Page 53 of Knight School Chronicles Box Set

T hey moved from cart to cart, Roland remaining close to Amalia as she sought out the herbs she wished to plant.

Securing them, she paused to look at fabric, turning to find herself alone.

Surprised Roland left her, as he’d remained by her side since they’d dismounted, Amalia strained her neck to look above the crowd just as a hand grabbed her waist from behind.

Spinning around, about to swat away the hand, she stared up at the very face she could not get from her mind. “Come quickly,” he said, guiding her away from the market toward the village.

Not daring to argue, his tone telling Amalia something may be amiss, she instead let herself be led away.

When his hand dropped from her waist, she was almost sorry for it.

They strode past shop after shop, Roland not looking behind them until they stopped in front of a tavern.

This time, he did glance toward the market.

Frowning, as if choosing between the lesser of two evils, he pulled open the door of a place she’d passed many times but never entered.

Lady’s maids simply did not frequent the Cursed Ship, and Amalia discovered precisely why not the moment they entered.

Darkness enveloped them, the smell of lamb stew surprisingly tempting.

The few patrons inside glanced their way, but none seemed very interested in them as she and Roland made their way to the far corner of the room.

She sat atop a barrel with another barrel serving as the base of a table between them.

A young serving girl not-so-gently placed two mugs of ale on a plank of wood between her and Roland that served as a table.

“We got ale. And stew. You have ale. You want stew?” The girl addressed Roland.

He looked at Amalia, who nodded vigorously.

“Two, if it pleases you.”

“It does not please me,” she mumbled, walking away.

Amalia and Roland exchanged a glance, both smiling.

“Pleasant, is she not?” he asked, looking around the tavern, as if assessing for threats.

“Very much so.” Amalia leaned forward. “Why are we here?”

“We are avoiding two of the king’s men.”

“How did you recognize them as such?”

“I have my ways.”

Amalia did not care for his answer. “What does that mean, precisely?”

Roland took a swig of ale. “They had a...look about them.”

She frowned. That answer was just as inadequate.

“A look?”

“Aye, a look.”

“Are you always so . . . avoidant?”

“Are you always so inquisitive?”

“Are you always so frustrating?”

“Nay. I can be much more so than this.”

Amalia opened her mouth, but promptly closed it. First, because she had no retort to that particular honesty. And second, because their stew had arrived. After it was all but tossed before them, she and Roland were alone once more.

“Why,” she began again, “are you so deliberately frustrating?”

“I am not deliberately so. Neither would I wish to frustrate you apurpose, Amalia.”

That he was doing so was, in fact, not the man’s fault. More frustrated with her attraction to a man who she should not be attracted to, Amalia stood, needing a respite.

“Amalia?” His voice was laced with concern.

“I am going to the serving girl for pepper,” she said, weaving her way through mostly empty tables to do just that.

Asking her for the spice was about as pleasant as Amalia expected, and the break from Roland too short.

Walking back to him, the knight’s eyes never leaving her, she prepared once again to have difficulty forming words.

Difficulty breathing properly. Prepared to feel much as her lady had described to her whenever she and Sir Gareth met.

..almost overwhelmed with the essence of him.

One moment, she’d been walking by a table occupied by two men.

The next, she found a hand on her backside.

Swatting it away, she turned to give the overly friendly patron her mind on such handling when Amalia was pushed aside.

How Roland had made it across the room so quickly, she did not know.

As she fully took in the offender’s visage—his long, drawn face and crooked teeth—Roland pulled him from the barrel on which he sat, with one hand grabbing a fistful of the man’s tunic, the other holding a dagger to his neck.

It was so close, Amalia did not know how it was possible no blood had been drawn.

“Fool,” Roland grumbled. “You’ve a wish to die?”

Though likely a knight by his clothing and bearing, but not a noble, the man’s eyes went wide, and he swallowed. His friend spoke when her offender said nothing.

“He did not know she was your woman.”

Roland glanced at the friend, who made no move to draw a weapon, and at her offender.

“It matters not. She does not welcome your touch. Your code of honor is lacking to think otherwise.”

“Roland.” Amalia did not wish the man’s throat to be slit, even if he had taken liberties he should not have.

Moving so that she had a clear view of Roland’s face did not convince her he planned simply to scare the man.

It appeared as if he might very well actually slit the man’s throat. “Please let him go.”

Though there were few patrons, all watched them, including the serving girl and an older gentleman who might have been the owner.

“Apologize to her, and you will be allowed to live another day.”

She’d have laughed at the thought of the man’s throat being slit for his transgression, but Amalia was not certain Roland jested. It seemed as if he truly might serve such a punishment.

“Apologies, my lady. I meant no offense,” the man squeaked.

Roland laughed, though it was a harsh sound unlike any other time he’d laughed before.

“You know well your actions meant every offense. Offer a more sincere apology,” he demanded in a tone that left no question whether he would comply.

“Apologies, my lady. I should not have taken such a liberty.”

“Roland,” she tried again.

He looked at her, his blue eyes as stormy as she’d ever seen them. Was that how his expression appeared in battle? Surely, it must be so.

“I am unharmed,” she reminded him.

As abruptly as he’d grabbed the man, Roland released him. Without another word, he walked back to the table as if he too had gone to ask the serving girl for pepper. Amalia followed and sat, the pepper forgotten.

Roland took a long swig of beer, but did not seem to notice as the man and his companion promptly hastened from the inn while the other patrons slowly looked away, as if staring at Roland might offend him.

She had never in her life seen a man take control of a situation as he had. Not with Lord Ashcroft nor any of the knights at Ashcroft Manor. Not at Castle Blackwood, nor anywhere she had ever been before. It was, in a word, stunning.

“He was terrified of you,” she whispered.

Roland took a bite of stew, his eyes meeting hers. Finished chewing, he said, “As he should have been.”

“I think he truly believed you planned to kill him if the apology had not met your expectations.”

“A wise assessment.”

She took her own sip of ale, a longer one than any other.

Amalia had no other words, so instead, she finished her meal. When they were both done, the serving girl took both bowls with slightly less of a scowl than before.

“Thank you,” Amalia said. “For that.” She nodded to where the incident had occurred.

“No thanks are necessary, Amalia. He should not have done it. He took an oath that would prevent him from such behavior.”

“You take your knightly vows seriously.” It was a statement, but he answered as if she’d asked a question.

“As should all who take the vow, otherwise, ’tis nothing but words. Meaningless.”

“So that is what upset you so?” she asked. “If the man had not been a knight?”

“What upset me,” he said, his eyes suddenly hooded, “is that he dared to touch you.”

“A defender of women.” Amalia smiled. “Either way, you have my thanks.”

“Not women,” Roland said, lifting his mug to his lips. “One woman, in particular.”

Her breath caught. “Surely you’d have done the same if it were...” She struggled to think of a person. “Your sisters.”

Roland leaned forward. “Would I have defended them? Surely,” he whispered. Smiled. “But I likely would not have lost control as I did today.”

Amalia didn’t understand. He’d seemed to be very much in control.

She was about to ask him to clarify when he added, “Here,” and he patted his heart.

“It should not have beat so erratically as it did. Neither you nor he could sense it. But the loss of control was there. I could have slit the man’s throat, Amalia, if he’d provoked me. ”

“I’m not certain I fully understand,” she admitted.

Roland leaned back, once again lifting his mug. Looking at her for some time, he sighed, lifting the mug to his lips. “Nor do I, Amalia.” And then he drank. Deeply.