Always (7 page)

But this would not do.

Muttering under his breath, Aric reined his horse in and turned him back toward his wife. She hid her pain at once and sat up straighter in the saddle, doing her best to appear a proficient rider. Impossible, the way she was jostling about, Aric thought, but he merely nodded at her politely as he reached her side.

Without a word, he reached out, hooked her around the waist, and scooped her off her mare with one hand, while taking the reins of her mount from her suddenly slack grip with the other. Urging his horse forward, he tossed the reins of the now riderless mare to Robert, then set off at a gallop. Rosamunde, emitting a surprised gasp, said nothing, much to his relief. He had no desire to make explanations or to argue. He was tired and likely to be much more so ere he reached Shambley.

 

Rosamunde swallowed and shifted carefully within her husband's arms until she was comfortable. Part of her wanted to protest riding with him, wished to retain her mount, and with it her independence. The other part, mostly her bottom, was grateful. Her husband's horse seemed to have a much smoother gait. It seemed Marigold was a very poor mount. On top of that, the jostling just seemed to irritate the residual tenderness she
was feeling between her legs.

Recalling the promise to obey that she had made to her father, she decided that this was an instance where she should and relaxed, her back easing unconsciously against her new husband's chest. It was not yet the supper hour, yet she was already terribly drained. She was tired enough to sleep as they rode, she realized with surprise, then recalled that she had been up through the night midwifing a mare. That explained her exhaustion. She could only hope that they would stop soon for the night, else she very much feared that she might fall asleep where she sat.

 

Aric slowed his horse at Robert's whistle and waited for him to catch up. The trio had been riding for many hours now, and it was well past the supper hour. The sun was setting, night creeping in. His wife had been asleep since shortly after he had taken her onto his horse. She lay nestled in his arms, her head resting beneath his chin, her hands tangling themselves in his cloak. The dying rays of daylight were dancing in her fiery tresses, casting shadows on her ivory skin. She felt warm, like sunshine in his arms, though, and smelled faintly of roses.

“She did not last long.”

Robert's words drew Aric's gaze to his friend. Weariness rimmed the man's eyes and had brought a pallor to his face. Still, he smiled slightly as he commented, “If possible, she seems more exhausted than we are.”

“So it would seem,” Aric agreed, glancing down at Rosamunde's slumbering face. Even their voices were not making her stir. She was as still as death. If it were not for the fact that he could feel the heat of her, he might have feared for her life. “It would seem that she has not inherited her father's energetic fortitude.”

“Mayhap,” Robert murmured, then added, “But as I recall, she did tell our king that the mare had been in labor for two days and a night. Mayhap she was up through the night in attendance.”

Aric nodded thoughtfully. That was quite possible, and would explain both her weariness and the costume she'd been wearing when first he'd seen her.

“Think you we should stop for the night?”

Aric glanced at his friend sharply, startled by the question. He had expected to ride out the night. His bride could sleep in his arms the entire way, if necessary. He knew Robert wished to return as swiftly as possible.

“I, too, am tired,” his friend explained wryly. “Too many nights spent by my father's sickbed, or worrying the twilight hours away pacing below stairs, combined with the two-day ride to the abbey, are beginning to wear on me. I am ready to drop off in my saddle as well, and I know I am not as alert as I should be to guard against attack.”

Aric glanced down at his bride once more. Truth be told, he, too, was exhausted, and he supposed that he was not very alert either. A night of rest might be better than risking being attacked while they were both in such a depleted state. Glancing back at his friend, he nodded. “We shall stop at the first spot that looks a likely haven.”

Smiling wearily, Robert urged his horse out in front and took over the lead, his eyes eagerly scanning the land they crossed. A little more than an hour later they had reached a good site, a clearing on the edge of the river.

Rosamunde did not awake. Not when Aric drew his mount to a halt; not when he passed her gently down into Robert's waiting arms so that he himself could dismount; nor when he took her back and laid her gently on the cloak Robert hurriedly whipped off and spread on the ground.

