Always (24 page)

“Blackie!” Rosamunde shouted. She scrambled out of the bed and rushed around toward where the dark shapes of the man and animal danced in the dim light. “Blackie, stop that!”

Reaching the horse just as Aric stumbled and fell, she grabbed desperately at the horse's reins and pulled hard on them, dragging the animal away before he could trample her husband where he lay. Once she had him a safe distance away, she held the horse steady. She asked anxiously, “Are you all right, husband?”

Without answering her, he merely stumbled to the door, tugged it open, and hurried out.

Sighing, Rosamunde turned away from the open door to peer at Blackie. The horse was breathing hard and shaking slightly. His continuous fever over the past few days had weakened him, and this incident had apparently taken a great deal of his remaining strength. Which was another reason that his behavior bewildered her. Keeping
his reins firmly in hand, she moved around him to grab another log from the basket and toss it onto the dying embers in the fireplace. A second log followed it; then she picked up the iron that lay beside the basket. She quickly poked and prodded the logs around in the fire. Replacing the iron, she turned back toward Black, but paused at the sound of heavy footsteps pounding through the hall.

“Rosamunde?”

“Aric?” she answered, confused by the fact that he sounded quite worried rather than furious. She had expected him to be angry at his horse's betrayal. Rosamunde took a couple of careful steps through the darkness toward the door, only to pause when two dark shapes suddenly appeared in the archway.

“Are you all right?” They both asked at once; then silence briefly filled the room. The first shadow made its way to the table, collected something from it, then moved to her side by the fire. Aric: His worry was illuminated for her as he bent to light a candle from the first of the weak flames beginning to lick at the logs she had added to the fire. Then he straightened and turned to peer at her, his gaze taking in the fact that she wore only her shift.

“What happened?”

Rosamunde blinked at the question. “I was about to ask you the same question. Why did Blackie attack you?”

“What is going on?”

Aric and Rosamunde glanced toward the door at that question, but it was not Robert who had spoken. He stepped quickly out of the way to reveal Aric's father in a nightshirt, a candle in his hand. Its light added to the growing illumination of the room.

When Aric scowled from his scantily clad wife to the men peering curiously into the room, then moved to retrieve her dress for her from the end of the bed, Robert took it upon himself to answer. Shrugging in bewilderment as Bishop Shrewsbury and the servant Joseph
appeared behind Lord Burkhart, he murmured, “We were sitting downstairs and heard a scuffle up here. It sounded like thunder. Black was screaming, and Rosamunde screamed, and we hurried up here to see what was going on!”

They all turned to peer at Rosamunde. Aric dropped the gown over her. Quickly finding the hole for her head, Rosamunde pulled it down over herself and turned on her husband with alarm. “You were still at the table? You mean it was not you Blackie attacked?”

“Why would my own horse attack me?” Aric asked irritably, tugging and fretting at the material of her gown until it covered her to her ankles, hiding her luscious legs from view. Then he stiffened. The meaning behind her words sank in. “Are you saying there was someone else in here?”

“Aye.” Rosamunde struggled to get her arms through the holes meant for them. Aric had simply pulled the gown down to cover her without allowing her the time to don it properly. “I was asleep. Something woke me. I heard Blackie charge across the room; then he started screeching and—” Getting one arm free and into its sleeve, she gestured toward the side of the bed nearest the door. “There was someone beside the bed and Blackie was attacking him. I thought it was you.”

“Why did you think it was Aric? Did the fellow look like him?” Lord Burkhart asked curiously. Rosamunde paused in her efforts to find the other sleeve, and blinked in surprise.

“Well…I am not sure. It was quite dark. I—I just assumed.” She shrugged helplessly, then returned to trying to free her arm from its trapped position inside the gown. “Who else would be in our chamber?”

“More to the point,
what
were they doing here?” Robert asked, giving Aric a meaningful look.

