Rushing through the hallway, Rosalind didn’t notice the amorous couple, until she nearly crashed into them. Daphne was pressed up against the wall whilst Benedict lavished kisses upon her neck. She wasn’t sure whether to ignore them or cough, but Daphne opened her eyes and squeaked at seeing Rosalind stood there with raised brow. They broke apart, looking embarrassed.
“Good night,” Daphne said in a breath that wasn’t steady, and she rushed off down the corridor.
That left Benedict, who was panting, one hand held out against the wall. He turned to her with a very stern look, but she couldn’t help the rasping giggle that emerged.
“You interrupted Daphne’s positive response to my proposal of marriage.”
Rosalind squeaked as best she could with joy and clapped her hands. She would have embraced him, but he still looked fairly flushed.
“Thank you. But all is not that straightforward. She will have to wear widow’s weeds for a while.” Rosalind let out a rather rude sound from her mouth and Benedict laughed. “Yes, I know, but ’tis necessary for appearances. She is more carefree, now that Sir Hector is dead, although still frightened of my touch.”
Another snort escaped her; she sounded like a boar, but honestly, Daphne hadn’t looked very frightened a moment ago.
“Kisses are one thing, as she remembers my touch from when we were younger. Other…things are more difficult, and we have a long path to tread but we will go slowly, and together. Apparently, she seems to think me a very kind and patient man, except with riding lessons…” Benedict cocked a brow and Rosalind failed to look innocent. He stepped close to her and brushed his lips over her forehead. “Thank you, Rosalind, for speaking to her.”
She felt that sharp, teary feeling at the back of her eyes again and sniffed, flitting her fingers in the air, in an attempt to convey that it was nothing.
Benedict smiled. “Now off to bed. You’re late.” And he started off in the same direction as Daphne.
Stamping her foot to gain Benedict’s attention, she pointed in the direction of his own bedchamber. A smooth, teasing smile emerged on his face. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t start treading that path tonight.”
Feeling fairly quaggy herself, Rosalind shook her head, meandered to her room and bustled inside, closing the door quickly to keep the heat in.
The delicate fragrance hit her first. All she could smell was sweet box, evergreen, and rose permeating the room, and her eyes skittered to the bed.
It was strewn with nature: branches from the ancient hawthorn that grew in the woods were gathered at the sides, their red berries gleaming in the candlelight; aromatic juniper with its sharp needles fragranced the pillow; bare sweet briar stems, with hips still adjoined, encircled the posts; and with it all was a selection of roses: blush-pink, deep-red and pure-white petals, filling the room with sweet scent.
“You were a very long time, my rose,” a low voice said behind her. She turned and there he was.
A glass of champagne was held in one hand, and she noticed he had another on the side table. His jacket, waistcoat and cravat were strewn over the chair so that he was clad only in his dark-green breeches and billowing white linen shirt.
The sight made her prickle.
Candles had been lit all around the room and they glinted on his hair, turning it golden, tawny and bronze. It looked newly washed and slightly shorter than at dinner, the damp ends curling and brushing his collar. Eyes, now the colour of a wild storm, gleamed in the soft light.
“Beautiful…where?” She managed to rasp.
He had acquired quite a few scratches clambering through the forest undergrowth, gathering the greenery and briar, but it was worth it to see the pleasure on Rosalind’s face.
“From the forest, and the hothouse at Painehill Court,” he replied.
Lucas knew she’d felt rather trapped inside the house recently, by the snow and her recuperation, missing her walks in the woods, so he’d thought to bring nature to Rosalind. The roses…well, he’d had to promise Lord Painehill a few stud rights for his mares in exchange for them – something he hadn’t quite yet sanctioned with Stone.
“Sit.” He watched her smile and realised he said that a lot. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to order you around.” She raised a wicked eyebrow at him, and he laughed, feeling his tension ease. “I really don’t. It’s just a very hard habit to break, especially when you’ve commanded men. Anyhow, you will always answer me back. Except for now…and that is why, erm, have some champagne,” he said, pushing a full glass into her hands and watching her move a sharp stem of holly to sit on the bed.
Damn, he hadn’t thought this through. She couldn’t sit back on juniper and holly: she’d be covered in prickles. What a daft idea.
God, he was nervous. Rosalind had said she loved him, although he was aware this was rushing things somewhat, but after nearly losing her… He raked a hand through his hair. It was still damp from the earlier bath and Billy had cut the ends so it didn’t look quite so scruffy. He needed to present his best self, even if that self was a bit weather-beaten.
Rosalind’s champagne glass was very quickly emptied, so he reached over and filled it again: nothing wrong with using all guns available to win the battle.
Moving a spiny juniper to sit on the bed beside her, he met those leaf-green eyes with his own. Her features showed little sign of upset from her fight with the curate, but a man’s death always left its mark and a soft shadow beneath her eyes belied the restless nightmares of the past few nights. She was a strong woman, but it was often the way that the memories only surfaced in the blackness of night – the same with soldiers.
Her throat was a different matter. Purple and blue bruising covered her delicate skin and even now he felt his fists clench with anger at the deaths of those two innocent girls and the harm done to Rosalind.
A soft touch on his hand, and he looked down to see Rosalind’s fingers laid over his fist. She shook her head. She was right – no more looking back on either the murders or the past. It was all about the future now.
Bringing a palm up, he gently cupped her cheek; his hand looked huge and tanned against her, and yet it belonged there.
