The Rose of Blacksword (19 page)

A flush of heat and color crept up her chest and face as she recalled the way he had touched her and entered her down there.

“Sweet Mary, what have I done?” she whispered, truly appalled at her unpardonable behavior. She had lain with him—a man she hardly knew and whom she hoped soon to be rid of—and to add to her shame, she had then quite obviously fallen asleep still clasped in the rogue’s embrace! If she spent the remainder of her life on her knees
in fervent prayer, she could not hope to be forgiven for such a reprehensible act!

In desperation she glanced around, searching for a way out of her predicament. They lay in a bed of thick grasses, sheltered by a half circle of willows. Somewhere behind them must be their camp. And Cleve, she realized with a start. She must get away from this man—this Blacksword—before Cleve found out, she thought wildly. They must slip away while he slept and somehow—somehow!—make their way to Stanwood before he caught up with them.

Even as she made her plans, she knew it was madness. There was no chance they could escape him, and even less chance that he would not follow. But she could not pause to consider that. If she had to confront him—
when
she had to—she would decide then how to handle him. She would lie if he told anything to her father. She would! But first she must make good her escape.

She edged slightly away from him, as if only in her sleep, and managed to free her leg of the weight of his thigh. For a few seconds she rested, listening to his steady breathing to ascertain whether she’d awakened him at all. Then with ultimate care, she lifted his arm and moved it from where it draped over her, and laid it on his own hip. His wrist was wide and sturdy, she noted during the endless seconds it took to accomplish this move. Her hand could not even span its brawny width. He was possessed of such strength, she despaired. If he caught her he could easily crush her in his hands.

Yet it was these same hands that had caressed her so provocatively, she unwillingly recalled. He had used his hands in tenderness and passion. Was it possible he could use them in violence against her? She paused as she carefully let go of his wrist, confused by the many facets of his personality. Yes, he could use violence against her, she
told herself vehemently. If he had to he would. She was sure of it. Only she was not going to give him the chance.

With that thought uppermost in her mind, she inched with infinite slowness away from the warm curve of his body. A shiver raced through her when she was finally free of his touch. She told herself it was fear, but there was a tiny doubting voice in her head that denied it. She had enjoyed the towering passion they’d shared, the voice said, despite her every wish to pretend she had not. She had enjoyed it and now it was over.

But Rosalynde refused to listen to the voice. She refused to look back at the man sleeping so quietly, so unconcerned by his own nakedness. And she adamantly refused to think about the repercussions of what she was doing. She only rose to her feet, clutched her kirtle up to her breasts, and scurried behind the slender trunk of one of the willows.

Once she had her kirtle back on, she glanced around wildly for her gown. To her chagrin she saw it lying just behind Blacksword, a pitiful heap of dark-green wool abandoned during their wanton episode. Terrifed at any moment that he might awaken, she circled warily behind the protection of the trees. Once he stirred, and she froze, holding her breath as her heart slammed furiously against her chest. But then he stilled, and after only a moment’s hesitation she crept forward again.

It seemed to take forever. Every sound from the cry of a hunting kerlew to the scolding of a pair of squirrels magnified in her ears, rolling like thunder across the silent glade. Surely he would awaken! But he slept on as if he were drugged, and when she finally reached her gown she could have cried with relief.

His back was to her, marked with lingering bruises and scrapes—probably from his imprisonment, she thought. It
rose and fell lightly, signaling his continuing slumber, and despite her fear, she scrutinized him one last time. His shoulders were wide and tan, as if he often went without either tunic or chainse. But for all its muscled width, his back tapered gracefully to a trim waist and then further to lean, hard-muscled buttocks. She stared wide-eyed at him, hardly able to believe what she and this man had done together. Yet as her eyes moved down to his iron-hewn thighs, the feel of his lightly furred leg slipping between hers came vividly back to mind.

“Oh!” She gasped softly into the scratchy wool of the gown she held clutched in her hands. Then, humiliated by the perversity of her own thoughts, she turned away. Her hands trembled as she struggled with the gown. It was twisted and knotted, and she thought she would smother before she pulled it down past her head and shoulders, and then shoved her arms hurriedly into the sleeves. She fought the difficult fabric down to her waist then turned to flee, but three unexpected words stopped her.

