Page 14 of The Rose of Blacksword

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Despite her all-consuming worry about Blacksword’s condition, Rosalynde knew she must prepare for the evening meal—and her next meeting with her father—with great care. At midday, given all the commotion caused by the flogging, and then her own public display of temper, there had been no meal other than the hasty distribution of broken meats, bread, and cheese. Even the ale had been consumed on the run as men-at-arms, servants, and tradesmen alike had hurried from Sir Edward’s furious path. But now the castle was calmer and a proper meal was called for. Accordingly she buried her concerns for her outlaw protector as best she could. She donned one of the several gowns her father had given her—gowns that had once been her mother’s—and combed her long hair until it gleamed. To calm the rebellious waves she pulled two long tendrils back from either side of her brow and wove them together down the back of her head until she could not reach any farther. Then she took a short bit of cord and tied the strand securely, adding a sprig of lavender into the knot for good measure.

She had none of her ornaments, no jewels or ribbons, nor gowns of silk bedecked with braided trim. Yet she did not mourn their loss, for such items seemed quite insignificant to her now. Life was what mattered, she told herself as her thoughts once more veered to the man who had saved her at Dunmow. Being alive, being safe—those were the important things. The most sumptuous gown made from cloth of gold, worked entirely with silver threads and sparkling pearls and caught up in a girdle of the finest golden links, would mean far less to her than simply being able to breathe deeply and without fear, secure in the bosom of her own home.

Rosalynde spun slowly around on her heels, taking in the oddly shaped chamber to which she had returned. The room was quite the same as she recalled: rough stone walls built at flat angles to make almost a circle; six tall narrow windows so that a view of nearly the entire countryside could be had. Each window was set back into a recess, just the right size for a child to curl up in—or for a woman to sit back in, holding a fretting babe or comforting an ailing child.

For a long moment she stared around her, seeing the dusty plank floor, the plain high bed, and the slightly worn tapestry that hung above the bed. Yet what she saw in her mind’s eye was a far different scene entirely. Oh, the chamber was much the same, but in her imagination it held a certain glow, a satisfying warmth. How happy she’d been then, she recalled as bittersweet memories tugged at her. How completely and utterly happy. She wiped away a stray tear, then stared around her as reality intruded once more. There was no warm glow now, though a small blaze fought the evening chill away. There was no happiness either. The room was the same except for the accumulated dust and its decidedly shabby appearance. But nothing else was the same.

With a deep breath she tried to shake off such depressing thoughts. It did no good to dwell on the past, she told herself as she rubbed her hand aimlessly across a sturdy wooden trunk. She frowned at the thick gray dust on her palm, then brushed her hand clean. When her mother had lived, the castle had shone like a rare gold coin. Now it was dark and dirty and sad.

Rosalynde squared her shoulders as she crossed to the door. If nothing else she could at least set the place to rights. She could see Stanwood dusted and scrubbed and clean once more. She might not be able to restore it to happiness—who could possibly know how to accomplish such a thing? But the rest of it she could handle. After all, managing a large household was precisely what her aunt had trained her to do.

Feeling somewhat better for having at least some course of action open to her, Rosalynde banked the fire, pulled the wood shutters tight across the windows, then finally left her chamber and headed for this next meeting with her father. They had seemed to have a confrontation every time they’d met so far. But this time she was determined it not be so. After all, she reasoned, there was no longer any cause for it. He already knew about Giles, and although she still felt the dire weight of responsibility for her younger brother’s loss, she also knew there was nothing to be done for it. Time was the best healer for such pain, although in her father’s case it seemed he’d not yet even recovered from his wife’s death. Still, she thought as she moved silently down the steps, there was nothing she could do about that either.

