Boadicea's Legacy (15 page)

“You are the only one to think so—and you are the only one I talk to like that because I know how much it bothers you.” Ela fought down the childish urge to stick her tongue out at him.

“No wonder you aren't married.”

Oh!
“And you've been entangled in wedded bliss how many times? Oh, that's right. You are a penniless but godly knight who goes around saving damsels in distress whether they need your help or not.”

“You were glad to see me yesterday.”

“I don't remember.” Thunder crashed, and Bartholomew neighed. The scent of oncoming rain urged her to scan the horizon for anything that they could use as shelter.

“Can you run?” His brow quirked.

“Faster than you,” she answered, lifting her gown and
dashing through the field. An old earth mound rose ahead of them, and they crested the top. Black clouds drizzled rain from overhead, and they slid down the opposite damp slope. They climbed halfway to the other side of the ditch to where a single skinny sycamore tree made its stand.

With no words, they set to work using the tree, his cloak, her veil, and the heavily foliaged branches to make a small but cozy enclosure. Bartholomew's bulk as he leaned against the tree trunk helped keep the wind from coming inside.

As they hunkered down and watched the rain drop like a waterfall, Ela started to giggle. “If we'd stayed by the river, we'd be drowned by now.”

“We might drown anyway, if this valley fills up to where the ledge is.”

She became very aware of his body heat as their arms touched in the tight space. Ela's blood warmed, and she had to force herself to think of something besides his muscles beneath her palms. “Nothing like an adventure, eh? You must be full of stories. Tell me what it is like to be in the midst of a battle.” Maybe blood and gore would keep her from recalling his mouth against hers.

“Battle stories? I don't think it is appropriate—” “If you say ‘for the fairer sex,' I might toss you into the rain. Haven't you learned yet that I can take care of myself?” She pointed to the branches that made the skeleton of their tent.

He looked down, his mouth twitching. “You may just be the exception to the rule.” Os pushed back the edge of
the cloak and poked his head out, getting a splash of water in his eye. “I think we'll be safe enough for now.”

Ela sensed rather than saw his body relax. At least he didn't feel the need to be on guard around her—which meant that he couldn't
really
be afraid of her. The thought brought comfort to her bruised pride.

Os sighed, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space. Each position he was in, he found himself breathing in Ela's wildflower scent. Or he was brushing her leg with his, or his arm touched her shoulder—there was just no getting away from her.

Maybe telling her war stories would keep his mind off of her sweet pink lips.

Or her generous mouth surrendering to the onslaught of his heated kiss.

He touched the healed wound on his forehead and wondered if she'd bewitched him thoroughly—and if that was the truth, then why, please God, couldn't he give in to her spell?

Honor.

He'd promised her father that she would come back safe. The same as when she'd left, complete with her virginity intact.

He cleared his throat, his voice gruff. “Battles aren't romantic drivel. Not like the tales that are so popular in court right now.”

Her expressive green eyes waited for him to tell something better. The rain dripped against their tent. He relented.

“But aye, some battles are filled with courageous men. Men of valor. Honor. I'll tell you something that they don't write about in court.”

“Yea?” She leaned forward, her uncovered head a mass of curling red hair.
A curtain that would cover them both if he … nay
.

“It doesn't matter how strong or brave a man is. There is always the specter of death riding pinion into battle with him. Minstrels don't sing about it, and men don't talk about it because there's naught you can do to change it. I've known men to take a few minutes for prayers before battle, just as I've known men who charged into the fray without a thought to death, as if to acknowledge death was to let it in.”

“You say prayers, I would bet Henry on it.”

Henry chortled from his place on Ela's lap.

“I don't want Henry, thank you.” He eyed the weasel-polecat with disgust. “But you're right. I prayed. It brought me comfort to speak to God before possibly meeting Him.”

“Was that a joke? From Osbert the Serious?” She reached over and poked his chest.

He smiled. “I've not had many reasons to jest. Unlike you, my lady Ela, who finds something amusing in everything.”

“Better to laugh than cry, my Gram always said.”

“Sir Percy wouldn't agree. Actually, he wouldn't approve of tears either.”

She sat back, tilting her head to the side. “How sad.”

“No. Sir Percy saved my life. I owe him much.”

“Now this sounds like an interesting story. Much better than death. Did he take you after your family died?”

Os hadn't had someone interested in his life history—ever. Uncomfortable, he shrugged. “My family was dead. I lived by my wits for less than a year on the streets, down by the docks in Yarmouth. I tried to be a sailor, but the sea made me sick.”

He rubbed his belly as Ela laughed softly. “Poor boy.”

“Well, I stole what I could, but I was no good as a thief.”

“Even starving, you felt guilty taking bread? Oh, Osbert.” Ela clucked her teeth.

“I didn't have the stealth needed to snatch a hot eel pie when the vendor had his back turned. Soon they all knew that I was desperate, and that made me a target for bullies. One night I lay down beneath the dock on the sand and dreamed that I would never wake up. But when I did, it was because Sir Percy had found me.”

Ela stayed quiet, just listening. It was nice, Os thought.

“He asked me if I was hungry, and I could only nod. I hadn't spoken in so long a time, I was afraid I'd forgotten how. But he was kind. Fair. And he saw in me a chance to save an innocent soul. He had much he regretted from his youth, I think.”

Ela leaned forward and hugged him tight before sitting back on her heels. Her green eyes brimmed with tears.
For him? For Sir Percy?

“For both of you,” she said, as if reading his thoughts
again. “What things he might have done surely will be forgiven. You are an honorable man, one to be proud of, and he raised you. Where is he now?”

