Page 7 of The Rose of Blacksword

6

Sir Gilbert Poole, newest Lord of Duxton, quaffed the remainder of his wine, then banged the heavy tankard down on the littered table with his one good arm. The cruel scowl on his face caused the man who stood before him to take a nervous step backward.

“Idiot! D’you think I gave the orders to cease the raids lightly? D’you think when I told you to lay low, it was not well considered?” In a fury he flung the metal tankard at the now-cringing man. “For your stupidity and greed you may have ruined everything! Everything!”

From his crouched and cowering position the man peered warily at his enraged lord. “But ’twas such easy gleanings. You see what we brought in. All that wine. The fine clothes you can—”

“That’s a pittance compared to what I seek! For this meager gain—no gold!—we make richer travelers even more cautious! ’Twas no easy thing to lay a trap for that meddlesome knight, curse his hide. And then to bribe the mayor to forgo the trial and hasten the hangings. When word of this latest attack is heard—”

“N-no one will ever know. There was no one left among them to tell,” the man stammered in self-defense. “We killed them all.”

At that the furious Sir Gilbert’s eyes narrowed. “All of them? You’re certain?”

“Every one of them.” The man did not hesitate to lie if it meant saving his own skin.

“What of the bodies?”

“We threw ’em in the river. They’re half the way to the sea, like as not.”

There was a tense silence. Finally the still-angry Gilbert rose from his seat and began to pace the chamber, rubbing his aching arm, which was bound tightly to his side. When he turned, he fixed his pale-blue gaze on the other man. “You’ll receive only half of your portion of the profits this time. The rest is forfeit to me—to remind you not to make the same mistake again.” Then, as if he anticipated the larger man’s objection, he picked up a long sword that rested across the top of a wooden trunk and appeared to admire the fire-tempered blade.

“We’ve both benefited handsomely the past months. You need me to sell your ‘goods,’ and I need you to supply them. I see no need to quarrel over this matter.” He paused and smiled coldly. “Do you?”

The other man opened his mouth as if to speak, but then his eyes fell to the sinister blade in Gilbert’s hand. In the torch-lit room the rare black blade had a strange ebony sheen. The devil’s own blade, it appeared. He clenched his jaw, then met Gilbert’s cold, expectant stare.

“I’ll not quarrel with you, milord,” he reluctantly conceded. “But I cannot hold off much longer. My men grow restless. They cannot remain hidden in the hills forever.”

“Did I say it would be forever! Dunmow has by now hanged its outlaws. We’ve nothing to fear there.” Once again the young Lord Duxton twisted the sword so the magnificent black blade caught the light. “ ’Tis time we moved our trade to fresher markets.” Then he let out a dark malevolent laugh and struck out at the air with the razor-sharp sword. “Yes, ’tis time we seek riches farther afield.”

After his minion left the room, Sir Gilbert laid the heavy sword across the table and rubbed his broken arm once more. Soon he would not need to soil his hands with the likes of such vermin, he thought as he stared at the wicked blade. That man and the others like him whom he employed had their uses, to be certain. He had kept his pockets well lined and himself well fixed in London while they’d ransacked the Essex and East Anglian countrysides at his direction. But now that his accursed father had finally died and he himself was ensconced at the castle in Duxton, he must be more cautious.

He’d thought it a stroke of genius when he’d decided to catch the “outlaws” who had been terrorizing the area. Not only would he ingratiate himself with the local populace, but he also had rid himself of those thieves operating outside his own hand-picked ring. How the people at Dunmow had fawned over him when he’d brought that pair of pitiful scum in!

But his greatest pleasure had been in bringing down that bastard knight.

An evil smile lit his face as he curled his hand around the intricately formed handle of the beautiful black sword. That would teach the fool not to humiliate Sir Gilbert Poole in the lists. No mere bastard could be allowed to unseat him in a tournament. No unknown, landless knight-errant could get away with breaking the newest Lord of Duxton’s arm before London’s finest nobility.

But he’d made him pay, Gilbert gloated. And most appropriately, at that. He’d killed two birds with one stone when he’d accused the man as an outlaw. A gold coin or two and that fat mayor had jumped at the chance to hang the man, no questions asked. By now the arrogant cur was tried and hanged and rotting in some ditch. Gilbert’s only disappointment was that the presumptuous fool had not known who it was who had plotted his demise. That would have been too chancy.