The other matter of discord between them, that of the treatment of Blacksword, would also resolve itself, she hoped. She’d watched from a window in her chamber as the guards had untied him and led him away from the clearly disappointed crowd. Her relief had been immediate and overwhelming. He would not be killed! Yet fast on the heels of relief came a new fear. What might he reveal now that his life was spared? She had promised him a reward—a horse, weapons, even gold. But her father had made it clear he would not reward a man he considered a base scoundrel. However, despite her father, it would be in her best interests to find Blacksword some sort of reward, if only to buy his silence. Now that he had narrowly escaped with his life, he must realize how foolish it would be for him to claim her as his wife. Her father wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he knew all that had passed between them in the woods. No, she reassured herself, Blacksword would take whatever she could find for him as a reward and flee.

Rosalynde stopped at the base of the dim stairwell, absently noting how many torch bases were broken or simply not replenished with tallow-dipped rushes. But her concentration remained on Blacksword and how she should deal with him. Foremost among her worries was the condition of his cruelly flogged back. If it was not to fester it must be properly tended, and she was the best person to do it. But once again she was certain her father would object.

By rights she should not care if he suffered from his punishment. He’d behaved abominably toward her. But every time she thought of him suffering because of her, she cringed inside. It did not matter that their handfast vow and her promise to reward him were the only choices open to her at the time, nor that he had benefited far more than she had. She nevertheless could not completely absolve herself of the guilty feelings that consumed her.

He ruined me , she reminded herself harshly. He did it knowing that she would be ruined and knowing that their handfasting was not a marriage at all. He did it only to satisfy his own lust and greed. Yet when she thought of that despicable moment, when she remembered the degrading way he had used her for his own selfish pleasure …

A tremor rippled through her, dredging up unwanted feelings and stirring a shameful heat deep in her belly. Her entire body reacted most traitorously, tensing and warming in her most private places, tingling with remembrance all over. She steadied herself against a solid stone column as a faintness stole over her.

Oh, but she was too, too wicked, she berated herself, a shameful hussy to have this disgusting response to such a man as Blacksword. Yet no amount of self-reproach could alter the undeniable facts. She had heard of the sin of lust. It had been a common theme among the priests who visited Millwort. But she’d never truly understood precisely what lust was. It had been easy to nod and agree with the priests as they’d condemned those who sinned so wickedly. Only now was she beginning to understand the power of such feelings, the overwhelming pull of one body to another.

She took a shaky breath, willing calmness back to her still-trembling limbs. After the evening meal ended she would retire to the chapel, she decided. With fervent prayer and the help of the Blessed Virgin she would surely be able to conquer these sinful feelings. She would pray for forgiveness, and pray for strength. And she would pray especially that Blacksword would keep his silence.

“Eat, daughter. Eat,” her father encouraged her as he piled his own trencher high.

“I will,” she replied, but with little enthusiasm. Even if the food had been appetizing, she was too worried about Blacksword’s condition—and how she would see to his wounds without her father’s knowledge—to eat.

In her honor the meal was intended to be a feast, and she had smiled warmly and spoken graciously to the several servants and numerous men-at-arms to whom she’d been introduced. But now that they were at the high table, all appearances of a celebratory feast ended, at least to her mind. As her father immersed himself in food and conversation with Sir Roger, who sat to his left, so also did the outside steward and Cedric, the seneschal, turn their attention to food and hearty conversation. Soon the entire hall reverberated with loud and raucous discourse and the constant clunk of wooden cups against wooden tables. As she stared around, completely ignored by the men who by far made up the bulk of the diners, she was consumed with a crushing loneliness. Even Cleve, whom she spotted at the far end of the hall seated with the other pages once the serving was done, clearly found no fault with the casual method of dining. At that moment she would have given anything to be with her dear lady aunt Gwynne, comfortably seated at the high table at Millwort.

She stared down at the unappealing meat and let herself succumb to homesickness for Millwort. There they did not rush to eat like swine to the trough. There each meal was a gracious occasion, complete with orderly servings and soothing music. At Millwort conversation was polite and subdued. But here! She cringed as a particularly foul oath floated up from the masses below. Here no one cared the least for proper deportment. She cast an irritated glance at her father. No one cared the least because the lord of the castle did not care either.

