The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

Too close, she thought instantly, moving to step back. And catching herself in time. No, it would not be a good idea to show this man she was afraid of him. If he were even half as savage as he looked, he would enjoy her fear.

Even Arno appeared momentarily taken aback by the mercenary captain’s size, and now the rest of them were dismounting with a muted rattling of harness and clink of wood and steel. They stood in the castle yard like a pack of wild and shaggy beasts. A child cried out, a woman hushed it. Rose realized that her people were afraid to make a sound in case it drew the mercenaries’ attention to them, and their wrath down on them.

She also realized that, for the first time in a long time, she had to look up to see into men’s faces.

Not an entirely comforting sensation.

Again she asked herself whether they would slaughter the occupants of Somerford while they slept. Would the promise of payment truly fix their loyalty? Indeed, were such men as these inclined to take orders from anyone, apart from whatever pagan gods they worshipped?

Rose drew a deep, sustaining breath. Well, it was up to her to see that they did! She was the lady of this manor, she had fought hard to retain her title, and while they

were there they would listen to what she had to say.

She held her head high, cold dignity in place, and before she could think twice stretched out a hand that trembled only the merest hint. “I am Lady Rose,” she informed them calmly. “Somerford Manor is mine, and while you are here I shall tell you what you can and can’t do. Is that understood?”

Captain Olafson looked down at her hand as if he had never seen one before. Rose had a shocking thought that perhaps there was a reason that women did not trust him with their limbs, but before she could change her mind and withdraw the hand, he had swallowed it up in his own.

His fingers were startlingly warm.

Why had she thought they would be cold?

Again she would have pulled away, but by then it was too late and he held her fingers captive in his. He felt her slight tug—the knowledge registered in his eyes—but he did not release her; if anything his grip tightened. Apart from indulging in an undignified struggle, Rose could do nothing but stand and allow him his will.

The big, dark man behind him was smiling, though attempting to hide it. Did they find this amusing? Were good manners so foreign to them that they found them laughable?

Rose flushed angrily and tugged again, but it was too late. There was the sensation of firm, dry lips pressed to her fingertips, the soft brush of his long hair against her skin. Unwillingly she looked down as Captain Olafson unbent his big body, his narrow braids swinging back into place, the fair stubble on his jaw glinting in the sunlight, and his teeth white as he gave a satisfied smile.

“You are more than welcome to tell me what I can and can’t do…my lady,” he murmured in perfect French.

Anger shot through her, hot and satisfying. He had just humiliated her, made fun of her for his and his men’s amusement, and she no longer cared whether he read the emotion in her eyes.

Sir Arno made a sound very like a growl. “Your manners, Captain!”

The mercenary barely glanced at him. Quite suddenly Rose’s anger cooled. These men might kill her loyal Arno without a second thought, and she could not allow that. She placed her hand on the knight’s sleeve, to press a warning. Captain Olafson’s eyes followed the gesture and, if it was possible, hardened even more. As they slid to her face, she read the scorn in them.

Does he think less of Arno for taking his orders from me?

He had already turned away from her, back to Sir Arno, who was still glowering.

“You have the makings of a fine harvest,” the mercenary said briskly, suddenly all business.

Rose noted Arno’s confusion—what did the knight know of harvests?—but he bluffed his way through it, nodding importantly and agreeing that it was the best he had seen for many years.

“That is good,” the mercenary went on, still ignoring Rose, “because the money you are offering is not enough.”

“Not enough?” Arno repeated.

Captain Olafson nodded. “Ten marks or we leave. There is plenty of work to be had elsewhere.”

“Ten marks!” Rose’s anger left her before this new challenge. Ten marks was a fortune. “That is too much.”

Captain Olafson’s eyes flicked toward her but only briefly, and he did not turn and face her, keeping his attention on Arno, as if it were his decision that counted. Rose seethed.

“We are neither serfs nor slaves,” he went on, his voice pleasantly deep but very chilly. “We do not have to agree to conditions that do not please us.”

Arno released an impatient breath. Rose could see he did not like this any more than she, but she also knew he felt it beneath his dignity to haggle. “I am sure that we can come to some—” he began.

Rose stepped around him, planting herself squarely in Captain Olafson’s line of sight. The blue eyes narrowed and there was actually a hint of some feeling in them—she didn’t have time to try and read what it was. Certainly he was a fearsome sight in his tunic of chain mail, the pagan-looking shield at his back, a vicious sword strapped low on his hip, his Viking hair reaching past his shoulders. Rose was used to men who looked more civilized, but there was much at stake here and she dared not back down. Those five extra marks would ruin Somerford Manor.