Claimed by a Scottish Lord (4 page)

Roxburghe‘s expression altered minutely. ―Redesdale? Near Kirkland Park? Lord Hereford‘s lands?‖

―If you know Friar Tucker then you know he lived in the area long before Lord Hereford‘s return last year. You need not worry that he holds allegiance to Hereford. He does not.‖

Roxburghe seemed to study the bottle in his hand. ―Did he know Countess Hereford and her daughter then?‖

His tone as much as the query gave Rose more than pause. She now understood Roxburghe‘s reasons for coming to the abbey.

He was following rumors that Lord Hereford‘s wife and child might be alive. Believing that the daughter might hold some value, he was looking for a way to rescue the half brother Hereford had incarcerated. If Roxburghe and Friar Tucker were friends, then his lordship had come here for help. Rose also knew Friar Tucker would not help him.

She didn‘t want the earl of Roxburghe‘s problems to be her concern. Not now. Looking down at the lamp sputtering against the draft, she cast about for a way to change the topic but could find nothing to ease the tension in her heart. ―I am sorry Lord Hereford has your brother. You must know ‘twould not be in the warden‘s political interest to harm the boy. I cannot believe he would.‖

Roxburghe set down the bottle. ―You are familiar with Hereford enough to make that manner of observation?‖

―I know that he came home a hero, too. He was once a captain in the Royal Navy. He has medals for valor. I know that your brother was caught cattle lifting along with two of his cousins. I know that no one is without blame.‖ She awaited some hint of Roxburghe‘s reaction. When she saw nothing, she added, ―I also know a dead hostage is useless to everyone, and that most people in your position would just surrender to the ransom demands. But then I imagine you are not most people.‖

He lifted her thick braid and wrapped it around his fist, ever so gently. ―What else do you know about me?‖

Rose knew he was dangerous. She‘d once heard he‘d left Scotland because of a woman when she married another, and that gossip linked him to beautiful women across Britain, France and Italy. He‘d left a trail of broken hearts and shattered marital aspirations that kept most noblemen with unmarried daughters and sisters far away from him.

Divided between wariness and curiosity, she slid her braid from his hand and tilted her chin. It was a rare man who forced her to tilt her chin. ―I know you are a hunter at heart and you are no longer attempting to disguise your intentions toward me behind casual conversation. But I am not your prey.‖

―I am not hunting tonight,‖ he said in a low voice. ―If I were, you would already be mine.‖

She held back a gasp, yet she made no effort to escape him. ―You . you overreach yourself, my lord.‖

He made no effort to move either. The ever-present smile on his lips remained, but something had changed between them. Something as imperceptible as a hawk‘s path through a current of air, yet, there all the same between them. ―How so?‖ he asked. He reached in slow motion to ease the braid from her shoulder, and his featherlike touch suddenly filled her with inexplicable emotion. ―Does a virgin stand before me, Rose?‖

The man was outrageous. No one had ever asked her anything so utterly private and intimate, or so erotic her entire body reacted.

No proper lady would have stood for such impropriety. But then no one had ever accused her of being proper, and she was no coward to retreat on the first salvo. She was, after all, self-reliant, driven as much by curiosity as she was by her passions. ―I am not ignorant of such things. I have read many a conspectus of the medical sciences, my lord. This is farming land with horses and cows and pigs. I know the names of body parts no one speaks of in polite company.‖

Amusement shone in his eyes as he pointed out, ―That was not my question.‖

―You will receive no other answer.‖ She met his gaze and knew he was gauging her.

―You are quite at your leisure to conclude what you will. But I assure you, I am no lady.‖ She had not meant the statement as it sounded. ―What I mean is that ladies are frail creatures . ‖

He laughed a clear baritone sound that startled her with its temerity. He was a rogue, and to the devil with you if you didn‘t like it.

She understood now what attracted her to him, something even more compelling than his looks. She could admire a man who thumbed his nose at conventional mores, who defied authority with the courage of his convictions. His gaze fastened on her mouth and, from the lazy-lidded heat in his eyes, he must have recognized the same passions deep inside her as lived inside him. And just that fast in the cold, dark cavernous dining hall with the world asleep around them, they were two people quite different from what the world saw.