But she cared.

Her aunt had drummed the lessons into her head. But it was the example of good housewifery she’d set that had impressed Rosalynde the most. With a sudden gleam in her green and gold eyes, she stared in renewed interest about the hall.

As in the stairwell, fully a quarter of the wall-mounted torches were unlit due to unrefreshed rushes in tallow. The walls were grimy with soot and dirt and cobwebs. The floor was strewn with rushes that had twice outlived their usefulness. Old rushes meant table leavings, dog droppings, and a host of crawling and hopping vermin. And then there were the tables themselves. No cloths to cover them and none too clean. A sticky wine stain marred the oak trestle table she sat at. Crumbs marked the joints in the wood and nicks of various sizes gave evidence that many a knife had been crudely stuck upright on the surface. By every right they should have been immaculate and draped with pristine white cloths.

Her jaw jutted forward in righteous anger as she viewed the scene before her. Stanwood had not been so while her mother had lived. In the intervening years it had clearly become a man’s abode, with no consideration for those comforts dear to a woman’s heart. But now that she was here, Rosalynde intended to set things to right. And perhaps in the process she might be able to attend Blacksword.

Renewed by that prospect, she turned her determined gaze on her father. He was chewing vigorously, gesturing with his knife, which boasted the leg of a chicken on its greasy point.

“Father,” she said as she mentally plotted out her course of action. “Father,” she called a little louder, plucking at his sleeve. “Father!”

At that Sir Edward turned to face her. “You needn’t shout at me, child—”

“Oh, but ’tis clear I must. How else might I be heard in this din?” Then at his disapproving look she hastily changed her sharp tone. “It’s just that I’m not accustomed to such a rowdy meal. And … and … the table was not even washed.”

Her father glanced down at the table, then out over the boisterous group who peopled the hall. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then slowly closed it and stared about him even more intently.

“ ’Tis a trifle untidy. I’ll warrant you that,” he finally conceded. “And as for their rowdy manner, well, ’tis only right considering the days of searching for you. They celebrate now in your very honor.”

Rosalynde was wise enough to look suitably humbled, and to her relief he appeared somewhat mollified. He laid his knife down and took up his goblet instead, drinking deeply before he spoke again.

“I’ll see that Cedric has the tables cleaned.” He gave her a long look. “And the rushes refreshed.” He met her steady gaze once more, then let out a loud sigh. “It shall all be cleaned. I’ll see to it.”

“Perhaps you would let me see to it.” She held her breath, hoping he would agree.

“Cedric is the seneschal. ’Tis his place.”

“A good housewife runs her own household. This is what Lady Gwynne has prepared me for.”

He seemed to take that in well enough and even nodded his head twice as he considered her words. “But you are not a wife yet, are you?”

Rosalynde’s eyes widened at his casually stated words, and for a moment her heart leapt in fear. Only by the most stringent exercise of self-control was she able to calm her rapid pulse. He did not know, she told herself firmly. He did not know the truth, that she was by rights wife to Blacksword.

“No,” she said, slowly and carefully. “I am not precisely a housewife, but I have the skills nonetheless. I would gladly take over the keys to Stanwood, Father, if you would but let me.”

When his grin of approval came, followed promptly by a fatherly pat on her hand, Rosalynde felt a heady burst of power. She was to run a household of her own at last! And though he’d balked at her initial outburst, her father had willingly succumbed to her meekly worded request. So that was the lay of the land, the realization dawned on her. That was the way to best achieve her ends. Was that how her mother had handled her intimidating husband, through mildness and sweetness? As she finished her meal in companionable silence with him, she vowed to curb her too-quick tongue and stifle her often-hasty temper. If it meant killing her father with kindness to see Stanwood Castle set to rights, she would do it. Though he agreed now, she did not doubt that he would balk later, for it was more than cleaning she intended. Uniforms, fresh linens, new tapestries—these and more would be required to see Stanwood attain its deserved glory. He would mislike the inconvenience and complain of the cost, no doubt, but in the end he would be pleased. And he would be proud of her as well.

