The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“Please wait, Captain! I wish to speak with you.”

She came quickly to where he waited, until she was so close that he felt his skin prickle with awareness of her. Why did she stand so near him? Surely, even if she could not see his arousal, she could sense the heat sizzling in the air about him? Sense the powerful grip he was having to exert to stop himself from simply reaching out, lifting her into his arms, and taking her to his bed.

But she didn’t know. She was too full of her own concerns—although, perhaps, she felt there was something wrong. He was as tense as a drawn bow. He stood, arms crossed over his chest as if he could lock her out. Hesitantly she put out her hand and rested it lightly on his.

“Captain…are you unwell?”

Her hand was cold, with fine and delicate bones, the nails bitten down. His was large and callused, scarred from a life of fighting, and warm. Very, very warm.

Gunnar shivered, and found himself almost light-headed as he wondered what it would be like to have that slender hand between his thighs.

“No, I am not unwell,” he said hoarsely. I am being driven mad by my own lustful fantasies, may Odin help me!

“Then tell me what happened at the village,” she demanded.

He stared back at her as if he had lost the ability to speak. Her body was scented, and she was close enough so that he could smell her. Her eyes glinted in the torchlight, and her lips were lush and red against the pallor of her skin. He could lean down now and cover her mouth with his; he could lift her hand and suck each of her vulnerable fingers, one by one.

“What happened at the village, Captain?” There was an impatient authority to her voice. It cleared Gunnar’s head. Somehow he assembled the necessary words, began sorting them into the correct order.

“Captain Olafson?” Very impatiently, and so close now that he was drowning in her sweet scent.

Gunnar cleared his throat. Tell her? Aye, he would tell her, and read the truth in her face turned up to his.

“Much of your village is destroyed, lady, and a serf called Hergat is dead.”

Gunnar saw her flinch and knew he had been brutal, but he had what he wanted—a genuine reaction.

“I have left two of my men on guard with the villagers who wanted to stay behind. The rest of your people have sought the safety of your keep.”

“Of course.” She removed her cold hand, snuggling it back inside her cloak with the other one, and he felt the loss of it. Her eyes strayed past him, to a huddled group of sanctuary seekers. Her voice trembled. “And those who did this thing? Did you capture them?”

“No. They were already gone when we got there. Tomorrow we will begin our search, lady.” His reply sounded like failure, but as always Gunnar oozed self-confidence. He stood before her, arms folded over his chest, legs apart, as if daring her to berate him. Gunnar almost wished she would, so that he could walk off and clear his mind of this sexual sizzle. How could he do the job required of him when all he wanted was to bury himself inside her?

But to his frustration she didn’t argue, just nodded her head, quietly accepting his explanation, before turning away to give orders to her servants.

Gunnar stood, watching her, asking himself in bewilderment how his famous calm had so quickly and so easily deserted him. If the woman knew she was causing his usually solid world to crack and shiver, if she was using her wiles upon him intentionally, he might be able to resist her. If she was a practiced temptress, a woman who knew how to play the game, he would be able to counter her moves. He understood such women—they were the kind he was most familiar with.

Gunnar did not normally consort with highborn, high-strung Norman ladies. A mercenary found relief with whoever was available, and earthy women experienced in pleasure were his natural choice. And to make it worse, Rose didn’t appear to realize the effect she was having on him—he’d swear it by all his father’s Norse gods. How could he make his moves or protect himself in a game that she did not even know they were playing?

She was still giving orders.

As she spoke, she gathered the miller’s daughter, who had been standing quietly beside her, within the safety of her arm. When she had finished allotting their tasks, Rose turned to the girl, taking in her dirty, ripped clothes and wild hair.

“Millisent, my poor child, where is your father?”

The kindness undi

d the girl. With a gasp, she crumpled against her shoulder, heaving sobs. Rose’s arms closed about her in sympathy and alarm, and she turned back to look at Gunnar with big, startled eyes.

Reluctantly he came forward, until he could speak without being overheard by the villagers. She stood and waited, her eyes growing a little bigger as he loomed over her. “The miller is missing. He was not in the village, and Edward, there on the gate, has not seen him enter the keep.” He hesitated, but she continued to watch him, sensing there was more bad news and trusting him to deliver it to her.

Her trust disturbed him; he made his voice cold, set up a barrier. “Lady, we found a dead man by the miller’s cottage—a man who may be a Norman—and no one seems to have seen him before.”

If she sensed his withdrawal, it didn’t prevent her from moving even closer and gazing up at him, the girl still tucked in against her shoulder. “But…I don’t understand. Is he from the Mere? One of those who caused the devastation?”

“Perhaps.” Her face was lifted to his, guileless and open. Gunnar tried to read the lies in her, but all he saw was concern and bewilderment, and the same lonely melancholy of spirit he sometimes felt in himself.

“Perhaps? That is no answer, Captain.” She moved yet closer, until the hem of her pale undergown brushed against his dusty boots.