“Dead.” Osbert scratched his chin. “I saw to it that he was buried with dignity in the churchyard at St. George's Church, inside Norwich's city gates. I'll show you, if you like.”

“I'd like that, very much.”

It was quiet for a while as they sat listening to the rain against the makeshift tent. Evening fell, and the last of the light faded away.

“I think we may have to spend the night here.” Os hated to break the comfortable silence, but he couldn't bear to dwell on the death of his family anymore, and in the quiet, his mind wandered to his mother and brothers. He should have saved them all, even his father, but he'd been selfish, so sure that he was right. “You should sleep. I'll keep watch.”

“I'm not tired,” Ela said. “You sleep, and I'll take the first watch.”

Os smiled in the dark. “You are unlike any woman I've ever met. You must have caused your parents many headaches.”

She made a snuffling noise, as if trying to hide her laugh. It was growing on him, the way she gave in to her emotions in a way he never could.

“Headaches? I am the perfect daughter. So long as you don't mind your daughters exceptionally tall, with great flexibility, phenomenal eyesight, and yes, the ability to see people's auras. Aye, ‘tis perfect they call me,” she chuckled.
“Or didn't you say that the villagers thought me fey? Silly peasants. I'm too tall to be a fairy.”

“What is an aura exactly? Is it a person's spirit? Why can't you see mine?” What if he didn't have a spirit?
What if I haven't been forgiven for surviving when the rest of my family died?

“I don't know,” she said. He heard her coo to Henry, and he wondered if she was going to change the subject. She didn't. “I see a person's … energy, I suppose. For example, when we met Hilda, she had a beautiful aura. Warm and rosy, and I knew that she would be compassionate and kind. Sal, she was a bustling bright yellow. Her son was a muted yellow. Hard workers, both of them.”

“What color is your aura?”

He heard her fussing with her hair, and his fingers itched to touch the red strands. “Silver.” She paused. “When I heal, I also see colors. My sister Celestia is the same.”

“She is the oldest, aye?”

“Yes. According to the family legend, only one healer is supposed to be born in each generation. That healer is supposed to be tall, red-haired, and green-eyed. Celestia is short and blond, and she has one green eye and one blue. She married her knight, Nicholas, and they've got a few children now. They have a keep, in the north, by the Scottish border. Galiana is so beautiful that she makes grown men cry. Her baby girls will no doubt do the same as they grow up.”

“But she can't heal?”

“Nay, she has no healing power—but she has other gifts. Sometimes when she holds something, she can see details about the object or the object's owner.” She hesitated, and he wondered what she wasn't telling him.

“And then there is you.” A trio of witches. God help him.

“Don't forget the twins! Ed and Ned. They are grand warriors, eager to make a name for themselves.”

“And you?” He waited with growing impatience.

“I am the puzzle in the family. Tall, red-haired, green-eyed, and with the ability to heal and see auras.” Her deep sigh reached his heart. But unlike her, he would no more reach across to offer a hug than he would willingly turn into a frog. “I shouldn't be able to see colors, and heal, and be intuitive. Especially since I am thirdborn. I should have been … normal.”

“Mayhap that is a good thing?”
If you were born a witch, why not be the most powerful witch in the family?

“‘Tis just that I am different than the legend in so many ways. I am plagued by nightmares. My grandmother Evianne said she'd never heard of such a thing either, and she knew everything about our history. If she was alive, she could help you find Boadicea's spear for the earl.”

“I don't understand why you are upset that you also got these … extra gifts.” He stumbled over the word she used.

“Because obviously Boadicea's curse is just getting stronger. Soon, she will have us all caught in her love spell, and none of our family will have the freedom to choose whom they marry. And you know what is bad about that? I
worry that, like me, others after me will be willing to give up their abilities rather than give up a life with children. Not everybody falls in love. And if we wed without it, we lose our gifts. Is that fair, I ask you?”

Uncertain, he made a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat.

“Just so,” she said. “It isn't fair. Our gifts will fade back into time, and there will come a line of women who won't know what they might have had. ‘Tis shameful, but neither Andraste or Boadicea is listening to my plea.”

He didn't want to offend her, not when she believed everything so … enthusiastically. “Would it be so bad, not being able to see people's auras? You don't see mine, and that's not terrible, is it?”

Ela huffed. “I would hate to think that you thought my abilities were expendable. Losing them would make me as hobbled as poor Henry with his three legs. Would I survive? Aye. I am a strong woman. Would I laugh? St. Agnes help me, I would try. But it would be very, very hard.”

He was struck mute by the pain in her voice and by her acceptance of her fate, if she wagered on love and lost. Os found that they had more in common than he ever would have thought. He buried his emotions, and she laughed hers away. “I did not mean to sound condescending.”

The feel of her fingertips against his face startled him. “What are you doing?”

“Stay still. I am trying to see if I can ease the frown lines between your brows. You worry too much. You must
have a constant headache.” Her touch found his jaw, and he clenched it tight before he moaned with pleasure.

Her hands were slightly warm and welcome in the chilled air. The rain had dropped the temperature, and though they were somewhat dry within their cozy cave, it was still cool.

Then her fingers traveled up his cheekbones, across the line of his nose. She gently massaged the space between his brows, and the last of the tension disappeared.

He fully expected the feel of her lips, so when she kissed him, he welcomed it. Joined just at the mouth, they lightly explored the texture and taste of one another. She pressed harder, wanting more, and he pulled back. “Nay.”