Rosalynde did not give her father the opportunity to forget or to renege on his promise. No sooner was the meal done and the men’s gaming and gambling begun than she cornered him.

“There’s much to plan and much for me to see before I can begin my work. How would you have me proceed, Father?”

Sir Edward looked down at her sincere face then glanced distractedly about the teeming hall. “The rushes, I suppose. Cedric will see that fresh ones are cut. And the tables, of course—”

“No, no. I do not mean what must be done. I’ve faith enough that I can find those necessary tasks. No, what I mean is, will you tell Cedric and the cook that they must consult now with me? And will you give their keys over into my keeping?”

At first he appeared very prone to balk, and words of argument rose in her throat. But she determinedly smiled up at him, a hopeful, enthusiastic expression on her face. Finally he expelled a great gust of air and rubbed his chin absently. “Can it not wait till the morn?”

“I would like to plan this evening so that I may begin the work at dawn’s light.”

Once again he sighed and this time he nodded. “As you wish, Rosalynde. Come along then, let’s be done with it so I may all the sooner retire to my games.” He had a disconcerted expression on his face as they left the hall, but Rosalynde was smiling broadly.

The cook was resistant although he did not say a word as Sir Edward took his keys and handed them to Rosalynde. However, she could see the displeasure at being usurped written clearly in the stout fellow’s eyes. Cedric, by contrast, seemed almost relieved. He untied the metal ring of keys from his girdle and handed them over to her with a shy grin and several bobs of his head. Reassured by his acceptance, she laid a hand on his arm before he could follow her father back to the great hall.

“Could you perhaps show me to the stillroom? Healing is a particular interest of mine, and I thought I might begin by inspecting the supplies kept there.” She started forward, allowing him no time to protest. “And along the way you could tell me which key opens which door.”

The bailey was cloaked in darkness by the time Rosalynde finally exited the stillroom. She had long before sent Cedric off, and as she’d examined the pouches of dried leaves and ground roots and mentally catalogued the valuable vials of essences and tinctures, the time had sped by unnoticed. But that was to the good, she decided as she hurried across the grassy yard with the concoction she had prepared held tight in her hands. Since most of the castlefolk had already sought their beds and pallets, perhaps she would not encounter any opposition to her desperately conceived plan.

Ever since she’d seen Blacksword led away, the condition of his sorely abused back had tortured her. Throughout the tiresome afternoon and the dismal evening meal she had been consumed with both guilt for her part in his flogging and concern for the cruel injury he still suffered from the whip’s vicious bite. She’d been determined to see to his wounds, but she’d been equally certain that her father would not approve. It was only when her father had agreed to let her run the household—and had given her all the keys—that she had come up with this idea. Now, with a wash of goldenrod and a decoction of milfoil mixed with boiled and cooled tallow to form an ointment, she meant to seek Blacksword out, see to his wounds, and somehow convince him to keep their secret to himself.

She was not precisely sure where to look. She had managed to get some information from Cedric under the guise of general inquiries about the organization of the castle. She learned that unmarried male servants slept in the great hall during cold weather, or else in several of the stairwell niches. But in the warmer months many of them slept in the stables. The pages slept in a group adjacent to the knights’ quarters. What few women servants there were slept either adjacent to the kitchens or near the areas of their particular duties. She had not seen Blacksword anywhere near the great hall. In addition, logic told her that her father would not allow a man he considered dangerous to roam the castle freely. For despite her father’s grudging assent to spare Blacksword’s life, Rosalynde knew he would be watching and waiting for him to make a mistake. Under the circumstances, it was most likely that Blacksword was consigned to some corner of the stables.

Her heart began to pound as she neared the black shadow that was the main stable building. A single light glowed weakly from an opened shutter, but all else lay still and dark as she felt her way along the wood-timbered building. When her fingers felt the rough frame of the opening, she paused and took a shaky breath.