“Don’t leave yet.”

In horror Rosalynde turned her head to see Blacksword staring at her. He was propped up on one elbow, smiling at her, and completely unfazed by his lack of clothing.

“You don’t have to run away in such a panic,” he continued in the same husky tone. “It’s hours till dark. There’s no rush.”

“I-I …” Words failed Rosalynde as she stared at him. He appeared so relaxed. His tone was so beguiling. And that smile …

She compressed her lips tightly together and forced herself to look away from him. That smile of his was far too confident, far too gloating, she fretted. But she knew that was to be expected. In his eyes he’d won. He had gotten what he wanted, and that was the right to claim her as his
wife. To make things worse, she quite obviously had cooperated with him every step of the way. Like a complete wanton, she had let him do what he would, and cried out with the pleasure of it!

For a moment she stood still, consumed with guilt and horror and too many other emotions to understand. Then from the corner of her eye she saw him move, and she swiftly turned to face him, prepared now for the worst. But he only stood up, stretched his arms wide, and let out a huge yawn.

Rosalynde’s eyes widened in shock as she stared at him, revealed as he was now in his full masculine glory. This unrestrained view she had of him showed a man of pure muscle, without an ounce of excess flesh. She had determined that before, but now the fact was driven home. In the filtered light of midday every part of him was clearly displayed to her, and despite her unwillingness to appear in the least affected, she stared at him with mouth slightly agape and eyes wide with surprise, quite transfixed by what she saw.

A pale scar contrasted against the darker skin of his side, a neat slice near his belly. Another puckered crescent marred the smooth flesh of one side of his chest. A mottled purple bruise still showed angrily against his ribs, and a raw scrape was just beginning to heal on one of his forearms. But those lingering marks of the harsh life he’d lived did nothing to mar the masculine beauty of his virile body. If anything they enhanced it, giving him a disturbing aura of power, of confidence, and especially of danger. It was this last that should have terrified her the most, but somehow it also attracted her most unwisely to him. Only with the sternest exercise of willpower was she able to force her gaze away.

“Must you be so … so … so shameless?” she muttered as hot color suffused her cheeks.

“Must you be so prudish?” he countered with a rakish grin. But to her enormous relief, he reached for his braies and pulled them up to cover his loins.

Rosalynde was poised between stupefaction and an overwhelming urge to run away. As she watched him knot his braies securely at the waist then roll the fabric over twice, she searched her mind desperately for some remedy to her newly worsened predicament. But her mind was an uncooperative blank; no solution presented itself at all. If she ran he would catch her. If he took her all the way to Stanwood he would reveal the handfast vow to her father. And if she tried to deny it he could now reveal what had passed between them this day. She was caught in an intolerable situation, trapped no matter which direction she turned. Oh, if only he would just go away!

“Come now, sweet wife. Come greet your husband with something other than this timid expression and shy reserve.” His eyes slid possessively over her, and his faint smile seemed nonetheless filled with an enormous amount of satisfaction. “Come here, Rose, and give me a kiss.”

It was this last—both gloating and insulting to her ears—which finally goaded her into action.

“Don’t you touch me,” she warned, jerking her skirt all the way down, then eyeing him as if he were the lowest form of life. “Don’t you ever presume to touch me again!”

His expression altered slightly at that, as if he had not quite expected such a rebuff from her. Not anymore, at least. What an arrogant oaf he was! she fumed. But he seemed to reconsider his approach, and this time when he smiled it seemed almost genuine. But she knew better than to trust him. She knew.

“If you’ll just hear me out, Rose.” He spread his arms
placatingly and took a step toward her. “You’ll find things not so black as they appear.”

“Not so black!” A sudden tremble crept into her voice and she swallowed hard to hide it. More than anything she did not want to cry before him. That would be the final humiliating admission of defeat. She swallowed again. “You have ruined me.”

“It is not ruinous for a wife to lie with her husband—”

“I’m not your wife!” she shrieked as she finally lost all control. “I’m not your wife!” Then she whirled away from him and ran as fast as she could from the still-undeniable pull of his masculine presence.

