stood in the little enclosure of the willow long moments after Aric had left. She heard him in the garden as he worked and knew she too should begin the many tasks that awaited her. But rue and basil and sage were forgotten as she remained where she was.

  For the first time she recognized the true depths of the problem she had created. The handfasting had been a necessity, a vow made but never intended to be honored. Then they had lain together and everything had changed. Her virginity was lost and could never be reclaimed. But even in that, as wrong as it was, there had still been the hope for some resolution, some possibility of resuming her life with a degree of hope for the future. And for marriage to some respectable fellow one day.

  But this kiss …

  In the few seconds they had clung together, in the brief embrace they had shared, Rosalynde had come to a new and shattering realization. Blacksword or Aric—he touched something deep within her, something primitive and vital that she’d never known even existed. She thought of him constantly. Waking or sleeping, it made no difference. Her mind was consumed with him, and her body …

  She closed her eyes and leaned against the little willow. He made her body sing.

  If ever there were a man to whom she would cleave herself, he was most certainly it. Rogue that he was, commoner, outlaw, murderer—he drew her in a way no man ever would again. She was as sure of this as of anything she’d ever known. She was a lady. He was a slave. And yet no other man could be husband to her before him.

  No man.

  Sir Gilbert of Duxton scratched futilely at his bound arm, then picked up the parchment before him. “Have I met this Sir Edward?”

  “Sir Peter of Kiln was godfather to both your father and Sir Edward of Stanwood. They squired together and were old friends.”

  “I’ve not heard his name mentioned lately. He certainly has not been in London. Is he in disfavor with the crown?”

  The seneschal shifted from one leg to another, clearly not at ease under his master’s pointed gaze. “Word carries that he has kept to himself these past years since his wife died. He concerns himself with his crops and his fields. And his serfs,” he added more quietly.

  Gilbert did not notice the man’s implication. He was too engrossed in his own thoughts, and his face relaxed in a small smile. “Stanwood must be a profitable demesne under such close supervision. Has he any other heirs besides this daughter?”

  “Only a son who died recently.”

  “So there is no other claim. The land would go with her hand. As would the income.” Gilbert leaned back, scratching absently at the itch that continued to plague his healing arm. He gestured for more wine and read the neatly lettered paper once more.

  His father’s old friend invited him to the spring festivities. Feasting, games, a melee. And the chance to meet his only child, a girl called Rosalynde.

  He tapped the corner of the stiff paper against his freshly shaven chin and pursed his lips.

  Perhaps this was an omen. He’d been considering abandoning his less savory activities. There was too much outcry against highwaymen and runagates to think he could much longer avoid being found out. Perhaps the rich demesne of a pretty little wife would be a better source of income. Or even the rich demesne of an ugly wife.

  He laughed out loud and threw the paper down on the table. “Send word to this Sir Edward that we are pleased to attend his festivities. And Feron,” he added before the man could leave the chamber. “Have my captain of the guard come to me. If this Sir Edward is at all like my father, he is more impressed by a man’s ability with the sword than by his cleverness. Duxton must make a fine showing in the melee, and I would plan my strategy well.”

  After the seneschal had departed, Gilbert took up his tankard and drank deeply of the stong red wine. How opportune was this invitation. A wife and another demesne. Yes, this was a very good sign.

  He flexed the shoulder of his injured arm, then began abruptly to loosen the bindings around it. Enough time had gone by. Surely the bone was knit. It would not be good to meet his future father-in-law in less than his finest fighting mettle. No, he must strengthen his arm and prepare his men for the melee.

  He glanced over at a long sword that hung in a simple leather-and-steel scabbard from a peg on the wall. Perhaps he’d even have a chance to use the newest and finest of his weapons. It had not yet seen battle. However, the upcoming merriments might be the perfect time to christen it.

  17

  Rosalynde’s return to Stanwood Castle brought a myriad of changes. Many were obvious, for even the most slovenly of castle residents could not help but enjoy the new regime of cleanliness that the lord’s daughter enforced with a sweet voice and an iron hand. No one complained at the change in authority when Maud and Edith took over the now-spotless kitchen. Even the grumblings about the new work required of everyone were slowly dying down, for everyone was equally affected, and the truth was, the servants took a certain comfort in knowing precisely what their duties were.

  Each morning, noon, and evening Sir Edward presided over the meals in the newly pleasant great hall. The castlefolk had begun to respond to the higher expectations made of them. Even his personal garments were clean and mended; indeed, his entire life had brightened in the two weeks since his daughter had returned to him. He was well fed, well housed, and well clothed, as content as a man might hope to be.

  “Come walk with me,” he requested of her one particular day when the noon meal was complete. “I would have a moment of your time before you hurry away to your next task.”

  Rosalynde gave her father a surprised look. Although she knew he approved of all she’d done, he had rarely singled her out to speak with. She welcomed his attention now.

  “Will you accompany me to the bailey? I’ve several vats set to boil and I must check their progress.”

