Page 43
“How is our knight?” Darien asked of the man who had taken ill when they arrived.
“I’ve just left him.” Amalia took the reins of her horse and thanked the stable boy. “His coloring has improved.”
“Do you know what caused his illness?” Roland asked.
“Perhaps the food he eats. It seems he has an aversion to meat, and fish too. I advised him to at least consume more beans and lentils. Nuts and seeds too. I am just glad we were able to find an ample supply of nettle and dandelions.”
As the others began to mount, Roland aided Amalia and rode beside her.
“You say you are not a healer, but I would disagree heartily, Amalia.”
“My services were not needed at Ashford Manor, so it has been some years that I’ve done much more than observe Rowena.”
“Not needed? Or not utilized?” Her expression was his answer. “Ashford is a bastard. I am glad he is not Evelina’s true father.”
“As am I,” Amalia agreed.
As they rode toward Lincoln Castle, Roland and Amalia spoke of her training and love of herbs. She explained the differences between each one, those she used most often and ones that were difficult to procure but could be useful. He asked what she envisioned for an herb shop and Amalia admitted she had given it some thought, that if she had the coin, she would both sell herbs and advice on how to use them. Though she was practicing as a healer on this journey, Amalia admitted it was not a dream of hers.
“Of course, I would very much miss serving my lady. Evelina has given so much to me.”
It wasn’t until days later—after they had spent much time discussing Amalia’s dreams, and Roland’s too after he admitted, though it seemed he pushed away his inheritance, that he would wish to be the next earl of de Vere—that Roland returned to the subject of Lady Evelina.
“You mentioned serving your lady,” he said, helping Amalia dismount in the courtyard of Lincoln Castle. “The day we left Ashbourne.”
By now, Darien and Alden were accustomed to Roland spending every moment he was able by Amalia’s side. The pair strode ahead as the impressive sight of a full contingency of Guardians prepared to meet the “Sacred Oak” who they’d been training to fight for these past months.
“I remember,” she said. “We spoke of the shop that day.”
“Aye.” Roland stopped, Amalia with him. “If we marry,” he said, more earnest about the possibility than the day he’d asked Amalia to allow him to court her, “you will be a lady in your own right and cannot serve Evelina.”
Amalia sighed, her shoulders lifting and sinking, the heaviness of their topic of discussion evident. “Then I will be glad to call Evelina a friend instead.”
“Until this is all over, I know not what our future might entail. If I will inherit the earldom or not. There are more uncertainties than certainties.”
“Roland?”
He wanted to pull her toward him. Roland had not touched her since this journey began, save aiding her in mounting and dismounting. The effort weighed on him—the desire to hold her, kiss her, to make Amalia his, grew stronger and stronger each day.
Resisting the urge to reach out to her, he said simply, “Aye?”
“Your courtship is sincere.”
“You did not think it was the day I asked?”
“I was uncertain.”
“And now?”
“And now . . . ” She wished to say something, but remained silent.
“Amalia, you can say, or ask, anything of me. You know as much, I hope?”
“I want you to come to me,” she blurted.
His eyes widened. “You mean . . . ?”
“I heard some of the men talking. They believe there is a real possibility of an attack on the way to London.”
“You will not be harmed,” he said, meaning every word. “You will ride with the empress herself, and I will protect you both.”
“Nay, it is not that. I know you will protect me. But . . . ” She swallowed. “I’d not ride into danger without knowing your kiss once more.”
The surge of joy, of desire, at her words told Roland all he needed to know about the decision he’d made to court Amalia Sinclair. The somewhat reckless decision that he would not question. His father had taught Roland many things, and one of those was to never question himself.
“Amalia,” he said, smiling. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