He laughed aloud, the sound echoing darkly across the cold, empty chamber. Everything was falling into place. That fool—Sir Aric was his name—was taken care of. The authorities would now relax, thinking that the outlaws had been captured. Now that he was Lord of Duxton, it might be time for him to disassociate himself entirely from his band of outlaws, for he was able to avail himself of his demesne’s riches as he wished now, without answering to anyone. It only remained for him to get himself a wife—a rich wife. Then he would be well fixed once and for all. She could bear him his requisite heirs while he enjoyed life at court.

Once more he picked up the fine weapon and admired it with a hard, assessing gaze. Too bad it was such a distinctive blade. He would like to have used it the next time he fought a tourney, but that might be too dangerous, at least in London. But elsewhere …

With a self-satisfied smile he picked up the sword and slid it into a leather-and-steel scabbard that hung from a wall peg. The blade was handsome, but it was only a symbol of his success. Then he filled his goblet with wine once more and toasted his own good fortune.

Demons plagued her. Faceless marauders hunted her down only to dissolve into horrible visions of grisly choking faces. She was hunted unmercifully, trapped in a hole with no way out, only to then be toasted and cheered by leering drunken faces. Far away she heard a child’s voice calling. Giles, she thought in a moment of sudden joy. But when she turned, his pale face floated away from her to be replaced by Cleve’s suffering features.

“Cleve …” she whimpered aloud, trying to reach him as he continued to cry out for her. “Cleve!”

But when she reached for him, it was not Cleve at all. The face that turned to her was harsher, and although he smiled, seeming almost to beckon to her, she knew she must go no nearer. She turned around to run away but he was there before her, blocking her path. Once more she turned, her heart racing now in terrible fear, but just as before, he was there. His smile was wider now, but his eyes were clear and watched her with uncanny perception. Lucifer, she thought as she flailed away from him. Lucifer.

Rosalynde sat up abruptly. Her heart thundered in her chest and every fiber in her being was tense and rigid with panic. Her eyes stared wildly about for the dreaded apparition, the pair of devil’s eyes that seemed more dangerous than all of the other creatures who had crowded her nightmare. But there was no one there. She gulped two harsh breaths, fighting to control her skittering emotions. But as she looked about it seemed that her reality was almost as horrid as her terrifying dream. They were still hiding in the ruined castle. Cleve was sorely wounded although he seemed to be sleeping peacefully enough. And they were still far from home.

Her eyes widened at once as everything came back to her in a violent rush. Where was he? Where was the man she had claimed, the man who had agreed to see them safe? She scrambled to her feet as the sleep-induced cobwebs fled her brain. Where was he!

In the dense gray light of dawn, Rosalynde could see very little. The fire had burned down to a few glowing embers. Cleve was still huddled beneath her cloak, but his breathing came easy. When she touched his head, she was hugely relieved to feel only a normal, healthy warmth. But the place against the wall where that man had leaned—that Blacksword—was empty. Only a depression in the drift of leaves that had collected there gave any indication he had ever been there at all.

He had abandoned them! Disbelief and despair overwhelmed her as she stared panic-stricken about her. In spite of everything—the handfasting, the promise of reward—he had abandoned them. In utter hopelessness Rosalynde staggered the few steps to the storeroom opening, then leaned heavily against the rubble wall. What would she do? How would she and Cleve ever find their way safely to Stanwood? Tears started in her eyes, tears of helplessness and frustration and terrible, terrible fear. In anger she thrust them away, wiping fiercely at them with one small fist. She turned back to stare at Cleve, trying hard to contain the awful trembling that gripped her. Once more she had failed, she berated herself. If she’d picked one of those other men … If she’d not insisted on making this journey … If she had been able to save Giles …

If, if, if! She shook her head hard, then resolutely wiped the remnants of her tears away. It did no good to wish for what might have been, just as it did no good to cry, she told herself soberly. She looked again at the sleeping page. Maybe he would be better today, enough for them to venture out. Maybe if they kept to the forest and traveled by night they could make their way safely. Maybe …

She sighed deeply, daunted anew by their dire predicament. There was little she could do at the moment, yet to do nothing at all was to give all her fears free rein. Grimly she suppressed her fears. Cleve needed food and more of the healing herbs, she decided. At the moment fetching water and wood and preparing some sort of meal would have to be her first priority. She would worry about getting home after that.

