In fact, in Rose’s opinion, they were behaving in a quite ridiculous manner. It wasn’t just the serving women, either. Wives of many years’ standing and girls hardly old enough to string two words together were all goggling at the mercenary captain. First one, then another, had made an excuse to approach the dais and perform some task or merely to linger there without reason, while others—including Constance—just sat and stared unashamedly in his direction.
Rose sighed, and supposed it was natural—Somerford Manor had been stripped of most of its marriageable-aged men. And Captain Olafson was an exceptional-looking man. But couldn’t these foolish creatures see that the mercenary’s beauty was but a disguise? A thin veneer for his savagery? He might sprawl, relaxed, on the bench, his chain mail replaced by a woad-blue tunic that clung to his broad shoulders and made his hair seem brighter and his eyes bluer, but he did not fool her!
Irritated and yet fascinated, Rose watched as Eartha arrived at a breathless halt before the mercenary. The wine slopped over the rim of the jug and stained her kersey gown, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Captain!” The word was a gasp.
The mercenary looked up, a question in his cool eyes.
Eartha continued in halting French. “I am called Eartha. I want to thank you for saving my son. He’s a babe still, and if he had fallen…” Eartha shuddered dramatically and then edged closer, her eyes growing heavy. “If I can repay you in any way…? Serve you in any way…? I am willing.”
Rose stiffened in her chair—she didn’t need Arno’s stifled guffaws to clarify Eartha’s meaning for her. It might be that in this instance Eartha was offering to repay the mercenary’s kind action in the only manner open to her—she had neither wealth nor power, only her looks and her body. Such exchanges were part of life, and Rose did not pretend they did not happen at Somerford.
Why then was there an uncomfortable tightness in her chest? A hot sensation in her throat?
“Well, Gunnar?” Arno was speaking with drunken familiarity. “What better way to warm your bed tonight than with a pretty wench? I say if she wants to show you her gratitude, let her!”
Rose frowned and wondered why no one else at the table appeared to find the comment objectionable—even Brother Mark was smirking. And yet Sir Arno did not normally speak so coarsely before her—he was most particular in his manners. What was the matter with him tonight? What was the matter with everyone?
Suddenly it was as if Rose were a stranger in her own hall.
The mercenary spoke quietly, and yet the noise about them ceased instantly. “Your thanks are unnecessary, Eartha.”
Irritably, Rose noted the fascinated faces turned in his direction. Captain Olafson had sounded unmoved by the woman’s offer, but Rose refused to believe that. Probably he was already plotting when and where he could claim his payment.
His answer had put Eartha at a loss—men rarely refused her favors—but then she appeared to remember her wine jug and quickly moved to fill his already full goblet. Of course the wine spilled. Realizing what she was doing, Eartha looked up at him and gave a nervous giggle. The interested watchers in the hall chuckled with her.
Gunnar Olafson smiled. A tug at the corners of his lips that broadened into something quite amazingly attractive. To Rose’s disgust there came a collective sigh from the womenfolk in the hall. She could cheerfully have strangled them all for being so gullible. Indeed she was so angry…
Eartha, now refilling Rose’s goblet, received a look from her gentle lady that surprised her into a slack-jawed stare. Sensing that her offer might have been the cause of Rose’s ill humor, she stammered in English, “Lady, I meant no harm. I…Forgive me. I did not know you wanted him for yourself.”
The silence in the hall intensified. Constance, who spoke English, coughed and bowed her head to hide her gleeful expression. Rose felt her face burning as if she were too near the sun. It did not matter that most of the Normans there did not know what Eartha had said. The English did, and far worse, so did the mercenary.
“You forget yourself,” Rose said in a frigid voice at odds with her fiery face.
Eartha bobbed a hasty curtsy. “Your pardon, lady,” and scuttled away.
Gradually the quiet was filled by voices as conversation resumed, and soon it was as if nothing had happened. Constance made some comment to Brother Mark about the tastiness of the pork, and he replied at length. Normality returned.
Rose felt herself thaw a little. Beneath the table her hands were shaking. Why does it matter? she asked herself angrily. Why should I care if he believes I want him, as Eartha said?
Because it’s true.
Her breath jammed in her throat. No, it wasn’t true! How could it be? Rose cast a furtive glance in the direction of the mercenary.
He was staring down at the embroidered cloth that covered the trestle table, as if it fascinated him as much as he fascinated all of them. His thin copper braids had swung forward with his hair, shielding his face, and his big hand lay relaxed beside his goblet, a crisscross of white scars etched into the tanned flesh.
Gunnar. That was what Arno had called him. Rose spoke the name silently to herself, and was shocked by a prickle of awareness. A shiver traced her spine, curled low in her belly…
Stop it, stop it now!
Arno leaned toward the mercenary captain, his movements clumsy from the wine, and muttered some jest. He laughed loudly, not realizing at first that Captain Olafson had failed to join in. When he did realize, Rose saw the baffled anger in his expression: How dare this churl reject his offer of manly comradeship!
“Why did you save the brat?” Arno asked with a sneer. “Why bother if you don’t want to bed the mother?”
Gunnar Olafson’s scarred hand closed into a fist.
Rose held her breath, for this was the very question she wanted answered.