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Constance’s thoughts were less ordered. What a shame that such loveliness should be wasted, or broken upon a weak and inflexible man like Arno. Constance sighed. She was old and could not live much longer. If only she could find a man—a strong and lusty man—a man who understood her lady and who saw her gentleness not as a weakness to be trampled upon, as did Arno, but as a strength. A gift. A strong man’s love was what Rose needed. If Constance could find such a man, then she knew she would gladly entrust her lady to him.
“Mayhap you are right,” Constance agreed at last. “You do not need another husband. A lover would do. Aye, a protector.”
“Constance, I want no man—lover, husband, or anything else! I am content with my…with what I have.” Rose turned again to her window. She had been about to say she was content with her dreams, but Constance did not know of them, nor would she. Her eyes strayed now, across the flat Levels, toward the dark bulk of Burrow Mump.
Marriage, she thought savagely. What was that? A contract for making money and gaining power, for making children to gain more money and more power. Lust? Why, any animal could feel lust. And love? Love was a dream, a fantasy…a ghostly warrior without a face.
And you are content with that?
Yes, Rose told herself desperately, I am.
The sound of men approaching the gate drew her back to more immediate matters. Big men on horseback, their chain mail gleaming in the torchlight, were clattering over the wooden bridge spanning the ditch. The mercenaries had returned. Rose pressed her hands against the cold stone sill, counting their heads. One, two, three, four!
Two were missing.
Her breath fluttered in her throat, but even as the unwanted fear gripped her, she heard his voice calling for the gate to be opened.
Gunnar Olafson had returned.
It was more difficult than it had ever been to turn herself into her depiction of the lady of the manor. To calmly turn and face Constance when her heart was pounding and her throat was dry. To say, in a voice that trembled only the slightest bit, “They are back. I will go down and meet them. It is time to learn the worst.”
Chapter 6
She was standing on the keep steps with the torches flaring behind her. At first all Gunnar could see was her silhouette, the alluring shape of her body. His mind went blank; instinct took over. The hours spent in the devastation of the village, the dead man and the missing miller—all the important questions he could not answer were forgotten at the sight of her.
He wanted her.
It was as simple and as complicated as that.
He, a lowly mercenary, coveted a highborn lady. He might as well try and pull down the moon with his hand! She could have him whipped for his presumption, no matter that he was an honorable mercenary and she a treacherous lady…
Gunnar’s innate arrogance reasserted itself. He was the son of Olaf the armorer, and in him ran the blood of Vikings and Norse kings—he had nothing about which to feel inferior. Let her try and put him in his place, he thought angrily, and he would show her where hers was. On her back in his bed!
The image was instant and vivid. Gunnar gave a silent groan as it filled his head…Her body naked among the bedding, her dark hair spilling over her gleaming shoulders and tangling in his hands as he pressed her down, his hardness against all that exquisite softness…
His rod was rock hard, painful in his tight breeches. As well the chain mail tunic was long enough to cover him—just. Gunnar’s lips twitched and for a moment he was close to laughing at himself and the whole mess he found himself in. But there was more than his own future at stake here, and Gunnar was not a man to let others down. He allowed the humor to leach out of him, making himself cold, unfeeling. Less of a man and more of a weapon.
In control again, Gunnar dismounted. Behind him Alfred was lifting the girl, Millisent, down from his own horse. Her brother rode before Ivo, and Gunnar reached up for the boy, swinging him to the ground. The child scampered toward Rose, crying out, “Lady, lady, there was a fire!” in a high, excited voice.
“But you are safe, Will,” she said gently, reaching out to touch his head.
The boy nodded seriously, glancing around at his sister. “Can we stay with you, lady?”
“Will—”
Rose smiled. “’Tis all right, Millisent. You may stay as long as you like, Will, now hurry inside and see if Eartha’s little boy is still awake.”
Gunnar watched as the child received a nod from his sister and hastily vanished into the hall. Lady Rose had known his name, spoken to him as easily as if he had been her own brother or son—it was rare indeed for such a lady to forgo her dignity and the formality of her position to make a villein’s child feel comfortable. Gunnar wished she had been sharp-tongued and uncaring. He did not want to admire her; he did not want to like her.
“Lady?” One of the villagers had come forward, wild-eyed, no doubt to ask for her favor. Rose leaned down to listen. She did not look like a treacherous woman. Her face was pale and tired within her veil, but still beautiful. Her fingers were laced together, twisting, so that she appeared anxious. Was that truth or pretense, or was her anxiety all for herself, and the possible exposure of her plot against Radulf?
And yet as he watched her reply sympathetically to the villager, Gunnar found it difficult to be objective. Suddenly he knew he needed to be alone; he would speak to her later, when his mind had regained mastery over his body. So thinking, he turned toward the stables and, with a sense of relief, began to put distance between them.
He should have known better.
“Captain Olafson?”
Her voice was breathless, as if she was running after him. Reluctantly, trying not to groan, Gunnar turned and found that she was.