Resolved, she stepped from the tumbled-down building, determined to be strong and brave for Cleve’s sake. But with every bit of wood she picked up, she cast the vilest aspersions upon the ungrateful brute who had so callously abandoned them. He was a miserable wretch, she fumed as she found solace in her anger. An ungrateful cur with the morals of a serpent. As her ire increased, so did the pile of sticks and kindling grow until she had the beginnings for a veritable bonfire. Then she picked up the crockery and set off for the well, all the while vilifying the dishonorable ruffian, wishing vehemently that she had let him swing with those other two men. He was no doubt the ringleader, she decided bitterly, just as that old man had speculated. And she was a twice-cursed fool to have ever thought such a man might feel anything approaching gratitude.

She was in high dudgeon, searching her mind for any foul oath she had ever overheard to heap upon hind. Although she’d never been one to curse—nor even to comprehend why some people did—she now understood completely. As she approached the well she was so caught up in her resentful thoughts that she was almost upon him before she realized it.

“Dear God!” The exclamation escaped her lips as she came to an abrupt stop. Her eyes grew as round as saucers as she stared dumbly at the scene before her. For his part, the man she knew only as Blacksword seemed completely unfazed by her unexpected appearance, as well as her undisguised staring. He only paused for a moment, sending her a hard look over his broad shoulder, then continued scraping his face with the sharp edge of the dagger.

Rosalynde’s consuming fury over his cowardly abandonment of her was squelched at once. Clearly he was here; therefore all her suspicions were for naught. Yet now, as he calmly continued to wash himself, she felt a new kind of heat suffuse her. It was anger too, she told herself. Anger at him for scaring her so, and now anger at his utter lack of embarrassment to be caught in such an intimate act. And with his entire upper torso bared to her view! Yet despite the heat that crept up her neck to color her face, she continued to stand there, with her mouth opened in a little “O” and her eyes still wide and unblinking.

He had shed his torn tunic and his ripped chainse, and stood now in the chill early-morning air, bare to the waist. He lowered the bucket into the well, then, when he pulled it up, dumped it over him. As the water coursed over his hair, down past his shoulders, chest, and back, then along his arms, she only stared dumbfounded, unable to say or even think one intelligent word. He picked up a piece of soaproot sitting on the rim of the well and began to lather himself vigorously with it. And still she only stared.

She had known he was a powerful man, broad shouldered and hard muscled. He was big and menacing-looking, and that was why she had claimed him in that pagan ritual. But she was nonetheless unprepared for the pure animal virility of him. He was like some magnificent wild creature, possessed of a primitive sort of power that sent a new type of fear skittering up her spine. Instinctively she stepped back, clutching the pottery container to her chest. But she was unable to look away. As the thin lather slowly slid down his body in dirty white rivulets, he flexed and stretched like some great beast of prey, confident of its own prowess. Then another time the bucket splashed into the well, and this time when he doused himself, a new man began to emerge.

She saw him shiver slightly. He shook his head, sending a spray of water flying around him. Only then did he turn to face her. He thrust his hands through his long hair, pushing it back from his face as he gave her a considering look. “Could it be you are waiting for someone to draw your bath, milady?”

The words were spoken in a most courtly manner, and for an instant Rosalynde was gratified that he at least acknowledged her rank. But she also recognized the sarcastic edge in his voice, and when his eyes flicked lightly over her, she understood his double meaning. She was filthy. Her clothes were torn and stained, her hair was grimy and tangled, and she hated to think how soiled her face must be. Self-consciously she tucked one long knotted tendril behind her ear, but she was irritated by his condescending attitude. He was a common criminal, she reminded herself, while she was a lady of the realm, despite her current shabby appearance.

“At the moment bathing seems a most frivolous occupation,” she muttered in annoyance. “I’ve Cleve to attend. And you—” She gave him her most contemptuous glare. “You should be plotting our escape from this vile place.”

But he ignored her ill-humored jibe and only bent down to remove his soft hide boots. “I know ’tis common for the nobility to anoint themselves with perfumed oils to cover the stink of their own bodies.” He gave her a telling look. “I prefer to wash the dirt away.”

So did she. But Rosalynde was in no mood to be conciliatory. “If you don’t mind, I need water to cleanse Cleve’s wounds.” She took a deep breath then bravely came nearer him, determined not to appear afraid. He admitted she was a lady, despite her pitiful appearance, and he had stayed. Clearly he wanted the reward she’d promised. It followed, then, that he was working for her. It also behooved her to make sure he knew it. “Would you please draw a bucket of water up for me?” she asked in her coolest, most ladylike tone.

