“That depends.” He was stroking her palm with his finger. Rose shivered—how could a touch so simple feel so exquisite?
“Upon what?”
“On the repast available.”
The laughter bubbled up inside her. Rose bit her lip on the image of herself naked upon a silver platter, but her eyes danced. He was teasing her, stirring to life her waking desire in a manner no man had ever done before. When she had thought of men and women mating it had never seemed to her a matter for lightheartedness, for laughter and joy. It was a task, just like any other, part of the bargain that was made between them when they wed, or the way to make children.
Now Gunnar had shown her another side to it, and Rose was delighted, despite feeling uncomfortably hot all over. Was this a preliminary to later, to tonight? When he came to her? Aye, there were promises now in his eyes, and her fingers had turned over and were clinging to his.
“I want…” she began, her voice a shaken whisper.
“Forgive me, lady!” Arno had arrived, shouldering between them, his face flushed and his eyes bright.
Rose pulled herself back, physically and mentally. Had Arno heard? Seen? He did not seem to have, although then again he was not quite his usual self…She eyed him curiously. Arno was excited. Something had happened. She opened her mouth to ask for an explanation, too late. The servants had arrived with the food, and the chance was lost in the familiar business of serving and eating.
Rose took a dainty bite of the fish pie, washing down Eartha’s fine pastry with a sip of her wine. Constance slipped hastily into her own seat, with an apologetic glance at Rose. “I was taking Harold’s meal to him,” she explained.
“Why bother?” Arno had heard her.
Rose turned to look at him questioningly, though she feared she already knew what he would say.
“Why bother wasting good food on a dying man?” Arno did not surprise her, but she was dismayed at the loud heartiness of his voice.
Quickly she looked down into the body of the hall, hoping no one else had heard. Several unsmiling faces were turned in their direction, and one of them was Millisent’s. The girl had lost the blush that had looked so pretty on her cheeks earlier, and her eyes were wide and afraid. As Rose, dismayed by Arno’s brutality, wondered how she could undo his damage, Alfred rose from his place with the other mercenaries and set himself down beside Millisent.
The girl turned towards him, and something in her expression, something in the tilt of her head, told Rose all she needed to know. They
were in love. It surprised her, and yet…it was not such a surprise, surely? They had been thrown much together since the night of the fire, and Rose had discovered for herself how kind and sensible was Alfred. A reliable man, yet one who had also suffered, the sort of man who would greatly appeal to a girl who, in an instant, finds her safe world turned upside down.
As Rose watched, Millisent reached out her hand and touched Alfred’s mouth, a light brush of her fingers, but it was obvious she would have liked to kiss him instead. And by the look in his eyes Alfred was more than willing to reciprocate.
Suddenly Rose felt like an interloper, and turned back to her fish pie. Was that how she looked, when she watched Gunnar? Were her own feelings as easy to read as those of Millisent? Jesu, she prayed not! The thought made her cringe. How could she keep the respect and obedience of her people, if she showed no more sense than to become besotted by a handsome-faced mercenary?
They would laugh at her! And Rose would not blame them.
She did not look in Gunnar’s direction again. The sight of Millisent and Alfred had sobered her, frightened her, and woken her out of her silly dream. Instead she thought of Lord Radulf in his stout castle at Crevitch, receiving the message from Steven and then calling for his men and setting out for Somerford to make all right. Of course, then he would discover that, far from being the strong and sensible woman she had thought herself, Rose had been far too interested in enjoying Gunnar Olafson to see disaster approaching.
Constance drew the brush through her lady’s hair, candlelight gleaming on the dark, glossy strands. It tumbled about her, feeling heavy on her back and shoulders, pulling at her slender neck as she sat on the stool wearing her thin robe. The weight of her lady’s hair seemed symbolic to Constance, and she wished there was some way of lightening her mood.
Tonight Rose was subdued, lost deep in her thoughts. Not a good sign, as Constance knew from past experience. ’Twas better if Rose did not think too hard when it came to her own happiness; she was constantly finding excuses not to do those things that pleased her most. It was almost as if she did not believe she deserved pleasure, did not deserve happiness, when everyone at Somerford—from the oldest to the youngest—wished her all the happiness in the world.
Constance wielded the brush again. “Gunnar Olafson is a fine man,” she said, treading carefully.
Rose frowned.
Inside Constance sighed, but she refused to be daunted. “He has much to offer.”
“He is certainly handsome,” Rose replied bitterly. “I am shallow enough to notice that, Constance. Perhaps that is all that matters to me, his beauty. I thought I was better than the other women, but in truth I fear I am no different.”
Constance assumed a somber look, her eyes lowered. “Are you certain, lady? Is he not different from other men? I ask this because, although Gunnar Olafson might be handsome, and all the women may stare, he has not used the situation to his advantage, has he? He has not gone from one bed to another, has he? It is you he favors above all others, and only you.”
Rose rubbed her temples as if they ached. “I offered him money to come to my bed,” she admitted, and there was shame in her voice.
Constance almost groaned out loud.
“He did not take it,” Rose went on miserably. “He said it was…it was all part of his service. And he…he did it three times, Constance.” Her eyes were dark and enormous, as she met the old woman’s startled gaze. “I thought he would only do it but once, and then he woke me and did it again, and then come dawn he did it again. And each time was just as wonderful as the first…I did not know until then, I did not understand what you meant when you said it would be different with a young and lusty man. A man I wanted.”
Constance choked back laughter as she listened to her lady’s artless confessions, but her voice trembled only slightly when she replied. “It sounds to me, lady, as if Gunnar Olafson came to you because it pleased him to do so, and not because you coerced him into it. A man, being what he is, may take a woman once, even if he does not like her particularly, but three times.” She shook her head with certainty. “Nay, lady, that could only be for his own pleasure, because he craved her as a thirsty man craves water.”