  “What new labor have you begun?” he asked as they made their way out of the hall and into the midday sunlight.

  “We melt tallow and beeswax and wax bark to skim the dirt away. There are candles to make and rushlights to replenish.”

  They strolled on in silence before he spoke again. “Stanwood shines under your deft hand, daughter. I’d not noted the loss of comforts until you began to restore them.”

  His eyes were straight ahead as he spoke, never touching her own, and his voice was somewhat gruff. But Rosalynde nonetheless felt the approval there, and a warm rush of feeling went through her.

  “ ’Tis not so much,” she demurred.

  “ ’Tis enough to make me know that you are a woman now, not a child as I had persisted in thinking. You are a woman fully grown and a chatelaine to be proud of.” He halted when they reached the huge vats, and he turned to stare at her expectantly. “ ’Tis time to see you wed.”

  Rosalynde gasped in shock at his unexpected words, and in the first moments after his pronouncement she only stared at him in horror, looking for all the world as if she had just learned she was to be executed at dawn. Her heart th
undered furiously and her throat grew dry as she stared mutely at him, her eyes wide and her mouth gaping open.

  It was clear he anticipated a pleased reaction from her, even though it might understandably be tempered with a natural hesitance. Every noblewoman expected to marry, and there was no reason for him to think she would feel any differently about it. When his brow creased in a puzzled frown, however, she abruptly closed her mouth and assumed a less revealing expression. But her father was not to be fooled.

  “What is this, Rosalynde? You gape at me as one amazed. Yet was it not you who said you were well trained in the housewifely arts? You have proven that well enough. It only remains for you to take a husband. And yet methinks the idea does not set well with you.”

  For a moment Rosalynde could not think of a reply. At least not one that did not threaten the well-being of Aric. “I … it’s only that, well.…” She faltered. “I have only just returned to Stanwood and already you would send me away.”

  “You cannot think I would send you from Stanwood, daughter. As my only heir, you and your husband should be here.” His lined face smiled reassuringly and he patted her shoulder. “Never fear. I’ll not send you away again.”

  Had it not been for her terrible predicament of already being bound to Aric, Rosalynde would have been very much comforted by her father’s words, for there was a wealth of revealing emotion in them. In his own awkward way he was expressing his regret for the long years he had kept her away. In his own way he was showing his love to her. Rosalynde recognized that at once. But the urgency of her own situation prevented her from savoring the knowledge. Instead she clasped her hands together and turned nervously toward the nearest vat.

  “There is no rush, is there, Father? I mean, certainly I expect to wed, but … but I had thought we could spend some time together first. And also,” she added, grasping truly at straws now. “Also, it would be unseemly to host a wedding so soon after poor Giles’s death.…”

  She trailed off as sorrow for her young brother combined with her own panic to choke her voice.

  “There, there, Rosalynde. Do not fret for this.” Sir Edward hovered near her, clearly discomfitted by this unanticipated turn of events. “ ’Tis not my wish to send you tomorrow into marriage. I but thought to begin the process. Make the inquiries.”

  “Oh.” Rosalynde turned a hopeful face to her father. “Oh, I see,” she said with relief.

  “And since you have worked such wonders with the castle,” he hurried on when he saw her change of mood, “I thought to begin by entertaining a few guests.”

  Rosalynde’s relief skidded to a halt. “When?” she asked fearfully.

  “Oh, soon,” he said evasively. “But don’t worry on that, daughter. A guest or two now and again will hardly trouble you.” He shifted his gaze to the ramparts and frowned somewhat. “I … ah … I must see to something. If you will pardon me? I must speak to Cedric … to Sir Roger, I mean. Well …” With those parting words he strode quickly away. Rosalynde was left to stare after him, her emotions in a quandary as she pondered the new complication that had just been thrust upon her.

  She refused to work with Aric that afternoon. The thought of dealing with his ever-strengthening demands was too much for her to face, especially after her troubling conversation with her father. But it was not only his demands that she feared. More than that, it was her own weakening resolve.

  A week had passed since she’d bribed him with that kiss, and in that time he’d only become more and more familiar with her. He hadn’t kissed her again. It would almost have been better if he had. Instead he talked to her most easily, did not hesitate to touch her in passing—at least he did that only when no one was in sight—and all too often smiled at her. It was that smile—sometimes friendly, sometimes mocking—that proved her biggest trial. His eyes would sweep her lazily. Possessively. And he would smile, showing strong white teeth beneath curving lips.

  Those lips fascinated her, and more and more she found herself dwelling on them. Whenever she was alone, whether working or resting, the memory of those lips pressed to her own haunted her. She imagined him kissing her neck, her shoulders. Her breasts. Something deep inside her would tighten into a hot churning knot and she would even imagine him sweeping a trail of kisses down to her belly, as if he might be able to release the pent-up tension that coiled in her down there. Then, appalled at the wicked wanderings of her own thoughts, she would retreat to the sanctuary of prayer. Many long hours she spent on her knees. In the small chapel. In her own chamber. Sometimes even in the garden. She would kneel on the small fustian pallet, pulling up nettles and felonwort and friar’s cap, and she would pray for divine intervention. Nothing but God’s own intercession seemed likely to contradict the overwhelming emotions that so perversely drew her to Blacksword. Only God could help her.