―You are not coy or pretentious. A commoner . maybe. But not at all common. What family would give someone like you to a convent?‖

―My mother died when I was young. I . I barely remember my father.‖

―I remember mine. I have forgotten what it is like to be so innocent.‖

The trod of boots coming from down the corridor suddenly inserted itself into the heated silence. The mood shattered. Panicked that someone would see her alone in the night with a man—this man—in her sleeping clothes, she stepped around the chair just as Roxburghe moved to intercept her. She landed against his chest. His hands went to her waist to steady her.

―What are you doing?‖ she breathed out in a rush. ―Someone will see us.‖

But someone had already seen them.

A man stood in the archway backlit by lamplight. Only then, did she realize Roxburghe‘s body shielded her face from the visitor‘s sight. If she had gone running from the room a moment ago, she would have collided with the hapless fellow. She hid her face near his chest, feeling absurdly safe in his shadow.

―The storm is passing.‖ The man‘s voice carried to the shadows where she stood. ―Dawn is on the horizon.‖

―I‘ll be outside in a moment,‖ he said, the warm breath from his words rippling her hair.

The man hesitated. ―Aye, captain. We will be awaiting your orders.‖

Rose listened to his steps fade like the storm that had surrounded the abbey most of the night. But the silence brought another storm to bear on her, one far more perilous. She slowly raised her chin and found Roxburghe‘s eyes on her face with unmistakable attention, a look he instantly shuttered as he eased his hands from her waist. The heat where his palms had shaped to the slim curvature of her waist lingered as she watched him walk to the end of the table and drag a jacket from the back of the chair.

She set the lamp on the table. ―You are leaving the abbey before daybreak?‖

He shoved his arms into the sleeves and turned, his eyes going over her. The stubble shadowing his jaw seemed to darken his gaze. ―It is best if no one knows we were here. I will return for my horse when it is safe to do so.‖

―You would risk your life coming back here for your horse?‖

―If not a horse then what is worth dying for?‖

Rose frowned. ―That reeks of cynicism. Have you no care for your life?‖

He laughed. ―My life is of utmost importance to me. So is my horse.‖

He clasped on a wide leather belt as he watched her with a predatory readiness in his movements and smiled lightly as if she were a curiosity encased behind glass. It was an action borne of a man comfortable in his own skin no matter his faults or his sins. Or hers.

And for some reason his self-possession unsettled her more.

―His name is Loki,‖ Roxburghe said.

The meaning was not lost on Rose. Loki was the Norse God of destruction, an ironic name for the gentle horse she had briefly glimpsed last night, but not incongruous when one considered the stallion belonged to the Black Dragon.

―It is not safe to cross the bridge while the river is high,‖ she said, walking around the table to face him at the other end. ―There is another rarely used crossing two miles west. The bridge is older but on higher ground. Only the locals use it. You should be able to cross unseen.‖

He picked up two pistols and shoved them into his leather belt. He truly did look like a freebooter as he approached her from around the table‘s head, his boot spurs jangling. ―I am relieved,‖ he said.

Rose had always thought herself to be sensible and levelheaded, but this man had worn on her nerves. ―For what?‖

―You do not wish me to drown.‖

―Do not be so confident of that. This is former reiver country. Lord Hereford‘s men are not the only ones you should fear.‖ She straightened before she started retreating from his enormous presence. ―I have no desire for anyone to learn you were here either. I would not wish them to steal your horse.‖

Though it would be less costly to the abbey if someone should, she thought.

―Nor would I wish you to carelessly lose him.‖ Roxburghe reached around her and dropped a bag weighted with coins onto the table. ―Tell Friar Tucker this gold is for the abbey‘s trouble.‖

Rose was speechless.

―And you, m‘lady.‖ He tipped her chin with his cupped hand and traced her bottom lip with his thumb. ―Stay away from men in dark corridors and dining halls. Unless you want someone to show you the not-so-proper way to eat on this table.‖

Indignation surged through her, instantly dissipating any feelings of gratitude she had momentarily felt for his generosity. But before she realized she had no idea what he had just said, except to imply by his tone it must be carnal and therefore not fit for a lady, he grinned and strode from the room, his spurs jingling against the stone floor. The sound followed him into the courtyard and left her prey to unproductive emotions, not the least of which was awareness of him as a man.

