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Gunnar bit his lip. She was truly afraid. Who would have thought the indomitable Lady Rose would be frightened of old English bones? Her weakness gave him a sense of hope that perhaps she needed him after all. Gunnar had always thought of himself as a protector. It would please him greatly to be able to protect Rose. Even if it was only from evil fairy tales.
“I am not afraid,” he said in his measured way. “Fenrir is proof against any danger, be it flesh and blood or spirit. He fights in both worlds.”
“Fenrir,” she repeated, eyes huge and dark in her white face.
“The great black Norse wolf. No chain could hold him. He would soon scatter your ancient ones.”
She sighed and closed her eyes, but her body remained tense, unable to relax back into sleep.
“Come lady, you have more to fear from Miles than from this place,” he chided her gently.
She opened her eyes and peered at him, as if trying to make out his expression in the fading light of the fire. “Do you believe we will defeat him, Gunnar? Will our trap work?”
“Of course.”
“And Radulf will come and save my people?”
“He will.”
She nodded, as if she were satisfied rather than relieved. Her mouth turned down, surprising him. She looked sad.
“You are not happy to hear this?”
Rose shook her head. “Oh yes, of course I am. I am very happy. It is just that…Radulf will not want me as his vassal after this. I will have to leave. My father may take me in.”
She said it without expression, as if it meant nothing to her, but Gunnar felt the shiver beneath her pretense. Rose was terrified. The idea that someone, anyone, had hurt her, made her suffer, rose in him in a great wave. He could not contain it.
“Who has hurt you!” he burst out so loudly that she jumped.
“Shh, Gunnar, you will wake—”
He swallowed hard, but his fists were clenched on his knees and the muscles in his arms bunched and tightened. “Then what is wrong. Tell me, and I will be quiet.”
She eyed him uneasily, but he kept the fierce look on his face, and after a moment the stiffness went out of her back and shoulders, and she bowed her head. It was a sign of capitulation, but he didn’t understand what it was she had given up until she began to speak.
Her voice was soft and low. He had to lean forward to hear some of it, but he heard most, and it was enough. She told a tale not uncommon in those times, one he had heard before. Rose, the solemn little girl caught between the brutality of her father and the instability of her mother, suffering the taunts of a selfish brother. Never a child at all. Taking on adult responsibilities despite her tender years, willing to give away her own happiness for the sake of others, longing for love and never finding it. Edric, perhaps, had loved her, in his way. Arno had coveted her. Her people loved her, but that was the sort of love children felt for a parent.
She felt guilt, because she had tried to hold fast to Somerford when she should have gone at once to Radulf. Instead she had thought to hire mercenaries and buy herself time to escape her mess. She had feared that if Radulf was made aware of the situation he would replace her.
Probably she was right.
Radulf would replace her.
He looked up and found that she was watching him. She was regretting that she had opened herself up to this probing. Gunnar felt her unease and distrust shiver across his skin. And he felt the weight of the burden her words had laid upon him. She had not asked him to take it up, Rose would never do that, but he was willing. Gunnar was good at saving people, and if anyone needed saving at this moment, it was Lady Rose of Somerford Manor.
He was her man. He had told her so, and it was the truth. Now he had a chance to prove it.
But Gunnar had waited too long to give her his answer.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said abruptly, and lay down on her side by the fire, pulling her cloak over her. Containing herself, holding her emotion inside, curling tightly about it. “I can sleep now.”
After a moment Gunnar also lay down, but he did not close his eyes. A wry smile tugged at his lips. His mother would laugh at him if she knew that he was contemplating giving up everything for the sake of a woman. He, the big strong mercenary captain, to whom women were weak creatures put on the land so that he could keep them safe and, when the urge was there, take them to his bed.
But he would never allow them into his heart.
And now it seemed as if one had found her way in there after all. Aye, he loved her. He had been like Fenrir, his Norse wolf, never chained, running free. Rose had chained him with his love for her, and he was glad of it.
He would do as he had promised, he would return Somerford to her, and then it would be her decision whether he left to continue his wanderings, or stayed by her side.
