Page 33

ChapterFourteen

Roland couldn’t help but notice the wound on his friend’s arm as he prepared for bed. It was the first time in his life Roland had shared a bedchamber, but to accommodate all the recruits, none had private chambers. He cared little about having nothing but a pallet on which to sleep, but the lack of privacy was beginning to wear on him.

The cause, Roland reminded himself. It was bigger than his comfort, and something he believed in. And it seemed they were very close to achieving their goal of installing Empress Matilda on the throne.

“Have you cleansed the wound on your arm?”

Darien looked down to the gash, which should never have happened. If the blasted man hadn’t refused to wear any sort of protection in training—no mail, no padded gambeson—it would not even be a scratch. So much of Ellsworth was a mystery, including his training style.

“I have.”

Roland moved closer. Another of the knights did as well, a young man from Ravenshire. It was he who spoke Roland’s thoughts aloud. “It appears diseased.”

Darien frowned, touching his fingers to the red area surrounding the wound. “I’d considered seeing the healer but have not yet made time to ride to the village.”

“Rowena visits Blackwood on Woden’s Day, but I do not believe you should wait,” Roland said. He’d seen plenty of diseased wounds over the years, and this was one that needed treating. “Perhaps we should ride there this eve.”

Darien shrugged them off. “I will wait until the morrow. If it appears as such then—”

“Amalia.” Roland had blurted out her name without thinking. For the past three days he’d seen her only at meals. She was polite, giving him little attention. In fact, she spoke more to Alden than him.

Neither am I interested in lying with a man who can never be mine to claim.

The words, spoken honestly and truly, had penetrated. Roland had not intended to defile her, but neither had he been thinking clearly when he’d kissed her. Now the memory of that kiss lingered in a way none before had done.

Never be mine to claim.

Roland had no intention of marrying any woman, nor would his father ever accept a lady’s maid—something he would do well to remember if he had any chance of inheriting the earldom.

“She is a healer.”

“She is?” Darien asked.

“Of sorts. She does not practice the healing arts but may know enough to help you. Don a shirt.”

It was well past the evening meal, and Amalia could be sleeping. And even he recognized as they made their way to her bedchamber that Darien’s arm was an excuse to see her.

“You seem to know your way well to the lady’s chamber.”

Roland scowled but said nothing.

“You like her.”

Denying it would be futile. “I do.”

“I understand the expectations you face as an earl’s eldest son.”

“Even if I wished to marry, which I do not, she would never be accepted.”

“I do not challenge your desire not to be married. But surely you realize ’tis a futile desire. I’ve escaped betrothal until now, but will not continue to do so forever. Neither, I am certain, will you.”

“I was betrothed,” Roland said. “A baron’s daughter whose land borders our own. But the man’s politics, among other things, persuaded me ’twas not a good match.”

“Your father agreed to break it?” he asked as they approached Amalia’s chamber.

“Nay. I did so without his permission.”

Darien winced. “Then perhaps you should pursue Mistress Amalia. Breaking a betrothal. Joining the Guardians without your father’s knowledge. Is there any chance you will not be disinherited?”