“Did you see anyone in the hall as you approached the room?” Bishop Shrewsbury asked, stepping past Lord
Burkhart and glancing around the chamber curiously. Rosamunde finally freed her other arm to slip it through its sleeve. When the cleric's gaze widened slightly as it fell on Black, Rosamunde thought that it must be because he was surprised by the horse's presence in the room, but then the gentleman cleared his throat and gestured. “It appears your horse is relieving himself on the—”

The rest of the bishop's comment was drowned out by Aric's curse and Rosamunde's gasp. But her reaction wasn't to what he was doing, but because her gaze had landed on and stopped at the horse's chest. Blood was running from a wound there.

“He is hurt,” she cried, hurrying over to the beast to examine him anxiously. “Aric, fetch me my bag, please. It is in the chest in the corner.”

When he moved to her side instead, to examine the wound with as much interest as she did, she glanced around to see that Robert was moving to retrieve her medicinals.

“It is a knife wound,” Aric announced grimly as his friend approached. Robert gave Rosamunde her bag.

“And there is the knife.”

Glancing over her shoulder at Lord Burkhart's words, Rosamunde saw the bishop straighten beside the bed, a bloodstained knife in hand. Aric moved to join him as the older man picked off some of the rushes sticking to it. Once he had the worst of them off, Shrewsbury handed the knife over. Rosamunde scowled at the sight of the weapon, then turned her attention back to the horse. Let the men worry about that. She had to mend Blackie.

 

Aric met Shambley's gaze as the other man joined them by the bed. They all peered at the wickedly sharp dagger for a moment, then turned to peer at Rosamunde as she fussed over the horse.

“Black saved her life,” Robert murmured quietly as Lord Burkhart and Joseph stepped nearer.

“Aye.” Aric nodded solemnly.

“Oh, but surely you cannot think that someone came in here deliberately to hurt her?” Bishop Shrewsbury asked anxiously. “Who would wish to harm Lady Rosamunde?”

“The one Henry feared?” Lord Burkhart suggested grimly, drawing Aric's surprised glance.

“You know about that?” He hadn't had the chance to tell his father that yet.

“Robert explained it to me after the messenger arrived. 'Tis why he accompanied me here.”

“Oh, aye.” Aric frowned. “This
could
be the kind of thing Henry was worried about. I do not know. I wish he had told me more about…” Pausing, he glanced at the bishop sharply. “You had his ear. Why was he worried about Rosamunde? Who did he hope I could protect her from if he died?”

The old man shook his head in confusion. “I do not know. He spoke of no peril that I recall.”

Aric frowned slightly, his gaze moving back to his wife as she bandaged Black's wound. It wasn't deep. He had seen that much when he had looked, but that reassured him little. No doubt it would have been deeper—and most likely deadly—for Rosamunde. He did not doubt for a moment that the horse had saved her life. But from whom? And why?

“What are you going to do?” Shambley asked as Aric continued merely to stare unhappily at his wife.

Glancing around in surprise, as if he had momentarily forgotten the presence of the other men, Aric grimaced. “I shall have the soldiers at the gate doubled, restrict all comings and goings, and keep her guarded until we find out who was behind this—and what his intent was. It is all I can do for now. That and ask if any strangers were seen today or tonight.” He frowned suddenly. “No one came down or went up the stairs after Rosamunde retired. From whence did her attacker come and go?”

“The only empty room up here would have been mine,” Robert muttered, following his thoughts, then shook his head. “But the hallway is quite dim, pitch-black in some spots even. Perhaps he had been waiting in the hall for her to come above and retire, and hid there again after leaving.”

“We may have rushed right by him,” Aric realized with dismay, then clenched his hand on the knife handle. He started toward the door, only to be stopped by his father's touch on his arm.

“If he was there, he is long gone now,” Lord Burkhart pointed out quietly. Aric's shoulders slumped slightly. “The best you can do for now is order extra torches placed in the hall and ensure that they are kept lit at all times.”

“Aye, I shall do that now. I shall also send a servant to remove the rushes Black fouled.” He said it with a grimace, and started to move away again, only to pause and glance uncertainly toward his wife.

“Shambley and I shall stay with her while you tend to that,” Lord Burkhart assured him, reading his son's reluctance to leave her alone.

Muttering his thanks, Aric hurried out of the room.

“Well, I am sure Lady Rosamunde is safe with the two of you here to watch her, so I think I shall take my old bones back to bed,” Shrewsbury announced with a sigh, then glanced at Joseph. “Will you walk with me? I am sure Lord Spencer is awaiting a report of this excitement.”