His answer was only a cynical look. But to her huge relief he did toss the bucket down into the deep well. As he pulled up the laden bucket she could not help but notice the smooth workings of the immense muscles of his arms and shoulders. She knew for herself how hard it was to draw the water up, for she had strained to do it the day before. With the well’s cranking mechanism gone it was no mean feat. She had barely succeeded, yet he made it look easy.

Once the bucket was settled on the rim of the well, she handed him the pottery container so that he might fill it. But he only set it down beside the bucket and commenced to unlace the braies that hugged his hips so revealingly.

“You’ll get your water when I finish my bath,” he said shortly. Then without the least hesitation he began to draw the braies down.

Rosalynde was so horrified she could barely move. She stared aghast as the linen fabric slid low, revealing a few crisp curls of dark hair above his groin area. Then she abruptly whirled around, almost choking with shock and fear. He was truly a heathen! she thought in complete horror. A common criminal. An unconscionable murderer. And very likely capable of rape—

That thought caused her mouth to close with a snap and her stomach to lurch. Unwilling to run and thereby reveal how intimidated she was, she commanded her legs to walk stiffly away from him. If he meant to harm her, running would not help. Yet it took all her strength to maintain her dignified retreat. She kept thinking that any man who could murder—who could live by stealing from others, who could calmly undress before a stranger—was hardly likely to be above rape. At any moment she feared to hear his footsteps or feel his hands upon her.

Finally, near a section of crumbled wall, she paused long enough to glance fearfully behind her. To her enormous relief he had not pursued her, but what she saw at the well was no less unnerving. He had stripped off his hose and braies and stood now completely naked. His back was to her as he doused himself once more, and the early-morning light gleamed off his wet body. His legs and buttocks were paler than his upper body, she saw as her eyes widened in awe. But they were equally muscled, thick and strong, bunching and stretching as he bent forward to wash.

How long she stood thus, poised to flee yet staring boldly at him, she did not know. It was only when he straightened and looked over his shoulder to meet her gaze that she was shocked into motion. With a swift jerk, she turned and ducked behind the wall. But as she hurried back to Cleve’s side, she could not banish Blacksword’s image from her mind’s eye.

When she reached the tumbled-down shed, she was still in a quandary. What had she gotten herself into now? she thought frantically. And what in the name of heaven was she to do?

As if he sensed her unease, Cleve’s eyes slowly came open and he stared blankly about. Then they seemed to focus and, as if it were a huge effort, he slowly turned his head toward her.

“Mi … milady?” he croaked weakly.

At once Rosalynde’s attention turned to him. “I’m here, Cleve.” She knelt beside him and pressed her palm to his brow. To her enormous relief it was cool, and she sent a silent prayer of thanks aloft. “How do you feel?”

His answer was a frown. Then he raised a weak hand to the crown of his head. “What happened?” he asked, wincing as his fingers found the bandaged wound.

“That man—the one you stabbed—he flung you against the boulder. Your head—” She stopped abruptly at the confused look he gave her. Her brow creased in concern as she stared at him. “Do you remember the attack? Two days ago when we had stopped for the midday meal?”

His brown eyes clouded over as he struggled to understand. Then suddenly his eyes cleared and his face grew fierce. “The unholy bastards!” he exclaimed, then immediately blushed. “Pardon, milady.”

“It’s all right,” she said with a great sigh of relief. “But tell me, how do you feel? Are you well enough to travel?”

“Aye.” He grunted as he tried to sit up. But his grimace of pain told her otherwise. “Ohhh …” He let out a painful moan, then lowered himself miserably to the pallet once more. “My head … ohhh …”

Rosalynde hovered over him with a worried frown. “You took a cruel blow, Cleve. That man flung you hard against the boulder. You’ve a nasty gash and perhaps even a crack in your head. You were feverish yesterday and all night too.” She pressed her hand soothingly over the boy’s creased brow.

“Then … then we’ve been here two nights and a day?” His face grew bewildered as he endeavored to remember everything. “You’ve tended me all this time?”

Rosalynde started to nod, but then she realized that wasn’t precisely true. “Actually, you were alone most of yesterday. I went to find help.”

“And did you?” he said, brightening a little.

Rosalynde hesitated and she felt the telltale heat of a blush begin to color her cheeks. “I-I did find someone—”

It was precisely at that second that their dubious savior chose to make his entrance. Rosalynde jumped abruptly, her fears of the previous minutes returning in a rush. Cleve started as well and immediately pushed up off the pallet to rise. For a tense, shattering moment the air crackled with menace: Rosalynde’s concern that Cleve not know all the details of what she had done; Cleve’s fear that outlaws had returned to attack them; and Blacksword’s defensive reaction to the boy’s sudden movement. With one swift motion he pinned Cleve to the floor, holding him helpless with a foot pressed harshly to his chest. At the sight of the dagger’s quick flash Rosalynde immediately sprang forward and grabbed onto his arm.