You have nothing to fear from him , she tried to reassure herself. In her home castle her safety was assured. He would not dare to harm her.

But it was not the threat of harm that had her trembling so, a small voice taunted her. His hands had not hurt her at all, but instead had caressed her with exquisite tenderness. God save me from just such caresses , she prayed with quickening breath. It was only the fearful knowledge that he must be in terrible pain that forced her to step cautiously into the stable opening. Neither revenge nor passion would be on his mind this night, she told herself bravely. Relief was what he would want most, and she carried the promise of relief in her own hands.

The stable was feebly lit by a lone flickering candle in a scraped-hide lantern. Unsure where exactly to look, Rosalynde was drawn to the weak golden light. Past the stalls of the great destriers she crept on silent feet. The lantern was hung at the entrance of the last stall, and when she reached it she stopped. A few low murmurs had already alerted her that someone was about. Despite her tiny tremor of fear, she crept farther until her eyes were able to fully take in who was occupying the stall. Even in the full gleam of the flickering light she could hardly believe her eyes. Blacksword sat on an overturned hay bier, bare to the waist, and some hussy had her hand on his bare shoulder. Even worse, the tart was bending forward, providing him a clear view down her loose blouse of the cleavage between her overdeveloped breasts!

Rosalynde noted with some satisfaction that at least his eyes were closed, but that was small comfort. It was clear the girl was there to offer him solace for his pain, but what sort of solace was highly questionable to Rosalynde’s mind. The two were so engrossed—her making soft clucking noises as she slid her hand back and forth on his shoulder, and him wincing as he tried to find an easier position—that Rosalynde had no idea how long she might have stood there before they would have noticed her. But when she saw the girl reach out for an old horse rag to wipe the sweat from Blacksword’s cruelly cut back, Rosalynde could not keep her silence any longer.

“Don’t touch him with that!”

At once two heads swiveled around to stare at her in wary surprise. The girl’s face quickly assumed an expression of guilt and subservience as she hitched her blouse higher on her shoulder. Blacksword’s face, however, altered from caution to curiosity and then, it seemed, to satisfaction. But it was suspicion that ultimately lingered as his gaze narrowed and his lips thinned in sarcasm.

“ ’Tis a hard-hearted pair you and your father make. He sees the wounds formed with an unjust flogging, and you make sure no healing may take place. Do you begrudge me the ease of this kind maiden’s ministrations?” he finished with an ill-disguised taunt.

Rosalynde was too aggravated to think straight. “Her ministrations … Her ministrations!” she sputtered. “If you wish the wounds to fester, by all means, let her minister to you with that filthy rag!”

Had it not been for the mortified girl’s hasty exit, Rosalynde might have stormed away from the little stall herself. As it was, however, when the girl sneaked silently past her, she was left alone to face the scowling Blacksword. Under the circumstances she was hard-pressed to recall exactly why it was she had sought him out.

For a long, uneasy moment he continued to glare at her. Then with a movement that seemed effortless but that she was certain pained him greatly, he rose to his feet and faced her. “What in the name of hell do you want?”

In the narrow confines of the low-ceilinged stable, Rosalynde was suddenly intimidated by the powerful man who stood before her. He was the one who was hurt. He was the one who needed help. Yet she felt unaccountably like fleeing his awesome presence.

“Well?” he prompted with a sneer. “You came here for a reason, so let’s have it. Or do I dare suspect that it was only jealousy that drew you here?” He smiled sarcastically. “ ’Tis not likely a newlywed like yourself would long abide her husband’s dalliance with the dairymaid.”

It was that repugnant comment with its attendant innuendo which drove her at last to a furious response. “I’m no newly-wed bride and you are most emphatically not my husband! And I don’t care if you … if you—”

“Be careful, my sweet wife.” He goaded her still further. “ ’Tis said that walls may have ears. Would you flaunt our marital discord so openly?” To this vile remark he added more insult by arching one of his brows in mocking superiority.

