Page 51 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

H e’d have hell to pay for missing this morning’s lessons, but Roland would do it again for having spent it with Amalia.

When they’d passed by the kitchen and Amalia spied a woman leaving with tears in her eyes, she excused herself, spoke to the scullery maid and handed her a handkerchief.

When Amalia returned to him, she said only, “Hers is not my story to tell,” when Roland asked about the cause of her tears.

“The seneschal would care to know if she was being mistreated,” he said. “Such a thing would not be tolerated.”

“Nay,” she said as they walked toward the garden. “It was a personal matter.”

“A man.”

Amalia gave him a sideways gaze, telling Roland his guess was accurate.

“Matters of love produce more tears than any other,” he said.

“But also smiles. And laughter. And good feelings too.”

They stood at the entrance of the garden, where Amalia said she would like to remain. Apparently, she had a fondness for herbs and healing and wished to know what Castle Blackwood’s garden grew.

“Rarely,” he said of her statement about love, aware his truth would not endear him to this woman, but Roland spoke the truth.

“Surely not,” she said, all but crossing her arms.

“Are your parents in love?”

She paused. Thought for a moment. “Aye, they are, I believe.”

“That you are not certain tells me all I need to know.”

“Are yours?”

“As companions? Friends? Aye. But theirs was not a love match and none who know them well would claim otherwise.” He pressed her. “Name me a couple in love.”

Her chin raised defiantly. “My lady and Sir Gareth.”

“An exception. And the couple is, at present, excommunicated from their homes because of it. Can you think of another?”

Amalia thought for a moment. “Aye. There is a farmer and his wife, the healer in our village who taught me the use of herbs. They are very much in love and have eight children to show for it.”

“Love is not required to bear children, as my own siblings and I can attest.”

“You are a cynic, my lord.”

“You are a romantic, my lady.”

“I am no lady,” she said, without a hint of acridness for the fact.

“You do not wish to be so? Many in your position aspire to such a title.”

For the first time since they’d met, Amalia frowned. He’d upset her with his words, but Roland would not take them back. He spoke only the truth.

“I cannot account for the type of woman with whom you typically associate. For myself, I wish only to serve my lady and—” She glanced toward the garden but said no more.

“And?” he prompted.

“It matters not. I am certain you’ve lessons or duties to attend to, my lord.”

Roland crossed his arms. “So I am ‘my lord’ and no longer Roland?”

He added stubbornness to the list of Amalia’s traits, something they had in common.

“Thank you for the tour,” she said, not answering his question.

Her anger at his assumption told him much, but also had angered her. If Roland knew anything from his sisters, it was that now was not the time to press his suit.

A suit he should not press at all. He was sworn to protect her. The lady was his friend’s wife’s maid. A dalliance with her would be ill advised, and yet even now, Roland yearned to taste the sweetness of her lips. To run his hands over those full hips of hers, pulling her close.

He averted his eyes, which had inadvertently wandered to her own. Bowing, Roland accepted defeat. For now.

“It was my pleasure.”

Without another word, or a glance backward, Roland made his way to the training yard. Finding Alden, he stood beside him, willing Lord Stirling not to notice he’d just arrived.

“Where have you been?” Alden whispered.

He did not deign to answer.

“Roland, she is no ordinary maid. You cannot?—”

“Save the lecture,” he said, knowing it would come. “For after our lesson.”

“One you mostly missed. He’s already gone through the rotation.”

Roland cursed under his breath.

“For some, your arms are not straight enough. For others, your shoulders must remain down and not hunched up to your ears. Focusing on the target is not enough. Your stance will determine your shot before you ever release the arrow, lads.”

For a moment, it seemed Lord Stirling would not notice him. Until the instructor’s gaze pinned Roland in place.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.

Alden chuckled.

“Some, it seems, need no instruction as their aim is true every time.”

Whispers of Darien’s name, along with that of the only female recruit, an archer named Lyra, ran through the crowd. But Roland knew it was neither to whom Stirling referred.

Eventually, all realized the instructor spoke of Roland as Stirling’s gaze settled on his.

“Apologies, my lord,” he said to the esteemed instructor. “My duties as a knight superseded those of today’s lesson. I will, of course, spend the evening meal here on the training yard practicing my aim.”

“Of course.” Stirling’s brows rose, but the smile that tugged on the corner of his lips told Roland he’d escaped easily. Confirming the fact by dismissing them without calling Roland to task, Stirling left the training field, his squire scurrying behind him.

“If that were any other instructor,” Alden began.

“With the exception of Sir Eamon, whose order it was to watch over the woman.”

“‘Watch over’ does not mean court, Roland.”

“I do not court her,” he argued.

“Do you not?”

“Nay.”

“Missing lessons to give her a tour?”

“A kind gesture, acquainting her with Blackwood. ’Tis all.”

Alden folded his arms in front of him. “Do you believe me a fool, Roland?”

“Nay, I do not.”

“Do you believe Sir Eamon is a fool?”

“No,” he admitted. “I think just the opposite of the man, as you know well.”

“I do. Which is how I also know you play a dangerous game. There are many reasons Amalia is a woman you cannot have.”

Roland frowned.

“She is under our protection. Gareth would kill you,” he began.

“I know the reasons well,” Roland said, caring little his annoyance was misplaced for the simple fact that Alden was right.

“Unless, of course, you plan to marry her.”

Roland rolled his eyes. “Which you know well I cannot do if I’ve any hope of inheriting the earldom.”

“I know it well. Do you?”

“I do not wish to marry the woman, Alden.”

“What you do wish to do with her is what worries me,” he muttered.

Roland slapped his friend on the shoulder. “What worries me is that I’ve no one to train with this eve.”

“If you think I wish to miss a meal because of you?—”

“Bows first. Swords second.”

Alden never, ever passed on an opportunity to train with him. Alden was skilled, had been raised with a sword in his hand as a blacksmith’s son, but Roland was much more so. And Alden knew it.

“Fine,” he conceded. “But you owe me a meal.”

Roland smiled. “I know a kitchen maid who will be happy to provide one,” he said, thinking of the blond woman he’d been with on his second night at Blackwood. One he’d thought was comely at the time but who could not compare even slightly with Amalia.

Pushing thoughts of the lady’s maid from his mind, he followed Alden to the stables, prepared for a long day and night of training.