The Rose of Blacksword (16 page)

“Be careful,” he cautioned her with a hint of a smile on his harshly masculine face. For a long moment their eyes met. Rosalynde was obliquely aware that his hands slid a little way up her arms, then tightened ever so slightly. Like the pounding of a thousand drums, her heart’s rhythm increased, and she was caught between terror and a sudden irrational thrill. Something sparked between them, sharp and strong and unmistakable. She’d felt it on the gallows when she had grabbed his tunic in anger, and she felt it now even more vividly.

It was fear, she told herself, as his gaze held her mesmerized before him. The snake entranced the mouse just
so, as the owl also froze the helpless hare. He was a predator and she was his unfortunate prey. Yet a part of her knew he meant her no harm, at least not in the way she would have expected. Warmth seeped up from somewhere in her belly, spreading an unaccustomed heat throughout her body, and still she stood ensnared by his powerful yet gentle grasp on her. Then he moved a half pace nearer and logic miraculously leapt to her rescue. With a violent jerk she wrenched herself away from him.

“Unhand me. I am quite able to take care of myself.”

“Oh?” One of his brows raised skeptically. “That must be why you took a husband from Dunmow’s gallows, because you are so able to take care of yourself.”

Rosalynde wished she could call back her angry words. She should not stoop to argue with such a man as he was. Drawing herself up as best she could, she gave him her coolest stare. “I
did
find a way out of my predicament, didn’t I? And a way for you out of yours.”

Then, slipping and stumbling, she stalked upstream, until the broad security of a cedar tree stood clearly between them.

She did not see the faint smile that played across his face, nor quite hear his softly murmured words. “From the fat into the fire you have leapt, my sweet little wife. And it appears I have assumed one life sentence for another.”

She peered nervously at him, wondering at his odd mood as she tried in vain to slow her breathing and ease the pounding in her chest. What deviousness did he plot now? Did he think to woo her over to his ridiculous plan with his offer of rabbit-skin shoes? Did he think she was fool enough to be influenced by his potent stare or his masculine embrace?

Had he meant to kiss her?

She stared back at his shadowy form still standing
alongside the stream and nervously licked her lips. She frowned when they tingled with unexpected sensitivity, and unwillingly she recalled once more the kiss he’d given her on the gallows. That kiss had pleased the spectators enormously. They’d cheered and clapped and raucously called for more. She, however, had been shocked and horrified.

But that wasn’t precisely true, and as Rosalynde watched Blacksword stoop down to cup water in his hands for a drink, she could not hide the truth from herself. She had been horrified by the terrible predicament she was in, and shocked by the boldness of the kiss. But something in her had responded to the unique feel of his hard mouth pressing down on hers.

“Sweet Mother of Jesus,” she whispered in prayer, then made a quick sign of the cross as that same unsettling warmth twisted in her stomach once more. What in the name of heaven was wrong with her? she worried as she bent down to splash her overheated face with water. Yet she could not help but wonder what that kiss would have been like if she had opened her mouth, as it appeared was the proper method for kissing. She slid her tongue experimentally along her lips, marveling at the strange sensuality of it. Then in quick mortification she ceased such foolishness and frowned at her own perversity. Such feelings should be reserved for her husband—her true husband, she amended hastily as she glanced back at the intolerable cad who irked her so incessantly. But he was gone and, to her complete chagrin, she felt a faint wave of disappointment. Despite her every reason for caution where he was concerned—he was black-hearted in every sense of the word—she was nonetheless consumed with a new curiosity. She justified it as only the normal reactions of a young woman of marriageable age. Yet as Rosalynde slowly
picked her way through the dawn’s dim shadows, she could not deny that a new emotion had joined her other feelings of fear and dislike and mistrust. Before he’d only been someone whose presence she must endure in order to find the safety of her home.

Now he was a mystery, enigmatic and intriguing. A challenge she found hard to ignore. Anything further she refused to consider.

9

They ate the remnants of the cooked rabbit and a salad of dandelion greens, yarrow, and plantain leaves that Rosalynde was able to find. For the first time Cleve displayed a good appetite, and she was much heartened by his improvement. But with his returning health there came an almost tangible increase in his hostility toward their mysterious protector.

“We’ve no need for him any longer,” Cleve hissed when Blacksword volunteered to fetch water from the brook. “And I can full well go down to the water myself!”

“I know you think you’re well, but head wounds are very serious,” she whispered back. “Besides, I’ll not renege on my promise to the man,” she added. It occurred to her that she was breaking one promise to him already, one vow. Yet she was not exactly breaking it, she told herself. She would stay his wife for a year and a day, albeit secretly. But she had not entered into the vow with any intentions of keeping it. Despite all her rationalization and reasoning, that one fact bothered her sorely. Marriage was a holy sacrament. Even though their vow had not been made before a priest or within the hallowed confines of the Church, it had nonetheless been made before God. Until he had brought up the possibility of a proper marriage in the Church, she had eased her conscience about
the moral repercussions of her handfast marriage. After all, if he didn’t want to remain wed she could hardly force him to. But now he wanted to honor the vow and
she
was the one who balked.

Cleve was oblivious to her inner turmoil, and when the object of his ire suddenly reappeared with the water he glowered at him openly.

“How far is it to Stanwood?” he demanded angrily.

The taller man squatted down on his heels next to Rosalynde and handed her the water. Then he turned an expressionless face toward Cleve. “Two more nights’ travel.”

Cleve grumbled something under his breath, then looked at Rosalynde stubbornly. “I can walk from now on.”

She started to object but it was Blacksword who answered the boy. “Then it will take at least three nights.”