“This is not marital discord,” Rosalynde hissed, but with a cautious glance over her shoulder toward the rest of the darkened stable. “This is not marital discord,” she repeated in a quieter yet no less adamant tone. “This is … this is … it’s pure dislike!”

She stared at him belligerently, daring him to deny that she heartily disliked him. A part of her was firm in her position, ready to argue that she found him completely detestable and thoroughly unlikable. But that same small voice crept through her defenses to whisper that there were some things about him that didn’t repulse her. There were some things she didn’t dislike about him at all. But though she tried to ignore that irritating voice, as she glared at Blacksword it became more and more difficult. He was so overpoweringly masculine; he had such a commanding presence. In the closeness of the room as he stood bare-chested before her, she began suddenly to grow warmer as unwelcome remembrances of his heated embrace overwhelmed her. To make matters even worse, his thoughts seemed to follow the same path, for his implacable gray gaze slowly slipped down to take in every aspect of her appearance. Even though she was completely covered by the high-necked aqua wool gown, she felt the full force of that gaze, and its effect on her was immediate.

Of a sudden she felt surrounded by his virile presence, suffocated by unwanted memories and wicked desires. She took a harsh breath as his eyes rose back up to meet hers, and in his gaze she saw a promise—a threat—of things to come. In a panic she stepped back, determined only that she must escape while she could. But Blacksword was too swift. As if he read her mind, he reached a quick hand forward to grab her arm. At once the two vials of medications she’d prepared fell onto the layer of straw between them. He glanced down at them, then back up at her again.

“For me?” he asked with mocking courtesy. “Has my wood nymph come back to heal me? Can this be the same girl who had me flogged? God’s blood, but I believe she must be feeling guilty if she’s come bearing healing ointments.” He tugged on her arm, drawing her forward against her will. “Is that it, my wild Rose? Are you feeling sorry for the deep slice of those cruel thorns of yours?”

“ ’Twas not of my doing,” she cried as she tried unsuccessfully to free herself from his firm clasp. “I’ve no cause to be feeling any guilt on your account!”

But the truth was she did feel guilt, and to her chagrin he seemed somehow to know.

“You feel the guilt,” he averred. “But it is no more or less than any noblewoman feels. A man risks life and limb while the fair maiden applauds and cheers. ’Tis only when the fanfare is done and the excitement over that she feels remorse for the injuries he suffers.” He released her hand abruptly and let go a cynical laugh. “Come, my fair Rose, assuage your guilt.” He turned his back to her and squared his shoulders. “Smooth your balm over my wounds. I daresay it will sting more bitterly than ever the whip did.”

Freed of his confining grasp, Rosalynde’s first instinct was to turn and flee. But the sight of the angry red welts that crisscrossed his back and the brown crusted blood that had dried in place held her rooted to her spot. She had caused those terrible marks. She had caused him to suffer untold pain—to suffer it even yet. Despite her fear of his anger and her mistrust of his motives, the cruelly marked flesh before her would not let her leave. Her fury dissolved into hot choking shame, and tears blurred her eyes as she finally stooped, shaking, to retrieve the two vials.

“I-I need water,” she whispered to that broad, unmoving back. “I’ll return directly.” Then she grabbed a nearby bucket and fled into the dark. But if Rosalynde thought to find some solace in the empty night, she was sorely disappointed. When she returned with the water, her throat was still thick with emotion and her heart pounded an unsteady rhythm. But her tears were gone and her hands trembled no more.

Blacksword still stood as he had, although to her eyes he seemed not so erect as before. But he stiffened at her entrance and his voice was as taunting as ever. “Ready to begin, milady ?” he asked with biting emphasis on that last word.

But Rosalynde did not rise to his baiting words. She was too undone by the gruesome task before her and too distressed by her part in his pain. “Could you sit?” she asked in a small voice. After only a moment’s hesitation he once again sat down on the overturned hay bier.