The two knights did not bother with food. After tending the horses, they took the time only to get a small fire going, working together to accomplish the deed. Then, with silent, but mutual consent, they moved to lie down, one on either side of Rosamunde. Both were asleep almost at once.

 

It was a terrible storm. Rosamunde could tell that before she even opened her eyes. The thunder was rumbling, snorting, and grunting with deafening loudness. She had never heard it so, and was amazed when she opened her eyes and it was not already raining. She herself was as dry as dust where she lay. Where was she?

Not in her bed.

Not in the convent.

On the ground.

With a roof of trees overhead, their leaves and branches black against the slightly lighter sky.

A rustle from somewhere to her right drew her suddenly wary gaze, and she peered past the body beside her into the darkness beyond. Nothing moved that she could tell, but then no matter how she strained her eyes in an effort to see, she could not make out much, only still black shapes that may have been bushes and trees.

The resounding roll of thunder came again, and Rosamunde gave a start where she lay, her attention drawn to the source of the sound: the body on her right. Her
husband
! Or was it his friend? She could not be sure in this light. The body was just a great hulk of blackness in the night as he snuffled and snorted and shifted restlessly in sleep.

She hoped it was her husband's friend, for if it was her husband, she could foresee a future of restless nights. Used to having her own bed—not to mention her own room, no matter how small it had been—Rosamunde did not think she could tolerate such raucous noise in her marriage bed.

Snnrrr-kgle!

She nearly jumped out of her skin when those first thunderous snores from her right were echoed, this time from her left. Her head swiveling on the ground, she peered wide-eyed with horror at the body lying there, another hulk of darkness. It was almost indistinguishable
from the first. She had noticed at the convent that the two friends were of a similar size. She signed. It seemed they also had a similar inclination to snuffle in their sleep like pigs nosing in the dirt for food.

Sighing, Rosamunde closed her eyes and begged the good Lord for patience. Her inclination, as the men again began their thunderous snores, was to sit up and sock them both. But she tempered that instinct. Such was not the way of a nun. And while she had not taken the veil, she would be as good, patient, and pious as if she had. Was that not what a man wished for in a bride? According to Father Abernott, it was the kind of bride God preferred, and surely what was good enough for God was good enough for her snorting husband. Whichever one he was.

She had just come to that conclusion when the man on her right suddenly shifted about in his deep sleep and tossed one heavy leg over her. It was followed by an arm snaking out to catch her at the waist and cuddle her closer. Its owner muttered something that ended with “lovey.”

For a moment she did not even breathe. She was almost afraid to. She had no idea which of the two men was presently mauling her, but she hoped to God it was her husband, for whoever it was had his hand firmly closed over one of her breasts. His face was nestled against the other.

This would not do. This would not do at all.

Discomfort in her chest made her realize that she was well on the way to suffocating herself, and Rosamunde forced herself to release the breath she had been holding and suck in fresh air.

Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear. What to do?

If she were sure it was her husband, she supposed she would not have to do anything except to continue to lie here, uncomfortably still, and wait for him to remove himself. Even if he was doing what Sister Eustice had warned her against. However, she was not sure it
was
her
husband, and there was no way for her to be sure in the darkness that enveloped them.

How would it look if it were Robert and her husband awoke to discover them in such a state?
Nay.
This would not do at all. Biting her lip, she peered over at the dark shape that was his face. He was nuzzling her breast through her gown in a distressingly familiar fashion. It was terribly discomforting for her.

Easing her arm out from where he lay up on it, she raised it awkwardly around his back and tickled with a feathery touch at what she guessed to be the back of his neck.

The man stirred slightly, releasing her breast to brush irritably at his neck.

Rosamunde was able to remove her hand in time to avoid the swat, but repeated the action as soon as he returned his hand to her chest. He immediately swatted at his neck again, but this time followed by rolling away from her.