“Rose!”

She heard his call but only ran the faster. She wasn’t sure where she was going, only that she must get away. Even though she knew he could catch her if he wanted to, she could not stay a moment longer in his presence. The knowledge of how he had so easily seduced her, so effortlessly convinced her to throw away everything she’d been taught, everything she believed, fueled her flight with improbable speed.

“Christ’s blood! Would you just listen to me!” Then he let out an irreverent oath, and she heard the sound of his determined pursuit.

She didn’t get far in her headlong flight. Before she could reach the security of the deep woods or find the comfort at least of Cleve’s presence, he had her. Like a squalling kitten she was caught and lifted off her feet. Then he spun her around, yanking her up against him as he circled her waist with his implacable grip.

“No. Stop!” she cried, striking out blindly at him. “Let me go!”

“Be damned, woman! Would you just listen for once without interrupting me or running away?”

“No. No!” She fought him even harder, kicking his hard shins with her bare toes.

But it was another furious cry that silenced her and brought a momentary pause to their struggle.

“Unhand her, you unholy bastard!” Then with a bellow of pure rage Cleve charged them. Like a dog attacking a bear, the boy flew at the man.

Blacksword stood staring at the enraged boy for a moment, as if he could not quite believe his eyes. Then with another muttered curse he thrust Rosalynde aside and turned to face his puny but scrappy adversary.

Rosalynde fell to her knees at the abrupt change of events, and when she looked up she viewed their confrontation with equal portions of relief and horror. Cleve, pale with fury, was almost upon the larger man, with a stout branch his only weapon against Blacksword’s considerable size advantage. Yet branch and boy together were still no match for the more experienced outlaw. With a quick feint and a sudden turn, Blacksword threw off Cleve’s timing and then jerked the branch easily from his hands. As he swung it high Rosalynde was certain he meant to bash in the boy’s head, and she screamed a warning at Cleve. Instead of pressing his advantage, however, Blacksword only heaved the stout branch into the trees and then turned angrily to deal with Cleve. Yet despite Blacksword’s clear advantage, the boy would not back down.

“I’ll kill you, you son of Satan!” he growled as he circled the imposing man.

“Dear God, Cleve. Get away. Get away!” Rosalynde cried.

But Cleve’s sense of loyalty was too ingrained, and his need for revenge against this man who tried to dishonor his mistress was far too strong. “I’ll kill you,” he hissed as once more he charged.

This time he caught Blacksword around the waist. Or perhaps Blacksword caught him, Rosalynde was later to wonder. But the battle went no further than that for with a sudden blast of a horn, a group of horsemen burst from the woods. In an instant the trio was surrounded.

In the confusion of those first few seconds Rosalynde’s emotions seemed to work in slow motion. First came shock at the complete unexpectedness of it all. Then came horror as she relived the initial attack that had started this entire disaster. But then she recognized the deep green and gold pennants that the lead rider flew and her horror turned to surprise and then overwhelming relief. “Stanwood!” she cried, hardly daring to believe they were saved. “Stanwood!”

At once the tenor of the battle between Cleve and the huge Blacksword changed. Sensing the shift in his favor, Cleve abandoned his aggression and instead stumbled away from the grasp of the now-wary man.

“He’s a murderer! A thief who set upon us!” he cried to the uncertain riders who milled around them, stirring up a blinding cloud of dust. “He attacked the Lady Rosalynde!”

He had, Rosalynde silently concurred. He had indeed attacked her and used her most cruelly. But as the riders drew swords and daggers and closed in on the single man on foot, she was suddenly terrified for him. “Don’t hurt him!” she screamed as the horses and dust blocked her view of the suddenly dangerous situation.

“Don’t kill him!”

Yet her words were only one more cry of alarm lost in the pandemonium of the moment. Without warning she was whisked up before one of the knights who then abruptly wheeled his horse. As they rode out of view of the fight, she was left agonizing over her last sight of Blacksword. He was shouldered to the ground by one
of the horses, and she screamed to think he would be trampled even as she knew he deserved whatever harsh hand fate dealt him. But something in her just could not rejoice in his suffering.