Viewed up close, Blacksword’s back was a dreadful sight indeed. Although she had a talent for healing, Rosalynde had never acquired the ability to stifle her stomach’s adverse reaction to the ravages of the flesh. Yet on this occasion, more than any other, she knew she must suppress the horror and force herself to hold steady. Her deepest dread was that in order to soothe and heal his fiery wounds, she must first cause him even further pain. But it could not be helped, and with a deep calming breath she set to her task.

“This will be painful,” she murmured after she ripped a generous length of linen from the hem of her kirtle and soaked it in the cool water. Then, clenching her teeth against what she knew she must do, she pressed the cloth to the welts across his upper back. She felt the tremor through the fabric, the silent quiver as his tortured skin reacted to the pressure of her hands. Something in her quivered too, something deep inside, and she had to muffle her own moan of dismay. But he gave no voice to the agony he surely felt, and she could do no less. With hands as gentle as was possible, she swiftly soaked the crusted-on blood and washed it away. She braced her left hand against one of his arms as she worked, and oddly enough, it was the warmth and solidity of that unharmed skin which gave her the strength to continue. Down the valley of his spine and across the hard muscles she cleansed away the dirt and blood and tatters of hanging skin. The cleansing wash was next, and finally she gingerly applied the ointment, sliding it across welts and tears alike, smoothing it across his ravaged flesh, feeling it soften and melt against the heat of his skin. Only when Rosalynde was finished with her work did her rigid stance give way, and her slight sag must have transmitted itself to him.

“Well done, milady,” he mocked in a voice low and filled with tension. “But know you not that the gentlest touch of a beautiful maiden’s fingers causes far more torture to a man than does the severest flogging?”

She jerked upright and glared at the back of his tawny head. “Is it as painful as the hangman’s noose?”

At that his head twisted slightly and he peered at her with eyes of the deepest slate gray.

“That’s something I cannot answer with any degree of knowledge.”

“Well, I can answer it!” she snapped, furious that even in the midst of his pain he could still mock her. “Those men hung there, choking and … and twisting. They tried to breathe … You heard them! That could have been you! Why cannot you be content to at least be alive!”

In her outburst of anger and frustration and awful memory she was not immediately aware of the tears that filled her eyes. When they spilled over her dark lashes to splash down her cheeks, she brushed them away with the back of one hand, humiliated to cry before him. But as she turned to flee his presence, he stood up and caught her wrist once more. For one galvanizing moment her shimmering eyes locked with his glittering stare. Then his grip tightened and his eyes narrowed with emotion.

“I am very glad to be alive, milady . But content? I’ll only be content when what is rightfully mine becomes mine.”

“But … but I tried to get your reward for you,” Rosalynde stammered. “I really did—”

“And what of yourself?” he interrupted her. “You are mine by right of your handfast vow.” His eyes bored into hers with an intensity that was frightening. “You are mine by right of possession.”

“No,” she whispered, wishing to deny the terrible truth of his words. “No, I am no possession, most especially not yours.” But saying the words did not make it so, and she quaked at the awful truth of what he said. There was a long, tense silence before he dropped her hand.

“Will you tell your father, or shall I?” he asked in a voice low and quiet, yet filled nonetheless with menace.

“You can’t be serious,” she gasped. She stared up at him in horror. “Surely you know that would be a death sentence.”

“Shall you tell him we are man and wife—truly and in every way—or shall I?” he persisted, as if he’d not heard her words at all.

“I shall deny it.…” Rosalynde shook her head slowly, her eyes never leaving his face. “You are mad,” she whispered when she recognized the dark determination in his face. “He will have you slain,” she insisted. “You will not live to spread your tale.”

“ ’Tis no doubt he would not see the truth come out any more than you,” he replied caustically. “But as for me—” He stopped and his expression grew grim. “There are things I must do. Things I will not delay.” He reached for his shirt then turned a mocking smile on her. “Take heart, Lady Rosalynde. If he is so bloodthirsty as you believe and has me struck down for saying the truth, then you will at least be free of me. After all, that is what you desire most, is it not?” Again he fixed her with a piercing look.

