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He smiled back. “Indeed, I am.”
Laughing, she looked away from him, somehow, and back up at the stars. “I’ve not seen such a clear night in a long time. Have you?”
“I would not know. I’m not looking at the sky.”
She glanced back down.
“There is no need to wrestle a compliment from me, as I will give it freely. I find you extremely beautiful, and intriguing. There is a fire in you, Amalia, that is only tempered by the kind of compassion many claim but few truly possess.”
Her heart leapt at the “beautiful” comment, but that was not something Amalia could control. The last part, though, made her curious.
“Why do you say as much? You know me little.”
“I’ve never met a healer without compassion. It matters not how you were trained, only that you wish to help others. When you spoke of the herb shop, ’twas evident.”
“My mother is the kindest woman I’ve ever known,” Amalia said. “If I have compassion inside me for others, it is because she showed me how to give it. Though I will admit, I’ve had difficulty finding compassion for Lord Ashford. He was truly horrid to Evelina, though I understand now his reasons. Still, they do not excuse his treatment of her.”
“Not everyone deserves our compassion.”
“You do not believe so?”
“Nay, I do not. What of the king? A man who’s thrown our country into civil war. Does he?”
“I am not certain,” Amalia admitted. “I know one thing above all, and that is that I know little.”
“Wise words.”
Amalia was feeling generous. “When I said, ‘a man such as you,’ I referred to your strength. And reputation. And visage.”
“I assumed as much but wished to hear the words from your lips.”
“Why?” she asked bluntly.
Roland cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps because you did not freely give them.”
“You are accustomed to women doing so, I assume.”
“I am.”
Amalia shook her head. “You are unapologetically arrogant, Roland.”
“Is it arrogance to admit the truth?”
She thought on it for a moment. “Perhaps not. But you are arrogant, nonetheless.”
“I admit nothing.”
Amalia studied the sharp angle of Roland’s cheeks. The lips that had touched hers, if ever so briefly. The contrast between his black hair and blue eyes. How many women had fallen prey to this man?
“Are you truly as good a swordsman as they say?”
“I am.” His answer was immediate and lacked any apology for the fact.
“It seems you’ve been blessed in many ways, then.”
“That I was born an earl’s son, certainly. My appearance, aye. But my skill with the sword—that I’ve worked hard for many, many years to accomplish.”
“Hmmm.” Amalia shifted in her position, surprisingly comfortable, courtesy of a balmy night and Roland’s surcoat that, along with her gown, kept away the cold stone floor.
“My fear,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers, “is that no matter how skilled I become, nor whatever my feats in battles, it will never be enough.”
“Enough for whom?”
“My father. The Lion of Ravensbrook. Especially now that I am taking up the cause opposite him.”
“Is it his approval you seek or others who measure you against him?”
“Both,” he said, without hesitation.
“Why?”
The corners of Roland’s lips tugged up in a half smile. “Because I am an arrogant cad, of course.”
She realized then, Roland hid behind that arrogance. “Why tell me this? You won the wager and were not required to share your fear.”
Roland, legs extended in front of him, looked all at once relaxed and intimidating. “Because you asked, Amalia. I am beginning to fear there is nothing you can ask of me that I would deny.”
It was, she suspected, a rare moment of vulnerability from him. In turn, Amalia offered one of her own. “Then perhaps you can offer another kiss. A proper one this time.”