  She was staring at the huge vat of tallow, seeing but not really noting how industriously the young lad stirred the bubbling mess and how carefully he skimmed away the scum. Her mind was preoccupied with Aric and with her father’s words regarding her marriage. When the first shout came she did not at first look up. But when she heard a frightened cry followed by a babble of alarmed calls, her head jerked up. Across the bailey, just beyond the great hall, she could see a knot of people. But above them, dangling from a rope, a man twisted crazily. He’d been repairing crumbling portions of the wall earlier, sitting in a sling that had been lowered from the ramparts above. But one of the ropes had broken, and unable to crawl up or get down, the man could only cling to the single remaining length of jute.

  She did not stop to think as she dashed toward the man. From all across the bailey people stopped to look, then hurried toward the excitement. But one person reacted more quickly than the rest. Instead of heading toward the screaming man, Aric rushed to a narrow stone stairs that led up to the ramparts. Then before anyone else could even formulate a plan to aid the hapless fellow, Aric was standing above him, gripping the rope in his mighty fists. With one hand he lifted the man a foot, just enough to unloop the other end of the rope, which was anchored to a huge timber. Then in slow, steady movements he lowered the terrified man hand over hand to the ground.

  When the poor fellow finally reached the ground, a huge shout went up from the gathered crowd. Cheers and clapping greeted the trembling mason, and for a moment he was unable to speak. Then he looked up at the brawny man who now pulled up the rope and coiled it neatly in his hand.

  “Ye have me thanks, friend,” he called up to Aric. He gave him an abbreviated bow, then smiled up at him again. “Ye have me thanks and me undying friendship.”

  As cheers followed that pronouncement, Rosalynde also stared up at Aric. In the late afternoon, with the sunlight glancing golden off his hair and backlighting his powerful silhouette, he looked almost an angel of deliverance. Most certainly he had rescued the mason from sure injury. With his quick reaction, shrewd thinking, and physical strength he had saved the fellow before his arms gave out. He had not waited for instructions or orders. Instead he had taken control of the situation and averted disaster.

  Her brow creased as she studied him. He was not a follower, but a leader. He was too smart and too capable to be a mere runagate, yet how had he come by such qualities?

  Rosalynde knew this one act would go far in establishing the outlaw Blacksword among the rest of the castlefolk. He would be Aric the hero now, and accepted, instead of remaining an outsider.

  Yet in his dark tunic and braies, with nothing to commend him but his native intelligence and uncanny strength, he appeared to be as much devil as angel. Lucifer, the fallen angel, her fanciful thoughts named him. He had a considerable capacity for good. Why had he ever been drawn into a life of crime?

  She watched as his eyes skimmed the crowd. She trembled when they stopped on her. For a tense moment their eyes clung and she sensed the taunt he sent her. She’d avoided him today. He knew it and he would not let her get away with it. On shaking legs she sought to turn away from t
hat mocking stare, to flee to the safety of her candles and wax. But her father appeared in the bailey then, and with a wave of his hand called her to his side.

  “Are you hurt, Tom?” he asked the old mason with the concern of a good lord.

  “I’m shaken, milord, and none too steady in my knees. But I’m sound, and I’ve that young fellow to thank for it. If he hadn’t been there …”

  “So it seems,” Sir Edward agreed as his eyes turned up to where Aric stood. As he and Rosalynde watched, Blacksword gathered the ends of the rope, whipped them tightly around the loops, and tucked them securely in place. Then he slung the heavy coil over one shoulder and made his way toward the stairs.

  “This Aric,” Sir Edward mused, watching the man’s sure descent. “He’s one not easy to fathom.” Then he turned his eyes on her. “If you’ve finished with him in your garden, I’ve another more likely place in mind for him.”

  His words created unexpected confusion in Rosalynde. Logic deemed it best that she and Aric not spend any time in company together. That only created all sorts of temptations for her. But she quite perversely did not want him out of her sight. She justified it as only self-preservation. Away from her he might accidentally—or intentionally—give their secret away. But she could not completely pass it off as such, at least not to herself.

  “What would you have of him?” she asked her father quietly.

  “If he is so inclined, he would make a good man-at-arms. He has the strength and the quickness. He’s not a stupid fellow. I’m just not certain of his loyalty,” he added thoughtfully.

  “I had thought—” Rosalynde started to speak, and then had second thoughts.

  But her father pinned her with his astute gaze. “You had thought what?” he prompted as the crowd began to disperse.

  “Well, I mean …” She hesitated, knowing she must tread carefully. “It has been only a fortnight since you had him flogged, and then you spared him only because I interceded. Yet now you would make him a man-at-arms with weapons at his disposal?” She looked away, unnerved by her father’s steady gaze. “It’s just that I am surprised, that is all.”