The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

Why was the bailey, usually a bustle of activity, so quiet? And yet it was not empty; people stood about. The silence was very odd. Her eyes flicked over the pale and frightened faces, seeking a reason, and were captured by a group of mounted men who were clearly the center of attention.

Tough and dangerous.

Those were the words that occurred to Rose as she looked at them. As if they were used to facing death every day. Which, of course, if they were mercenaries, Rose reminded herself impatiently, they were. Their clothes were chosen for warmth and protection rather than for appearance; the men wore chain mail or heavy leather tunics studded with rings. The big dark one had a thick cloak made of animal pelts—wolf, probably. And they were armed with a veritable bristle of weapons. Swords, shields, and axes. And their leader…but there Rose’s thoughts lost all clear structure.

Her eyes widened in awe.

Their leader was like no man she had ever seen before. He was strange and exotic, and yet extraordinarily masculine. A dulled and shortened chain mail tunic covered his broad shoulders and chest; the metal was decorated with numerous dents as though he had lately fought hard for his life. A round shield hung across his back and one shoulder, the red background painted with the snarling form of a black wolf. His legs were encased in tight dark breeches, each powerful muscle of his thighs outlined as he gripped his big gray horse, forcing it to an unnatural stillness. Hair of dark copper fell long to his shoulders, two thin braids hanging either side of his face and giving him the look of a barbarian.

Or a Celtic warrior, or a…a…

“Viking.”

Rose whispered the word, her breath squeezed in her throat. His appearance was barbaric and savage, but—and this was the most surprising thing of all—he was also the most handsome man she had ever seen. The strong set of his jaw, the sun brown of his skin, the unflinching blue of his eyes. It seemed inconceivable that a man such as this should be so handsome. He should be scarred and ugly, and that he wasn’t must be a trick of nature, to dull the senses and bemuse the unwary, so that he could pounce. Or strike like a viper.

He is not like us.

Rose shivered. What had she been thinking to hire such men as this? To bring them onto her manor among the very people she was trying to protect!

Dear God, have I done the right thing?

“Sir Arno?” Her voice was breathless, possibly from her hurry across the bailey, but she did not think so. Fear and apprehension had tightened like bands about her chest.

Arno smiled his usual smile, and Rose felt suddenly wildly disoriented. Arno was the same and yet he seemed to pale into insignificance beside the mercenary. This was Arno, unswervingly loyal Arno, her husband Edric’s friend, the man he had trusted completely—on his deathbed, and before witnesses, Edric had sought Arno’s promise to obey and protect Rose.

Then why didn’t Rose feel her usual confidence when she looked at him? Why did the familiar no longer seem so safe?

It was the fault of the mercenary leader.

He was so unfamiliar, this utterly foreign creature. He had turned her perceptions upside down, and, shockingly, his very strangeness drew her to him. It was an attraction against her will, but she knew it was there. Like, Rose told herself, a foolish fascination for an animal one knows is dangerous.

Rose took a long, slow breath, calming herself. Stop this! She was no silly wench thrown into a state by a handsome face; she never allowed men to rule her by her senses. She was Lady Rose of Somerford, a thoughtful woman, a practical woman, a woman of good sense. This nonsensical behavior had gone far enough.

After a brief pause, Rose felt collected enough to be able to meet the mercenary’s blue eyes.

A mistake.

They were the blue of summer seas with the hint of an approaching storm. Piercing in his hard, handsome face, they delved into hers. Despite her preparation, Rose felt her stomach plummet. She was drowned in a hot wave of feeling that until now she had always believed…hoped to be foreign to her. Shocked, her thoughts spiraled, and she lost her emotional footing for the first time in her life. The whisper in her head was one of startled disbelief.

Is this…can this be desire?

Chapter 2

“My lady!”

Arno. Good, reliable Arno. With a dizzy sense of relief Rose broke eye contact with the mercenary and turned to her knight. She must have held out her hand, although she didn’t remember it, for she felt his fingers on hers as he bent to press his lips to her skin. Struggling with the inappropriateness of her feelings, she forced herself to pay attention.

“Lady Rose, these are the mercenaries.”

“So I see, Sir Arno. Are they…that is, do they speak—”

“Captain Olafson!” Arno was frowning up at the mercenary leader. “Dismount and show some respect. This is Lady Rose of Somerford!”

He spoke as if to a recalcitrant child who needed a lesson in manners. The hush, that had already fallen about them deepened markedly. Clearly everyone was wondering whether the handsome mercenary would respond to Arno’s reprimand…or slit his throat.

Rose’s own heart began a labored bumping, but from what cause she couldn’t say for certain. It might have been Arno’s tone, or it might have been the fact that she was once more staring up into those sea-blue eyes. Only this time she was aware, shockingly aware, that despite their pretty color they were the coldest, the most emotionless eyes she had ever encountered.

Captain Olafson clearly wasn’t angered by Arno’s words. They were nothing to him. With a shrug, he swung down from his gray horse—superbly graceful for a big, strong man—and stood before them.