The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

The realization made her very uncomfortable, and she swiftly sought an acceptable, comfortable explanation. “Mayhap Arno knows Miles from the days when my husband was alive,” she said in a stiff little voice. “There was a time when we had negotiations with Lord Fitzmorton, after he stole most of our garrison.”

Fitzmorton had found their attempts at negotiation amusing, Arno had told her.

If anything, her explanation caused the probe of his gaze to grow more intense. Rose knew then she had changed her mind. She wanted very much to be returned to her mare, she needed to escape the hold of this man who seemed to have such power over her, emotionally and physically.

“Your loyalty is misguided, Rose,” he said quietly. “Or is it more than loyalty?”

His familiarity with her name was not to be borne. Rose opened her mouth to tell him so, and instead was surprised to hear herself saying, “Arno has stood by me during hard times, Captain. You have been here but a short while—you do not know—”

The glint in his eyes startled her to a halt. He cupped her chin with his hand, lifting her face even closer to his, and his mouth swooped down until his lips brushed hers. “Ah, but I would know you, Rose. I would know every inch of you. I want to put my hands on your body, my mouth on your mouth. I want to be inside you.”

Her blood was drumming in her head. The taste of him, the feel of him, the nudge of his manhood against her hip…It was as if he had put a spell upon her, tamed her to his hand. Rose sat, frozen, knowing if she made the slightest move to acquiesce she would be lost. And this would be a very bad moment to give her senses over to desire.

She pulled away from the grip of his hand on her chin. She straightened her back and froze her expression into one of haughty indifference. “Please return me to my mount, Captain,” she commanded him coldly. She seemed to wait a long time for his response, so long that she began to be afraid he might not do as she asked, that he might run his hand over her breasts and kiss her, and then what would she do? Her breath grew ragged.

Abruptly, and with little tenderness, he gripped her about the waist and deposited her back onto her saddle. “Oh!” Her gown was twisted about her legs, exposing her stockings and the flesh of one thigh, her hair covered her eyes and hampered her movements. Flushed and cross, Rose adjusted her skirts more modestly, and then tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder. She shot him a glare. “I will not thank you, Captain.”

He glared back at her, and then, as before, the storm cleared from his features as he regained his phenomenal control. “I do not want your thanks, lady,” he replied evenly. “You know what it is I want.”

Rose pretended not to hear him. Gunnar might have regained his control, but just now, as she gazed into his handsome face, she had felt as if she were close to losing hers. And although she was afraid of the consequences, aye, terribly afraid, she did not think that would be enough to stop.

Chapter 9

Miles de Vessey had finished viewing the body by the time Rose arrived, the mercenary captain close behind her. The only glimpse she had of it was of a tightly wrapped bundle. As she drew up her mare, Arno was already striding to her side. His face was grim and serious, but his eyes shifted from hers. “Lady…’tis as I feared. The dead man was Lord Fitzmorton’s messenger.”

“Are you certain?” Even as she asked the question, Rose knew it was a forlorn hope.

Arno nodded. “Sir Miles recognized his sword scabbard.” He glanced past her, and his expression hardened still more. “You’d do better to listen to me, lady, than the Viking. He is here for his six marks, he cannot advise you on what is best for you and Somerford Manor.”

“No, Arno, he cannot,” Rose retorted coldly. “That is something I must decide on my own, without interference from him or you!”

He took a step forward, and he looked so angry, for a moment she thought he would drag her from the horse. Arno! He had never looked at her like that before. Shocked, Rose lifted her hand as if to fend him off. At the same moment Gunnar spurred his horse forward, forcing it between Rose and Arno, placing himself as her shield.

Rose gasped, and as she was struggling to bring her frightened mare back under control, she heard Gunnar’s two men draw their swords on her other side. Arno stumbled back, shock and anger fighting for supremacy on his face.

Miles de Vessey laughed. “Brawling over a woman, Gunnar?” he jeered softly.

Gunnar did not take his eyes from Arno. “Take care, d’Alan.” His voice was as cold as it was deadly. “You forget yourself.”

Arno’s face was red with his fury, and he spluttered for words to express it. Evidently he could find none, for he shook his head and stomped away to a safer distance, presenting them with his back.

Rose took a shaken breath, lifting her chin a little more. “Thank you, Captain, but I can manage now.”

Gunnar raised an eyebrow as if he doubted it, but nevertheless he moved back behind her, allowing her to resume command. The fact that he had done so was surprising in itself—Rose had found most men less than amenable when it came to being ordered about by a woman. But then Gunnar Olafson was not most men.

Miles de Vessey was sti

ll watching the exchange with interest, but now he seemed to tire of it. His voice came brisk and businesslike. “I want to take Gilbert’s body back to Lord Fitzmorton, lady. He has a wife who cherished him and will wish him buried close to her.”

Pity filled Rose for the woman. Thus far she had thought only of Harold and Millisent and Will—she had forgotten that the dead man, too, must have those who mourned him. He might have been willing to attack a young girl, but would his wife know that? Just as Rose’s mother had been willfully blind to her father’s twisted ways, so might this woman have closed her eyes to her man’s dark core.

“Of course, Sir Miles,” she said quietly. “Take his body with you, and tell her…I am sorry.”

Miles bowed his thanks, though he looked a little surprised by the promptness of her reply. Perhaps, Rose thought, he was not used to having his requests granted so easily—Lord Fitzmorton, she had heard, was a hard master. Miles turned to give his orders, and the men from his troop set about preparing for the journey.

“Sir Arno?”

Her knight still stood some feet away, sulking. At her call he stiffened his shoulders, and Rose thought he might ignore her. But Arno was too loyal for that. With obvious unwillingness he turned, eyeing her under lowered brows, his arms folded. “Aye, lady?” he asked gruffly.