Page 52 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

A malia had spent the morning speaking with the gardener.

He had little experience with herbs, and much more so with flowers.

Because of it, he’d thankfully welcomed her suggestions, especially when Amalia had said she would be pleased to plant them herself.

Preparing a space for chamomile and sage was easy enough.

Securing them, along with some of the others, would be more difficult.

“There you are,” Sir Eamon said as Amalia was just dusting off her apron. There was no help for it; the dirt would need to be washed out.

“Greetings,” she said, having spoken to him at last eve’s meal but not since.

Eamon told her the meeting with Lord Ashcroft had not gone well at all, which prompted her to find something to occupy her time.

It seemed her lady and Sir Gareth would not be returning anytime soon unless they wished to have the baron challenge their marriage.

“I was told I could find you here. As I’ve mentioned, Amalia, you are a guest here. Not a servant.”

“Or gardener?” She smiled. “I enjoy this very much,” she said. “I cannot claim to be Rowena,” she said, referring to the village midwife and healer who also served Ashcroft Manor, “but dabble in healing with herbs when I am able.”

His eyes widened. “You are a healer?”

“A cursory one, at best. An herbalist, more like.”

That seemed to interest Eamon very much. “Somehow, I did not know this of you.”

“I was taught by a woman in my own village as a girl, but since Ashcroft has no healer of its own, and Rowena’s talents are in demand, I’ve had less opportunity to practice my skills.”

“Did you not have an herbal garden at Ashcroft?”

Amalia sighed. “I did. But the baron did not believe his daughter’s maid should be ‘dabbling in such things.’”

“I am not surprised Ashcroft disavows what he does not understand. Here, you are more than welcome to do so. If there is anything at all you need...”

Her eyes lit up. “In fact, there are some herbs that often prove useful that I find lacking here. If there is an occasion for me to go to the market?”

“I will take you.”

Both she and Eamon spun at the sound of Roland’s voice. She’d not spoken to him since the end of their tour. Striding up to them, he looked between her and Sir Eamon.

“That is, if I am able to miss my sword lesson with you, sir.”

Since arriving, she’d learned a bit more of Roland, mostly from asking the other servants. It seemed he was in little need of Eamon’s lessons, having beaten the master swordsman prior to her arrival.

Sir Eamon Thorne’s skill with the sword was legendary. The thought of any man besting him...Amalia looked away from Roland’s arms, at which she’d been staring. It was obvious that he spent many long hours honing such a skill.

She swallowed. “I’m certain you do not wish to miss your lesson,” Amalia said. “Perhaps I can ask?—”

“Nonsense. ’Tis the perfect solution. You’ve no other lessons afterward?” Eamon asked Roland.

“None, sir.”

“I would prefer you to travel to the market with one of my men,” he said to Amalia. “Unless you’ve any qualms about doing so?”

What could she tell him? That since the moment they met, she had thought of nothing but him?

But that he was the sort of man she’d long been warned against?

A nobleman. One accustomed to giving orders and having them followed.

Just as important, a man who would take from her but offer nothing, as he would marry another noble, like himself.

Yet knowing all of this, she was still disappointed he’d not attended the evening meal.

“I do not,” she lied, and Sir Eamon didn’t seem to realize anything was amiss.

“Good. I will leave you to it then. Good day, Mistress Amalia.” And then to Roland, “My thanks, Roland. Do see her back to the castle before sundown. There have been rumors of the king’s men as close as Dungard. Perhaps you should wear your family colors?”

Amalia had seen the Guardians once before, en masse, riding away from Castle Blackwood through the village.

It had been a sight she’d not forget. Though they wore surcoats of black with no coats of arms, the lack of such insignia was almost more striking.

Some in the village who supplied the recruits surely wondered why so many fostered and trained here, but very few knew of the recruits’ true purpose at Castle Blackwood.

“I will do so,” Roland assured him as Eamon nodded and left them.

“It seems we both must change clothing then,” Amalia said, filling the brief silence.

Walking back to the keep, Roland asked which herbs she wished to procure.

They parted ways, Amalia breathing more easily than when she was in Roland’s presence, agreeing to meet once again at the entrance to the hall.

Though Amalia should have simply removed her apron and rejoined him, she instead changed gowns, donning a deep blue riding dress that Evelina loved most on her.

She also pinched her cheeks and ran a brush through her hair before returning belowstairs.

She stopped before Roland noticed her.

He was leaning against a wall, watching preparations for the midday meal in the great hall.

Though he wasn’t smiling, precisely, neither did he scowl.

Roland’s expression was...impassive.

His jaw, set. Every female servant in the hall seemed to notice him there.

Despite so many unmarried recruits lurking at Castle Blackwood, all well-honed for battle and skilled already in some way, Roland stood out easily.

Spotting her, he stood up straight.

The wolf emblazoned on his surcoat seemed a fitting emblem for such a man.

As he watched her approach, Roland’s expression gave away nothing.

Even so, an undeniable current ran between them.

Did he feel it too? Or was it simply because she found the man so attractive, despite the high-handedness he’d displayed?

“Amalia,” he said with a slight bow, even though it was she who should be bowing to him.

