The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“You have made it better,” she whispered, and tears filled her beautiful eyes. “Thank you, Alfred.”

Alfred had a feeling she was thanking him for more than this, but he did not ask. He did not want to break the spell. Instead he smiled and gently released her, rising to his full height.

“Will you walk with me in the kitchen garden?” he asked her quietly. And instantly he wanted to draw the words back, afraid she would say no.

Millisent hesitated, glancing down at her stitching, and he was certain then she was going to refuse. Her laugh tingled over his skin. She laid the linen aside, and held out her hand toward him. “Aye, I will,” she said, and Alfred grew dizzy with the promises he saw dancing in her eyes.

Rose had been watching the door for hours. Or so it seemed.

The mercenaries had spent the afternoon helping rebuild the village. Rose knew they had little time left before the harvest would have to begin, for then they would need every available hand to work from dawn till dusk in the fields.

Now the evening meal was ready to be served and most of the household had already assembled in the great hall. A couple of hounds tussled together by the fireplace, until the foot of a passing servant separated them.

Millisent had been following on her heels like a shadow all afternoon, and although the girl had been too dreamy to be of much use, Rose had not had the heart to send her away. Harold still resided in his cell, and there he would stay until Radulf came. Rose had made certain he was cared for, and repeated her promise to Eartha that all would be well…but in her heart she was sick. And yet how could she watch Harold die, or stand by while Fitzmorton tore Somerford to pieces? No, this was the only way.

The meal could not wait any longer.

Rose moved to the table on the dais, and glanced over at the hovering serving wenches. Reading her correctly, they clattered out to fetch the meal.

Brother Mark was approaching, rubbing his hands together in anticipation—Rose had never met such a greedy man. “The boy…the messenger went off safely?” he asked her, leaning close so that no one else could hear.

“Aye, he did,” Rose said, trying to ignore the crawling-flesh feeling that being close to Brother Mark always gave her.

“Good, good.” He laughed, and then, sensing her surprise, subdued himself and looked away.

Sir Arno wasn’t there yet. He had been delayed by some unspecified matter, and had sent word for Rose not to wait. What matter could keep Arno from his meat and his wine? Rose wondered, for he was nearly as greedy as Brother Mark.

She had not spoken to him, not properly, since the incident in the village. Rose knew it would need to be done soon, but she shied away from it. Soft-hearted as she was, Rose did not like to hurt people, and she feared that in Arno she had handled matters very ill. If she had only known of his love for her, she might have tread more carefully, refused him in a way he could accept without losing face. Now he was angry and his feelings wounded.

Now he was dangerous.

She glanced up at the door again, and promptly forgot Arno and Brother Mark and everyone else.

Gunnar had come at last.

He approached down the length of the great hall with his confident, ringing stride, and simply everyone turned to look at him. As he passed his mercenary band, he paused long enough to murmur something in Ivo’s ear. The big dark man nodded seriously, and then Gunnar had passed on, climbing the dais to Rose’s table.

Without Arno there, there was no bolster between them. When he sat down he was looking directly at her, and Rose felt her insides curl. This was the man who last night had held her in his arms, covered her mouth with his, and taken her body with his in a way that she feared had spoiled her for all others.

“My apologies, lady,” he was saying with his lips. “I had a matter to attend to.” His eyes were saying something else altogether.

“Everyone has matters to attend this evening, so it seems.” Rose’s voice was chilly with nerves.

Gunnar gave her a questioning smile.

“Sir Arno is also late,” she explained, gesturing to the space.

He looked startled, as if he had only just realized Arno wasn’t there. His narrowed blue gaze flicked about the hall, taking swift note of everything and everyone. Rose waited until he had turned that piercing look back onto her. “Is there something wrong, Captain?” she asked him softly.

She had leaned closer, and he too bent toward her, so that their faces were almost touching. “I am hungry, lady, that is all,” his murmur was deep and soft. His gaze slid lower, brushing her mouth, her smooth throat, the curve of her breasts beneath her red gown.

Rose tried to catch her breath. Suddenly her mind was again filled with memories of hot kisses and gasping cries, and his hard body moving inside hers. Jesu, what was wrong with her? Why could she not restrain herself as she used to? It was as if a riverbank had burst within her, and now it was impossible to hold back the tumbling water.

“I am sure the meal will arrive soon, Captain,” she managed, glancing rather desperately at the door to the kitchen.

Gunnar shook his head. Beneath the table his hand brushed hers. “But later…when I hunger in the night, lady? Will there be aught for me then?”

“Do you often hunger in the night?” she asked him, her voice strange, her flesh tingling.