She traced a fingertip where his had caressed her sensitive bottom lip, and, even as she wondered how many women he had kissed to know just where to imprint his touch, she wondered more what it would have been like if he had put his mouth on hers instead.

You are a naive girl, Rose Lancaster
.

A man like him would not have stopped with a kiss.

A
n hour later, Rose gave up working in the crypt and put away her books. She went upstairs to her room and changed into a woolen gown. After she dressed, she drew back the faded velvet curtains to let in the dreary, mist-soaked light of dawn and turned.

Her old box bed sat against the wall, the covers thrown over the mattress as if an effort had been made to leave the room as it had been found. The room was no bigger than a large closet but Rose loved the coziness, especially in winter. She had repaired cracks in the wall and along the window frame with plaster and painted the walls the color of sunshine. Though the color came out more like a toasted orange or an over-ripened pumpkin, Friar Tucker had smiled and told her he‘d never seen such a unique shade. So she had kept the color.

Unique sounded nice, not ordinary . or common. Lord Roxburghe had told her she wasn‘t common.

Like her unique height and the color of her russet hair, once compared to the copper of a fresh-minted coin. At one time, she would have plucked every red strand from her head if someone could have assured her that her hair would come back blond. She had grown into her body and had come to accept her uniqueness as one accepted an incurable ailment, with as much dignity as she could muster. But this morning, her uniqueness made her feel pretty.

She walked outside into the mist-shrouded courtyard still wet with rain and humidity. A brief lull in the clouds opened a patch of pearl-gray sky to her gaze, but the sky would not remain clear for long. She stepped through the gate.

Jack was already in the stable, diligently bent over a rake, mucking the stalls. With Friar Tucker gone, he had only the abbey‘s two horses and now the stallion to tend.

A fine regal horse Loki was, too, of stellar bloodstock, with long legs, a full chest and glossy red coat. She leaned against the stall and made a visual inspection of the horse. He favored his right foreleg. She would make a special liniment with herbs grown from the abbey‘s own hothouse.

The stallion bumped her arm, seeking a pet, and she moved nearer. To assess a horse‘s personality one must look it in the eyes. Character and temperament were easy to read. Piggy little eyes were sure signs of an untrustworthy beast. Bold but kindly eyes, well proportioned, indicated a good temperament. ―No fire-breathing beast are you, Sir Loki,‖ she said, raking her fingers gently through the horse‘s mane. ―You are a handsome devil,‖ she said. ―Like your master.‖

Chapter 3

T
he storm that had come with the unusual heat of summer rampaged for another day before easing into the steadier, slower rain that filled the rivers and streams and made all the roads around Castleton nearly impassable. As Rose guided the old mare and cart over the neatly manicured drive toward the back of Mrs. Simpson‘s cottage, she peered up at the welcome break in the sky.

It had taken her over two hours to travel a mere four miles. Even wearing heavy boots, she could have walked the way faster. Once she reached the trough, she jumped out of the cart, careful to avoid the mud as Jack set the brake. Though her breeches and natty tweed jacket had not escaped mud splatter, her boots were not proof against mud, and her stockings were already as soggy as milk-soaked bread.

―Do ye want me to gather the eggs, Miss Rose?‖

Rose smiled. ―Thank you, Jack. And if you tend to the stalls in the barn as well, I am sure Mrs. Simpson will thank you with your favorite pastries.‖

She removed the knapsack filled with stores from behind the bench and turned toward the cottage. Today was almost cold in the shade, but the sun felt wondrous. She knocked on the door and, without waiting, entered the cottage.

―Mrs. Simpson?‖ Rose peered around the cluttered room filled with artifacts and shelves of dusty books that had once belonged to the woman‘s husband. Sunlight spilled into the room from the windows revealing dust moats dancing in the air. A breeze puffed the yellow curtains and brought with it the scent of mint from the flower box outside the window. A small but comforting fire burned in the stove.