“Don’t!” she shrieked, holding onto the iron-hewn arm in alarm. “Don’t hurt him!”

But the intimidating Blacksword seemed as unaffected by her desperate grasping as he was by Cleve’s ineffectual flailing. Holding her off with one steely hand around her arm, he lowered himself to one knee and pressed the knife dangerously close to Cleve’s white face. “Don’t move.”

At his fiercely growled command a sudden stillness at once gripped the room. Beneath Blacksword’s overriding menace, Cleve shrank back, undone by his own terror. Rosalynde was equally frightened. It seemed certain the ogre meant to slay young Cleve! Her throat was dry; her mouth felt numb and it was an effort for her to get the words out.

“Don’t hurt him,” she pleaded in a quavering voice. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t … don’t hurt him.”

The moment stretched out endlessly. She was conscious of his still-damp grip on her arm, wetting through her sleeve to her skin. Then she felt his fingers relax ever so slightly, and she let loose the breath she’d been holding.

“Stay still,” he ordered the boy with a quelling stare.

Despite his fear, however, Cleve was not a coward. “I won’t let you hurt her,” he managed to say. But though his voice was not strong, his eyes flashed murderously. It was this, though, that seemed perversely to appease the man.

“What a fierce pup you guard yourself with.” He gave Rosalynde a derisive glance, but she did not discount the seriousness of his next words. “Call him off.”

“It’s … it’s all right, Cleve. Truly it is. This is the man—” She glanced fearfully at Blacksword, hoping against hope that he would not contradict her. “This is the man I-I hired to help us get home.”

Once she had it out she shuddered, whether in relief or fear, she could not have said. Then she watched as Cleve’s face turned from shock to disbelief and then to outrage.

“You hired him ?” he said, casting her a look that clearly questioned her sanity.

“Yes,” she replied weakly. Then “Yes,” again more firmly when he seemed about to argue. In a frantic effort to silence him and thereby keep him safe from Blacksword’s razor-edged temper, she adopted a stern and haughty tone that she hoped would sound sufficiently reproving. “You overstep your bounds in questioning me so.”

To her relief Cleve closed his mouth. In the silence Blacksword stepped away from him, releasing Rosalynde as he did so. She was well aware that he was not inclined to humor either the disgruntled boy or herself.

“Can he walk?” he asked her, gesturing toward Cleve.

“Yes.”

“No,” Rosalynde countered, giving Cleve an annoyed look. Although she was more than anxious for them to be on their way, she knew Cleve was not well enough to walk. Head wounds especially required bed rest. But what Blacksword thought of their contradictory responses she could not tell. When he spoke his voice was equally noncommittal.

“See to his wound, then. And cook the remains of the vegetables.” He gave her a stern look, then he tucked the knife securely into the leather girdle at his waist. Cleve’s furious eyes narrowed when he saw that casual gesture.

“That’s my knife,” he bit out as he awkwardly propped himself up on his elbows.

“ ’Tis mine now, pup.” He gave Cleve a hard, flinty stare. “Behave yourself and I might eventually return it to you.”

Rosalynde forestalled any further rash retorts from Cleve with a warning hand on his shoulder. “I’ll explain,” she whispered as she busied herself with the bandage around his head. “Just hold your tongue.”

As angry and frightened as Rosalynde had been to discover the menacing Blacksword gone when she’d awakened, she was even more upset now when he lingered carefully within earshot of her and Cleve. He had dragged several long branches over near the shed, and now as she examined Cleve’s head, washing it again with the woundwort and rebinding it with a softened linden-bark poultice, she was acutely aware of his presence. Cleve too was uncomfortably conscious of the big man’s proximity and sent him a continuous stream of bitter glances and sullen stares. But despite their overwhelming preoccupation with Blacksword’s nearness, he seemed, by contrast, completely unconcerned with theirs. While Rosalynde built up the fire to a healthy blaze, he only removed the twigs and leaves from the branches he had brought. While she brought a small amount of water to a boil and added the puny vegetables to it, he calmly lashed the two long branches together at one end, then lashed a short brace between them near the other. By the time the weak soup was ready, he had fashioned an odd contraption that had her and Cleve curious despite themselves. But he was decidedly uncommunicative.