“Roland,” she somehow managed, as he followed her gaze to his surcoat. Why did he look so much more formidable now than he had not long ago in the garden?

“They say it became the symbol of our family many generations ago, when an ancestor of mine wrestled a wolf to the ground, slitting his throat. He’d learned the beast had killed his beloved hunting beagle.”

She looked up. “Do you believe the tale?”

He shrugged. “As well as I believe any of the tales passed down from previous generations of de Veres. They are known for spinning stories.”

“So likely not?”

“Likely not,” he agreed. “You look lovely in that gown, Amalia. Though I will admit, you looked lovely in the one before it too.”

Hating the flutters inside her stomach at his compliment, she attempted to pretend they did not exist. “Many thanks, my lord.”

Roland’s head cocked to the side. “You’ve a tendency to do that.” He began walking from the hall.

“To do what, precisely?”

“Revert to ‘my lord’ when I’ve displeased you.”

“How could I be displeased at a simple compliment?” she asked, hoping to divert attention from his very true assessment.

“I wonder the same. How indeed?”

She did not answer. It wasn’t until they’d walked to the stables, had their horses saddled and were on the road to the village that he spoke of it again.

“Do compliments always displease you, Amalia? If so, I will not mention how skilled a rider you are.”

Her lady said so often enough, but Amalia most often dismissed it. She’d only learned to ride when coming into her lady’s service, unlike many who’d been doing so since birth.

“Nay,” she said, answering his question and attempting not to notice what a sight Roland made atop the black destrier. “I enjoy compliments,” she said. “Does not everyone?”

“In my experience, they do.”

“I’m glad to hear it, since there’s much to compliment you on, as I’m sure you are already aware.”

Again, those flutters.

“And I’m sure you are accustomed to giving them quite often.”

Roland appeared . . . amused.

He did not answer until a riding party of three men passed them on the road.

They appeared to be knights, but from Roland’s reaction to them, not in the Order.

Her suspicions that he did not know the men were confirmed when Roland angled his mount in front of hers, and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword as they passed without incident.

Dropping back toward her, he turned in his saddle more than once, finally glancing her way when he was, apparently, satisfied that the riders meant no harm.

“You believe I am that sort of man, do you?”

“Which sort?” she asked, aware her tone bordered on being flirty.

“The one who pursues women indiscriminately, complimenting them more easily than might be deserved for my own nefarious purposes?”

Despite herself, Amalia laughed. “I could not have summarized my thoughts any more succinctly.”

Aside from raising his brows, Roland said nothing until she prompted.

“Am I not right?”

“Would you believe me if I answered nay?”

“No,” she admitted. “I would not.”

“Then it seems we are at an impasse.”

Amalia stifled a laugh. “It seems we are. Perhaps we should discuss a new topic?”

“One that has not to do with your beauty or riding skills?”

You do not care about his compliments, Amalia.

“Aye.”

“Such as?”

“Tell me of your family.”

And so, he did. Roland told her of his parents and brothers.

Of his sisters. Though she’d known already his parents’ marriage was arranged, it seemed their union was at least a fruitful one.

One of his brothers and both sisters were married with children, despite the fact that Roland was the eldest. Though he spoke highly of his mother and sisters, it seemed Roland’s relationship with his brothers was as strained as that with his father. All supported the king, except Roland.

“Does it not bother you that your mother and sisters do so as well? You seem less concerned for their opinions on the succession.”

“If they had opinions, they would concern me as well as any. My mother agrees with my father on all things involving politics, and both of my sisters look to my mother for guidance on most matters.”

Amalia thought about that for a moment. “’Tis as expected, I suppose.”

“Was it not the same for you?”

Amalia admitted that she’d not lived with her family for many years, but that aye, it was the same with Lord Ashcroft and Evelina. Except somehow, her lady had never so easily bent toward expectations.

“Perhaps because Sir Eamon is her true father?” Roland mused.

“She did not know of the fact until recently,” Amalia argued as they approached the outskirts of the village.

“But Eamon did.”

Amalia thought on that. The implications of those words. He had known for years, and though they’d not enjoyed a father-daughter relationship, the two had always been close. Had Eamon influenced Evelina over the years? Certainly, he had. Perhaps more so than Amalia had considered.

Which meant he’d influenced Amalia as well.

She looked at Roland.

“Would that everyone could be so fortunate as to have a man like Sir Eamon Thorne for guidance. I think you’ll find many of the ideals you hold likely align with his.

Others, of course, reflect back to your parents.

And still some”—he grinned—“are yours alone. Those are the trickiest of all but, once you understand them...”

He never finished. The market was on the edge of the village, and they’d reached it, along with the chaos that ensued.

Vendors called out the contents of their wares.

Children laughed, and some cried. Chickens squawked.

It was a lively place, one Amalia adored.

As it always did, her gaze found the row of permanent shops beyond the makeshift stands.

She imagined a wooden sign hanging outside one of them, a sprig of parsley, perhaps.

“Amalia?”

Brought out of her reverie by Roland, a very different one replaced it. One where Roland lifted her from the saddle to the ground, pulling her against him more closely than necessary. But instead of pulling away, she’d lean into him.

Their lips would meet.

She swallowed.

“Aye, Roland?”

“We’ve arrived.”