“Yes, my lord.” Joseph accompanied the old man from the room as Shambley and Lord Burkhart moved to join Rosamunde.

“How is he?”

Rosamunde glanced around with a start at Robert's voice, then sighed slightly. “The wound was not deep, but I worry about its effect when Black was so weakened by illness already.”

“Hmmmmm,” Lord Burkhart mused, reaching out to
pat the horse affectionately. “Black is a strong one. I gave him to Aric when he earned his spurs. He has seen worse wounds than this and come through. He will recover quickly from this scratch.”

“Aye, my lord,” Rosamunde murmured, but she wasn't as confident. She continued to fuss over the beast even as a servant arrived to tend to the mess on the floor. She was still fussing over Black when Aric returned. Lord Burkhart and Robert said their good nights.

“Come to bed, Rosamunde,” Aric ordered as the door closed behind his father and friend.

Patting Black one last time, Rosamunde moved reluctantly to the bed.

 

Satisfied that she was obeying him, Aric removed his belt and sword, then started to work on shedding his tunic, only to pause when Rosamunde reached the side of the bed. She began to undo and remove her gown. She caught the hem of her gown, lifting it slowly upward, and Aric's eyes drank in each inch of skin revealed, her delicate feet, her ankles, her calves, knees, thighs—but then her shift intruded. Still, his gaze slid over the thin material, following the curves of her hip, waist, breasts.

He nearly sighed as she lifted the gown over her head, her breasts lifting and pressing against the thin linen as she did. Then he caught himself and shook his head, tending to removing his own tunic as she lightly shook her gown out, then laid it carefully over the chest on her side of the bed. Dropping his shirt to the floor, he reached for the waist of his brais, then paused to frown at Rosamunde as she began to slide into bed. “Your shift.”

“What of it, my lord?” She was busily tugging the linens up to cover herself, but he recognized her attitude for the nervousness it was. He felt himself stiffen slightly, knowing there was trouble afoot.

“Are you not going to take it off?”

“Well, I…er…” Giving up on the linens, she sighed
miserably and met his gaze. “Bishop Shrewsbury said 'twas a sin to sleep or—anything else—unclothed, my lord.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Aric asked slowly, feeling his temper begin to rise at the old man's interference.

“Aye.” She nodded unhappily.

Aric remained silent as he considered how to approach this problem. He knew the Church's stand on such matters. Nudity was a sin. People were even expected to wear their undertunics in the bath, lest they be espied naked. But he
liked
his wife naked. He liked to see her that way, and to touch her that way, and to press his naked body against hers, and….

Feeling his manhood perk up at his wandering thoughts, Aric forced himself back to the matter at hand, getting his wife out of her clothes. He wasn't foolish enough to think it would be an easy task. After all, she had been raised in an abbey, and the Church's opinion on such matters no doubt meant a great deal to her.

Sighing, he pushed his brais down and stepped out of them. Leaving them on the floor, he got into bed beside Rosamunde, then turned to consider her. She was lying on her back, her eyes closed—no doubt in hopes that he would think her sleeping and let the matter lie, he supposed.

He couldn't do that.
Wouldn't
do that.

Smiling slightly to himself, he slid his hand under the linens and moved it to cover the soft mound of one of her breasts, through the cloth of her tunic. She stiffened, her breathing suddenly increasing in speed as he ran his thumb lightly over her already protruding nipple.

 

Rosamunde squeezed her eyes tightly closed for a moment, fighting the pleasure that flooded her at his simple touch, then swallowed and opened her mouth to tell her husband that Bishop Shrewsbury had told her that fondling was a sin, too. But the moment her mouth
opened, her husband covered her lips with his own, his tongue taking advantage and slipping inside.

Oh, this was too wrong, she thought, panic sweeping through her. The bishop had also said lewd kissing was a sin, and she was pretty sure that he would consider this lewd. Worse yet, she realized with dismay, was the fact that she was enjoying it—and he had claimed that that was a sin, too. Oh, Lord, she would surely burn in hell if she did not stop him.