Page 30 of The Rose of Blacksword
A pair of hounds lay asleep in the warm spring sunshine. Their sides rose and fell in peaceful slumber, and every now and again one of them would twitch, running to ground in canine dreams some fat and juicy hare.
At the shrill cry of a frolicking child, both hounds jerked to groggy attention. But, recognizing their rude awakener as the same sturdy little fellow who tied his mother’s ribbands around their necks, tried to ride them, and often shared his supper with them, they flopped down once more with contented groans and drifted back into their dreams.
The sunshine fell as well upon another contented soul who viewed the scene in the pleasaunce with overbrimming joy. Sir Aric, Lord of Stanwood Castle, strolled across the bailey, trailing steward and chamberlain but not really listening to their chatter.
“… correspondence stating that the scutage fees come due at the solstice—”
“Yes, yes, Cedric. Just reckon the amounts due and I’ll review it with you later.” Aric waved the men away, never removing his eyes from the woman who moved gracefully along the rose hedge that enclosed the well-tended lawn and garden. As ever, his loins tightened at the sight of her, for he’d been absent from Stanwood these four long days. But more than that, his heart swelled to see her. It filled with a nearly unbearable joy, unspeakable in its intensity.
He paused there, savoring the moment, letting his senses fill with the sights and sounds and smells of this place that had become his home in the five years past. The fragrance of roses drifted to him—a perfume that would always be linked to Rosalynde in his mind. She was clipping roses for a bouquet as he watched, unaware of his presence. Little Wyatt was carrying the overflowing basket for her. Beyond them, stretched out on a rug in the sunshine, Sir Edward dozed alongside the infant Laurel.
Aric stared at the idyllic scene and blinked at the powerful emotions that washed over him.
“Why do you hesitate?” A strong young voice broke into Aric’s musing. “If you do not hurry to greet her, then I shall. And after the unholy pace you set to return home from London, I should think that would quite spoil your plans.”
Aric shot Cleve a mock frown that quickly became a smile. “Dub him a knight and he becomes arrogant and presumptuous. Just give me a minute and then I shall present you to her, Sir Cleve.”
As Aric strode across the bailey, Wyatt was the first to spy him. “Papa! Papa!” In an instant the basket of roses was forgotten. With a laugh of pure childish delight, he dashed across the lawn, hurtling as fast as his sturdy four-year-old legs could carry him.
“There’s my boy!” Aric crowed as he lifted Wyatt high over his head and jiggled him to the little boy’s infinite glee. He was rewarded with a tight hug around his neck and the sweet mingled smell of dirt and roses and little boy. Then Wyatt cupped his father’s cheeks between his two chubby hands.
“Why were you gone so long?” the child accused. His fair brows lowered in such an approximation of his father’s expression that Cleve began to laugh.
“I came as quickly as I could,” Aric answered, laughing as well. “But tell me, my son, have you tended to things at home while Cleve and I were in London? How is your little sister, and your mother?”
“Oh, they are fine. Mama showed me how to read the time on the new sundial. But Laurel didn’t do anything but eat and sleep and lie there.”
Aric laughed once more and then had to restrain himself from squeezing his little son too tightly. Was ever a man so blessed as he? Without warning he lifted Wyatt up and settled him on his shoulders, much to the child’s giggling delight. Then he strode across the yard.
Rosalynde had stopped at the edge of the pleasaunce, trying quickly to gather the scattered roses back into their basket as father and son greeted one another. But when she saw her husband coming toward her, the oak split basket was forgotten once more. Decorum cast to the winds, she lifted her skirts and dashed forward to welcome him home.
“Papa! Mama!” Wyatt demanded plaintively, patting both their heads as he was nearly smothered in their breathless embrace. “Don’t forget about me!”
Aric lifted his hand to reassuringly rumple his son’s head while all the while he stared down into his wife’s beautiful face. The love he saw shining in her magnificent golden-green eyes brought a lump to his throat, and his embrace tightened around her.
It was Rosalynde who found her voice first. “Would you like to see little Laurel?” she asked as she spied her father sitting up and waving to them.
“I want to see both my children,” Aric murmured, still nuzzling her neck. “But after that—” He kissed her then pulled her close enough to feel the arousal that he could not force down. “After that perhaps we can put our minds toward providing them with another little brother or sister.”
Rosalynde smiled to herself as they made their way across the bailey, Wyatt shrieking with glee to be carried so high on his father’s shoulders. There was no need to “put their minds toward” creating another child for their family. She had every reason to believe one already grew beneath her heart.
But she would wait to tell Aric afterward .