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“Your brother? Who is your brother?”
Ivo took a deep breath. For such a fearsome-looking man, he had very soulful eyes. “Miles de Vessey, lady. He is my brother, although I wish it were not so. He is not to be trusted, ever.”
“Oh? Is he so bad, Ivo?”
Ivo held up his hand, the one he wore the glove or gauntlet upon. “Lady, Miles did this when we were boys. He thought to cripple me so that never again would I best him at swordplay.”
Rose’s throat felt dry. “And did you?”
A smile glinted in Ivo’s dark eyes. “Aye.”
They had reached the hall and Ivo was bowing as she moved on past him, into the smoky, noisy warmth.
Rose was relieved to see that Arno had moved to one of the tables in the body of the hall, and was playing a drunken game of dice with the two fair-headed mercenaries, Sweyn and Ethelred. Brother Mark had gone and Constance, too, had retired for the night. Gunnar Olafson and Steven were standing together, heads close. The expressions on their faces belied any pretense at polite conversation. Gunnar made an angry gesture and Steven nodded, his brown hair flopping forward over his eyes.
In a moment Rose knew she would be near enough to hear what they were saying. She quickened her step.
As if sensing her presence, Gunnar glanced up. His expression changed, the calm mask slipping over the anger, his eyes growing cool and watchful. At the same time, Steven bowed and backed away, merging into the shadows by the dais, and leaving them as private as they could be in the crowded hall.
“What were you speaking of?” Rose said sharply, close enough now that they could not be overheard.
“Of Wales, lady. Steven’s family hold lands on the Marches.”
He was lying and she knew it, but what could she do? If she accused him he would laugh in her face. Too late she remembered last night in the stairwell and felt a low, deep ache in her belly. Why had she not walked straight through the hall and taken herself to the safety of her chamber?
“There is no need to set your men to watch me, Captain,” she said grumpily.
He raised his eyebrows. “I seek to protect you, lady.”
“It feels like watching.” Her voice was icy polite, although her cheeks felt over-hot. She was disturbed, agitated by his presence. The memories of last night had risen up between them, and Rose was finding it difficult to breathe.
And he was aware of it. He must be. How could he not be? There he was, standing before her, broad-shouldered, legs set firmly, his mouth saying one thing while his eyes said another. And Rose understood with a growing sense of despair that last night in the stairwell hadn’t been enough. She wanted him again. Tonight.
Time for them was running out. When she did as she had promised Harold, and sent word to Radulf…
Gunnar smiled, a tug at the corners of his lips. He was beyond handsome, and she had to stop herself from swaying toward him. Without taking his eyes from hers, Gunnar indicated the chair upo
n the dais. “Tell me about this chair, Lady Rose.”
The change of subject confused her, but she was happy to follow it. Her chair seemed a far safer direction for the conversation to take than the images swirling through her head.
“If you like, Captain. This is the Somerford chair, and it is very old. An ancestor of my husband’s brought it here, and it has been treasured ever since. There is a legend…”
“Tell it to me.”
That sounded more like a command than a request, but Rose let it pass. She was happy to talk about the chair if it would take her mind off her fears for her future, and the hot, passionate memories probing at the edges of her mind.
“It is said the chair came to Somerford by itself, floating across the Mere and washing up on the shore. Before that…’tis a mystery.”
He nodded, but his eyes were aglow. As if he were aware of a secret, as if she amused him. Defensively Rose crossed her arms and frowned.
Again Gunnar smiled, that breathtaking smile. “Let me show you something,” he said, and he held out his hand.
She did not want to take it, truly she did not, but somehow she already had. His fingers closed over hers, large and warm and strong, and he led her up onto the dais and around the table, to her chair. Bemused, Rose stood and watched as he crouched down on his haunches, closely examining one of the side panels. Her eyes flicked over the muscles of his thighs, the way the stuff of his breeches strained over all that hard flesh, the way his hair fell forward as he leaned toward the carvings, gleaming with a mixture of bronze and gold and chestnut.
Touch him. See if he feels as good as he looks. As good as you remember.
This time the whispering voice in her head bore a remarkable resemblance to Constance’s. Rose swallowed and managed to ignore it.