Rosamunde heaved a sigh, but quickly realized that her relief may have been premature. He was off of her chest, which was grand, but he was now lying flat-backed across her arm, covering it from just below her shoulder to her fingertips. She was trapped.

Muttering one of Sister Eustice's favorite expletives, she turned onto her side and slowly, gently, carefully eased her arm out from beneath, managing to do so without waking the man.

Another round of snores erupted on either side of her, and Rosamunde sat up abruptly before she could be rolled up on again. Moving carefully to avoid accidentally waking either man, she got to her feet and eased cautiously out from between them.

This time when she heaved a sigh of relief, it came from her very toes.

 

Aric shifted where he lay, his nose twitching, a smile gracing his lips. He could swear that the scent of meat
grilling over an open fire was teasing his nose. But it could not be. He must be dreaming. It was very hot where he lay, and the night had been cool.

Blinking his eyes open, he stared at the bright sunlit sky above, then jerked to an upright position with a curse. It was full daylight. The sun was already a quarter of the way across the sky. He had overslept. Impossible. Why had his friend not awakened him?

A glance to the side answered that question: Robert was asleep. But he also saw, that the redhead he had married the day before was not.

A frantic survey of the clearing showed that a bonfire raged several feet away. That was why he'd been so hot! And the scent of roasting meat had not been a dream; the meat was rabbit, and it had been killed, cleaned, and impaled on a branch that was presently suspended between two Y-shaped branches over the fire. His wife, however, was nowhere in sight.

Reaching out, he shook Shambley. “Robert, wake up. Damn!”

Aric was on his feet, sword in hand. Robert rolled sleepily over to peer up at him. “What is—” He blinked. “It's full morning!”

“Aye,” Aric agreed grimly, turning slowly, scanning the surrounding trees.

“Jesu! How did we oversleep so?”

“We were overtired.”

“Aye, but—what are you looking for?”

“My wife.”

Robert's eyes widened at Aric's terse words, his gaze dropping to the bare ground beside him. “Where did she go?”

“That is what I am trying to discover,” Aric snapped impatiently, stilling at the sound of someone thrashing their way toward them through the brush.

Robert was on his feet and at his side in a trice. Swords at the ready, back to back, the knights prepared to con
front whatever approached. They both sagged with relief as Rosamunde stepped out of the woods.

She had changed into brais and a loose tunic, and pulled her hair back from her face, securing it in a ponytail at the base of her neck. Her face was dirt-and soot-smudged, her hands scratched and filthy, and her arms, where her sleeves were rolled up, were streaked with dirt. She was carrying a huge stack of wood, made up mostly of small-and medium-sized branches she had gathered. She beamed on seeing them awake and about.

“Good morn, my lords,” she called out with disgusting good cheer. “Did you sleep well?”

Robert smiled sheepishly at the question, but Aric's lips tightened grimly as he took her in. “What have you done?”

Rosamunde's sure steps faltered near the fire, confusion covering her face. “My lord?”

Aric gestured toward the roaring blaze at the center of the clearing, and Rosamunde's eyebrows rose.

“The fire you built last night died,” she explained uncertainly. “So I—”

“Created an inferno?”

Rosamunde swallowed at his cold voice. He sounded furious. “I—”

“I am surprised that this forest fire you made has not drawn every bandit and thief in Anglia to us. Certainly the smoke billowing above the trees is enough to get their attention and lead them here. Why did you not simply climb up a tree and shout, ‘Here we are! Come kill and rob us!'”

Rosamunde paled at his words. Letting the wood she held drop to the ground, she moved quickly to kick dirt onto the fire, doing her best to kill the flames. “I am sorry, my lord. I did not think. I was sitting about waiting for you to awaken and I got the idea to catch and cook something to take with us for our lunch and—”

“That is another thing,” Aric interrupted grumpily. “Getting us killed by bandits was not enough. You then decided to lure every wild dog and wolf for miles with the smell of cooking meat.”