Rosalynde was flustered and confused by his paradoxical words. She was not sure at all what she wanted of this man, but one thing was certain: She did not want to see him struck down, especially at her father’s hands.

“I would not wish you dead,” she answered, so quietly that the words went all but unheard.

He cocked his head slightly, and one brow lifted skeptically. “You refuse me to husband but you would not see me dead,” he mused aloud as if he pondered a weighty matter. Then his gaze sharpened and his voice grew harsh. “Unfortunately, there appears to be no other choices. If the truth comes out you say I shall be slain, and yet I cannot live with less than the truth. So you see.…” He trailed off with a mocking smile that seemed to make light of the words which struck her so deeply. “There is no middle road. You may have one or the other, but nothing else.”

“But why?” she cried, more unsettled than ever. “Why must it be only one or the other? Why can you not be content—”

“Because the vow was made,” he cut her off as he dropped the shirt and grabbed her by the arms. “Because we are handfast wed.” His head lowered and his searing gaze met her stunned eyes. “Because you are my wife. Mine.”

Then his lips descended on hers with a fierce ardor that rocked her back on her heels. Anger, pain, and desire flared between them in that kiss. He was harsh and demanding, forcing her mouth open, slipping his tongue between her startled lips. Yet any rational thoughts of repugnance and horror melted away in the heat of his emotion. The very savageness of his kiss, the hard possessiveness of it, seemed perversely to make her softer and more pliable until she was fitted intimately against him, tilted backward in his implacable embrace.

When he at last pulled back from her she was off balance and gasping for breath. Their eyes met and in that instant Rosalynde felt as if he’d discovered some secret about her, as if she’d somehow given herself away. Then he smiled and she was suddenly sure of it. She struggled out of his arms, confused and frightened by the unsettled feelings inside her.

“There’s no reason to put if off, Rose. I would have the truth of our union made known. Already I have delayed too long, dallying at your skirts when there are urgent matters that require my attention.” He halted and his features darkened. For a moment he seemed lost in thought.

In the brief silence Rosalynde found her voice. “Dallying at my skirts!” She sputtered in outrage. “You cannot blame your foolishness on me! Oh, but you are truly quite mad!”

“Perhaps I am, Rose. Only time will tell. So run to your father and tell him. Tell him I kissed you in the stable. Tell him I made love with you in the forest.” He laughed at her wide-eyed look of shock. “Tell him we are man and wife, or else I will. And then my blood will be on your hands.”

It was this last that lent wings to her feet. She fled through the stable, uncaring of where she ran so long as she escaped his mocking words and taunting laugh. Out into the castle yard she dashed, across the dusty bailey until she reached the great hall and the narrow stone stairs that led up the east tower. But even when she attained her own chambers and slammed the door closed, she was not able to dismiss his tormenting words from her mind.

She was gasping for breath as she hastily disrobed, still panting as she nervously twisted her long hair into one thick plait. She could not tell her father the truth. Yet would it not go even worse for Blacksword if he was the one to reveal it all? Torn by her conflicting emotions—he was horrid and deserved whatever hand fate dealt him, but she could not bear to see him hurt again—she climbed into her bed and flung a heavy sheepskin over her. The dark warmth of her bed, however, was of no comfort whatsoever, for no matter what she did—tell or keep her silence—it would all come to the same end. If her father knew, he would most certainly have Blacksword punished, undoubtedly to the point of death. She knew that with a surety she could not shake. And then, just as Blacksword had said, his blood would be on her hands.

She buried her head in her arms, wishing to blot out the entire world as she huddled in her misery. Why must he be so stubborn? Why must he be so inflexible?

But as her utter exhaustion gave way to the numbing relief of sleep, she was not entirely certain whether it was Blacksword’s inflexibility that disturbed her so, or her father’s.