It was just the provocation Cleve needed to release his pent-up hostility. He lurched to his feet and faced the larger man fiercely. “I’ll walk and it may take three days, but we’ll be well rid of you!”

“Cleve!” Rosalynde leapt between the two, for she fully expected Blacksword to react violently to the youth’s reckless taunt. To her surprise, however, it was Cleve she had to restrain. He was tensed and poised to attack, while the other man only eased himself back to a sitting position and then pulled something from his open tunic.

“Come here so I may measure your feet.” He gave her a steady look, pointedly disregarding the lad’s angry outburst.

Rosalynde was so relieved that he was not going to hurt Cleve that she did not hesitate. With only a meaningful glare at Cleve, she crossed quickly to Blacksword’s side and sat down meekly beside him. When it was obvious the
man was not going to rise to his bait and that Rosalynde would not back him up, Cleve’s anger began to dissipate into bewilderment.

“ ’Tis
my
duty to protect you,” he said plaintively. “Not his.”

“If you wish to do your duty, Cleve, then please,
please
just abide by what I say,” she replied most earnestly.

For a long tense moment he stood there in the slowly building light. She could see the struggle in his face, his need to protect his mistress from a man he perceived to be dangerous, when it was clear he could not possibly win. Cleve was nothing if not loyal, and his stubbornness about protecting her from harm warmed her heart.

Yet Rosalynde knew that it was not overt physical harm she faced from the man who now sat so placidly beside her. He would not gain anything by hurting her. The harm this man could do was of a different nature entirely, especially if he chose to pursue his claim to her hand through that pagan handfasting ritual. As her father’s only remaining heir, she was the conduit through which Stanwood Castle would pass to her husband. But only to her rightful husband—not an immoral ruffian such as this Blacksword. Now that he realized all he might gain, she would no doubt have the devil of a time convincing him that such a union between them was impossible. Still, if she soothed him with enough gold he would eventually come around.

Much reassured, she gave Cleve a smile, all the while profoundly aware of Blacksword’s overwhelming nearness. “Please rest, Cleve. We have so far to go.”

When the boy finally sat down it was with great reluctance, but she nonetheless felt tremendously relieved. Unfortunately, she was immediately faced with a new and far more unsettling dilemma. To her enormous confusion, Blacksword bent forward, then grasped her ankles and unceremoniously
pivoted her around so that her lower legs rested on his lap, and one of his hands cupped her left foot.

“What are you doing?” she exclaimed, too flustered by his possessive touch to be angry.

“You need shoes,” he replied matter-of-factly. Then he pressed the fur of one of the skins against her much-abused sole and her objections disappeared at once. Shoes. Something soft against her feet.

At that tacit approval, Blacksword wrapped the ends of the rabbit skin over the top of her foot and held them with one hand wrapped around her ankle, so that her entire foot was encased in the smooth fur. It was a most impersonal action, or at least it should have been. Certainly if it had been the tanner at Millwort Castle who’d measured her foot so she would not have given it a second thought. But this man was not the grizzled old tanner, and they were not at Millwort. Every instinct for self-preservation told her to snatch her foot from his grasp and get as far away from him as possible. It was far better to suffer the sharp stones and branches of the cart track than to endure his unnerving touch.

But Cleve was scowling at them from across the small clearing, and more than anything she did not want to give him further cause for animosity. So she suffered Blacksword’s sure touch as best she could, sitting stiff with tension as he moved the skin back and forth until he found the best position for it.

“How does that feel?” He looked up at her then and their gazes collided with breathless impact. All thoughts of Cleve and Millwort and the graybeard tanner fled as she stared into his granite gray eyes. She vaguely heard him say something about cutting away the excess and she was aware that he pulled out Cleve’s dagger and was cutting
several slits into the skin. When he put that skin aside and then picked up the other she continued to stare at him, suddenly confused by her conflicting feelings. She watched as he took her other foot then fit the rabbit skin to it. His hand was so warm. His fingers were strong and callused, and yet also gentle. He cut the fur with quick, deft strokes, then he met her gaze once more.

“I scraped the skins well, and I’ll coat them with a paste of water and ash while we camp. But they will not be as supple as properly prepared leather.”

Rosalynde nodded her head although little of what he said registered. She was too caught up in her own muddled thoughts to care about a pair of shoes. Just as she’d been struck by his noble bearing even when he was bound and forced to mount the gallows, so was she now aware of an odd dignity, a rare quality under normal circumstances, but in a convicted murderer …

“… bindings from your hem,” he was saying when she finally came alert.

“Bindings?” She stared at him in momentary confusion before she understood what he was saying. “Oh, you want a strip of the fabric.”

“It would help,” he answered with a warm yet still searching glance.

She took the knife he offered then quickly removed an adequate strip from her ruined gown. But as she automatically started to hand the short dagger back to him, Cleve interrupted.

“That’s my knife.”

Once more Rosalynde found herself caught between the two of them, but this time she was not so alarmed. Despite all logic she felt certain Blacksword meant to protect them, especially since he wished to wed her once they reached Stanwood. Even though that demand of his was
completely outrageous, it still made sense that he retain possession of the sole weapon at their disposal. Cleve might not be able to understand that, but she did. She still had no idea whatsoever about how she was going to deal with the man’s ridiculous demand for his “reward,” but she did know that Cleve could not be allowed to disrupt things, no matter how aggravated he might be. With a warning look at the page she handed the knife back to Blacksword.

There was a muffled expletive from the boy, and he shot her a most aggrieved stare. Then he drew his cloak tight around him and stormed off into the bushes. Rosalynde heard the snapping of twigs and the rustle of leaves. Then he obviously found himself a resting spot, and after a few moments it was quiet once more.