Rosalynde fed Cleve a goodly portion of the plain broth and stewed vegetables. Then she ate also from the crude pottery that had to serve as pot, kettle, and trencher to all three of them. She was hungry, and yet her stomach was far too knotted for her to do more than pick sparingly at the food. When their doubtful protector finished his silent task and reentered the shed, she pulled the dish back from her mouth and stared warily at him.

“The remainder is for you,” she said with as much grace as she could muster.

He immediately crossed the small space and squatted on his heels right next to her. “My thanks,” he murmured as he took the dish from her hands. Then he steadily drank down the broth until the dish was empty.

She had pulled away from him when he first squatted down. Now, despite a conscious wish to appear unconcerned with anything he did, Rosalynde watched him with bewildered fascination. She saw how his wide, square palms with their strong, lean fingers enveloped the crockery dish. She watched with perverse absorption the rhythmic movement of his throat as he swallowed. He did not spill nor smack his lips, and when he finished he did not back hand his mouth to wipe off any excess. He only licked his lips once with his tongue, staring back at her as he did so.

Had she not been so rattled by his silent observation, she would have pondered more on this odd man. He was a murderer, yet he possessed the oddest social graces. He liked to be clean. He ate politely. And he had thanked her for the food. Of all the unexpected things, he had thanked her. His steady stare confused her, however, and her heart began to pound.

But if Rosalynde was mystified by his dangerous yet oddly civilized bearing, Cleve seemed only the more antagonized by it. It was his cracking, youthful voice that caused Blacksword to shift his eyes away from her.

“Who are you?” Cleve demanded. Then he turned toward Rosalynde, who was shaking her head in a futile effort to silence him. “Who is he and how can he help us? Has he horses? Has he weapons?”

“Cleve—”

“I’m someone who would as soon slit your throat as answer your questions.” With that threatening statement Blacksword gave Rosalynde a sardonic stare. “Isn’t that right, Rose?” he added with deliberate familiarity.

As much as she wished it were not true, at that moment Rosalynde was certain it was. But in her mind that made it even more important that Cleve not know the whole truth.

“He can get us home, Cleve. He’s the only one who can,” she insisted desperately.

But Cleve was in no mood to listen. “Is he the local sheriff, then? Or the lord of some nearby demesne?” The boy cast a disparaging eye over Blacksword’s torn tunic and stained braies. “His only weapon is my knife. How can he save you if we are attacked again? And how can you be sure he will?”

Rosalynde did not have to look at Blacksword to be aware of his angry impatience. She was completely unnerved by the clear animosity between the two, and did not think out her response, so intent was she on diffusing the situation. “Everyone around here knows who he is! And they’re all afraid of him!” she cried in a last attempt to frighten Cleve into holding his peace. “He has murdered many—”

She stopped abruptly, horrified by what she had revealed. Blacksword, however, finished her words for her. “I’m said to be an infamous outlaw who has murdered many many people,” he said with deadly sarcasm. Then he pulled out the knife and both Rosalynde and Cleve jumped in alarm. He only put the tip of the blade to his thumbnail, however, and worked out a splinter. Then he looked over at them calmly. “Now it’s time we leave this place. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind?” This last sarcastic sally he directed at Rosalynde.

Oh, how she wished she could do just that. How she wished she could be rid of this terrifying man. It seemed that they were endangered as much by his presence as by his absence. But she knew she must not risk losing his help now. Not after all she’d gone through to get him. He’d agreed to get them safely to Stanwood Castle, and despite her instinctive fear of him, there was still a part of her that believed he would do as he said. He wanted the reward she had promised. They would just have to suffer his temper and his moods until they reached her father. But she would have the devil of a time keeping Cleve calm.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” she said most seriously. She grabbed Cleve’s hand and gave it a hard, warning squeeze. “But Cleve should not be up. Especially not doing anything so strenuous as walking.”

The man Blacksword straightened to his full height then and gave them both what Rosalynde could only describe as an arrogant, superior smile. Once again she noticed how even and white his teeth were. And now, shaved as he was, the strong planes of his jaw and cheek bones were apparent, and she had to admit that he was attractive, albeit in a harsh and primitive way. For the first time she noticed that his hair was light, the color of autumn leaves but streaked also with gold. Then, aghast that she should be so distracted as to notice or care about his appearance, she frowned. “Cleve cannot walk,” she insisted once more.

His smile widened a fraction. “Then he shall ride.”