The Rose and the Shield (Medieval 2)

“Will you stay and see these men on their way?”

He nodded, his mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. The bitterness she had noticed before still clung to him, and there was a look in his brown eyes that spoke of self-contempt. Puzzled, Rose wondered why, and tried to recall what they had been speaking of before they were interrupted. Arno had mentioned seeking help from Radulf or…Fitzmorton? He had spoken strangely, though she had been too occupied with her own troubles to pay him much mind. But now she recalled how he had mentioned their time together in this year since Edric had died, and how Arno thought they might…

Her eyes widened.

Jesu, he was going to ask to marry me!

Arno was still watching her, and she wondered uncomfortably whether he was able to read her mind. If he could he showed no sign, simply nodding and murmuring in reply to her request, “Aye, lady, I will.”

“Thank you, Sir Arno.” Her voice sounded husky and unsteady. To her dismay, Rose realized she felt sorry for him, and it was more than likely he had seen the pity in her eyes. How an earth was this to be mended?

“Lord Fitzmorton will want to see justice done.”

It was Miles de Vessey’s clipped tones that had interrupted her confused thoughts. Slowly, Rose turned back to him, and found that he was watching her closely, his gray eyes without emotion. Was he merely stating a fact or, as sounded far more likely, issuing a thinly veiled threat? This man was more dangerous than Arno could ever be. Best she keep her wits about her and not be distracted by other matters.

“We all want to see justice done,” she replied gently, and tried to ignore the fact she was so disheveled, her hair loose all about her like a serf’s, that it must be difficult to believe she was a lady at all. She lifted her chin another notch.

“Sir Arno tells me you have captured the man who murdered poor Gilbert?”

Poor Gilbert! She hoped her face did not betray her thoughts. “It is not yet proven.”

“He has confessed,” Arno cut in swiftly, evidently keen to impart the good news. His sideways glance to Rose told her that he was also keen to repay her for her treatment of him.

“Lord Fitzmorton will want to oversee the punishment himself,” Miles announced in a commanding voice. “I will take the prisoner with me.”

“No!” Rose heard her own fear, and hoped they would think it anger. She waited a moment to regain some measure of control over herself before she continued. “No, Sir Miles. This is my manor, and I will oversee any punishments meted out to my people. Reassure Lord Fitzmorton that justice under Norman law will be done.”

“As you say, lady,” Miles murmured with another bow, but he didn’t appear to be pleased. Rose very much feared she had not seen or heard the last of Miles de Vessey.

She turned away, urging her mare back through the village, in the direction of the keep. She felt weary and sad and a little frightened, but she did not allow her back to slump or her head to bow. They—Arno and Miles de Vessey and his men—would be onto her like crows on carrion if she showed the slightest weakness.

Since Edric had died, she had fought hard to maintain her rightful position—and all the myriad difficulties that went with it—and she had fought to hold on to her power just now, when Miles and Arno would have stripped it from her as easily as a rabbit’s skin. Aye, she had won this battle, but the victory was not so sweet—it was her right to preside over her manor court; just now Rose wondered if such a right were really worth fighting over. She was to sit in judgment on a good man like Harold the miller, and punish him for protecting what was his from someone who had meant him harm.

And there were still so many questions!

Why had the Norman, Gilbert, been in such a place at such a time? Had Harold mistaken the matter after all; had Gilbert been there to help? But Harold was no fool, and Millisent would not lie about such a thing. Mayhap the Norman had come upon the merefolk attacking the village and thought in the melee to take something that was not his? An opportunity gone very wrong.

Miles de Vessey or Arno could bully her all they liked, but Rose knew she could not judge Harold until she had the whole tale.

Gunnar was watching her profile as they rode. He had been watching her for some time, but she was oblivious to him, too caught up in her own thoughts. He was a man used to reading what went on in his opponents’ minds, and he had no difficulty seeing the anxiety in the pallor of her skin, or the tension in the vertical lines between her brows.

He had done as she asked of him. He had sat behind her, waiting, listening as she fought for, and held, her ground against the likes of Miles and d’Alan. Refusing to let them bully her, answering their bluster with cool authority, and receiving their agreement as if it were her due.

She was an admirable woman, the sort of woman any warrior would be proud to have at his side. ’Twas unfortunate Gunnar was here to take her land from her and catch her out in treason.

If there is any treason.

The voice in his head did not surprise him. Gunnar knew he had been doubting that she was a traitor since the first moment he saw her. As for Arno, aye, he was the kind of man to excuse himself any sort of evil, and then to be quick to blame others for his own weakness. But this woman…no, she was loved by her people and she loved them. Why would she give them up to Fitzmorton, knowing what would happen to them? She could not even bear to give up the wretched Harold!

He noticed that the lines between her brows had grown more pronounced—he wanted to smooth them away with his finger…or his tongue. Her hair, so thick and glossy dark, was long enough to curl against the saddle as she rode, covering her back and hips in a shining cloak. It looked heavy. He wanted to lift it off her neck with his hands, blow softly against the sweet flesh at her nape, press his lips to the tender places there.

Gunnar did not need to look down to know he was near to fully aroused, just from watching her, thinking about her, imagining what he would do to her if he had the chance. And the chance was coming. There was a heat between them that could not be doused by other than a passionate mating. She must know that as well as he.

“Lady Rose.”

She started as if she had forgotten he was there. Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her head. Gunnar waited until their eyes had locked. Instantly she was aware of him—a flush rose under her skin, her breasts lifted and fell more quickly, her lips parted. Desire, need…she felt it, too. Gunnar wondered what she would do…say, if he lifted her from her mare and lay down with her in the sweet summer grass. Would she protest? Or would she welcome the diversion, the chance to soothe the ache in her body? Would she open her arms and her legs, and take them both to Valhalla?

Maybe she could read his thoughts in his gaze, for she said, her voice low and husky, “There is no need for you to be here, Captain. Go back to Sir Arno and the others. I will ride on alone.”