The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“I…” Her eyes widened, glinted with anger.

“Quickly, or I may change my mind.”

She bit back the words she really wanted to say. Trembling, her hands clutching onto his tunic, Rose stretched up on her toes and fastened her mouth to his. He did not move, and with a frustrated groan, she began to kiss him, her lips soft and warm. It was enough. More than enough. Gunnar was suddenly kissing her back, hard and unstoppable, passion flaring like a lit torch inside him.

And then he was gone, the door slamming after him.

Rose staggered, hand to her bruised mouth, breath sobbing. How would she manage tonight? she asked herself, on the edge of hysteria. How would she play at lust, when she knew, to her despair, that she would not be pretending at all?

“Ethelred is here.”

Ivo’s voice was quiet beside him, but Gunnar hadn’t been sleeping. He sat up on his bed, and saw Reynard do the same. “And?”

“They are just beyond the woods. Miles and about twenty men. They are moving slowly, but even so we don’t have long, Gunnar.”

Not long, but long enough. Gunnar met his friend’s eyes and leaned closer. “Listen to me, Ivo. This is what we must do…”

He hadn’t come.

Rose had waited for hours, at first pacing in agitation, and then lying stiffly in her bed, eyes fastened on the door. Time after time she had imagined she heard him, her heart surging. But each time the door had stayed closed. He had not come, and now it was so late Rose doubted he would.

What did that mean?

Had he decided he did not want her after all? That Fitzmorton’s coins were more tempting than a woman he could take anyway? Had she not convinced him enough with her kiss? He had told her he wanted her willing, had she not been willing enough? Or had he sensed her true feelings?

And what are they?

That I loathe him!

Aye, that is obvious. Loathe him so much you can’t take your eyes off him. You want him, lady, don’t deny it. You want to reach out and undo the laces on his breeches and take his—

“No!”

Rose did not realize she had cried out aloud until the sound of her own voice echoed back to her. She swallowed hard, reining in her wild emotions. No. It would not do to think such things, even if she feared they might be true. Strange as it was, she had thrown in her lot once more with the mercenary. He might be a monster, but Rose knew deep in her secret heart she would rather bargain with him than either Miles de Vessey or Arno.

Was she mad to do so?

“Lady?”

Rose sat up, staring wide-eyed, her dark hair falling loose about her, the covers clutched to her chest.

“Lady? Open your door.”

There was a command in his voice—he was a man used to obedience. Rose was tempted to refuse or pretend she was still asleep, but what would be the point in that? He would probably smash down the door and then he would be angry with her. She had made a bargain with him, and if she went back on it then she would be compromising her own integrity, not his.

Rose climbed out of her bed, pulling her robe about her, and with her toes curling on the cold floor, walked to the door. He was a large shadow just outside it. The torch that usually burned on the wall had been doused—the smoke stung her nostrils. As she stood, confused, every sense suddenly alerted, another shadow joined Gunnar’s, and then another. Rose began to quickly close the door.

He caught it in his hand. Slowly, inexorably, he forced it back until, with a cry, Rose stumbled backwards into her chamber. Gunnar followed her and she squeaked, thinking he would strike her or—as she had once seen her father do to her mother—pick her up and shake her. He did neither. He walked right past her, to the window. The shutters creaked as he flung them open and peered out into the night.

Rose held her breath, watching him warily. Torches burned and flared by the gate, and in their light she could see Arno and Sweyn on guard duty. The Norman was strutting backward and forward, waving his arms and talking in an agitated manner. The Dane was standing with arms crossed over his chest, watching him steadily.

In the darkness of her chamber, Ivo had come up softly beside his captain. Behind them stood the one they called Reynard, with the swarthy good looks.

“What now?” Ivo’s voice was a deep hum.

“When Miles comes, you go down and play the part we agreed on.”

Ivo shifted as if he wasn’t happy.