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With uncharacteristic lack of restraint he pulled her into a crushing embrace. “Thank you. I am forever indebted.”
“Go now,” she said. He still had the aura of a man setting off for a hopeless battle, so it seemed the most natural thing in the world to drop a farewell kiss upon his cheek, but he turned his head toward her, catching her lips with his. That one soft brush of lips reignited a smoldering spark. He pressed his mouth upon her, and she matched the fire in his kiss with a searing heat full of hope and longing. If a kiss had the power to save him from despair, she was more than willing to try. Abruptly he broke off the kiss and pushed her away, placing a body width between them.
“I should not have done that. Forgive me. I promise it won’t happen again.”
As he left her to care for Rosalind, she was quietly hoping, it was a promise he would not be able to keep.
The room seemed so much colder and emptier once he was gone. She shuddered and sank back into the chair, her breathing fast, her face all hot as if she had just run up a hill. The first time Robert McCrae kissed her she had slapped him. So what was different now? Given the circumstances it was outrageously inappropriate, and yet, she would do it all again. Extreme circumstances lead to extreme reactions, she told herself, rationalizing and making excuses for her conduct. Strange how faced with a sword she could calm her mind and control her impulses, yet one soft brush of lips and all her self-restraint fell away. Rosalind started to stir and murmur in her sleep. “No, no! Stop. Please. I beg you,” bringing her back with a jolt to the grim reason she was here.
If Grandma did not come quickly it was going to be a long and fearful night. She came to sit on the side of the bed and put her hand to Rosalind’s forehead. She must watch her closely in case the tonic she gave was too strong. Rosalind tossed her head from side to side and gave a sudden kick under the covers. The kick must have startled her awake for her eyes sprang wide open. “Where am I? Where is Robbie? Who are you?”
“I am Lucinda. Remember. Robbie brought me here to help you. He came back while you were asleep but needed to go out again.”
Slowly Rosalind took possession of her senses, looked around the room taking it all in before shrinking back under the covers so only her eyes and nose were visible. “Did he eat his meal?”
“He did not have time. What say we eat it together, you and I?” She was not in the least bit hungry, but a meal would give them something to fill in the time.
“There are bowls and a serving spoon on top of the bookshelf. I left them here for Robbie. He is hopeless at looking after himself.” Rosalind pushed herself up the bed to prop against the headboard.
The fire had burned down to coals as Lucinda lifted the lid off the pot. Sheep intestine was not an ingredient that whetted her appetite, but the stew smelled good enough, and she was prepared to give it a try.
As she ladled the food Rosalind got out of bed. “You are the guest. You have the chair.” Now another McCrae sat perched upon the chest while Lucinda sat upright in the carved oak chair. Absent-mindedly she stabbed at a piece of meat with her trencher knife causing Rosalind to pause and stare at the knife.
“I have remembered something else,” she said with a slight tremble to her voice. “The knife he used looked like a dirk. It came to a wicked sharp point and the handle was carved wood. The carving was a common enough pattern of links in a chain.”
A Scottish dirk. Another piece in the puzzle, which may or may not mean the offender was a Scotsman.
“This is good,” Lucinda said, switching from her knife to a spoon. They finished their food in silence, wiping their plates when they both had eaten their fill. With that done, the night stretched long before them.
“I should be going home,” Rosalind said, not with any enthusiasm.
“Your brother advised to stay here the night. He planned to tell your aunt you were stricken with a vomiting illness.”
“She will blame my cooking. I have no desire to spend the night with her, but neither do I want to stay here on my own. I am scared to be alone.”
“I have said I will stay with you as long as needed.”
“God bless you. I have known you but a few hours and already you have shown me more kindness than anyone in this big foul city.”
“If you hate it here, why do you stay?”
“I have no choice. I am my uncle’s ward. He plans to introduce me at court and marry me off to the highest bidder. Like a prize cow.”
“You are hardly a cow. You are a beauty.”
“A worthless beauty if word of this gets out.” She sucked in her bottom lip and the tears finally began to flow. “You must think me terribly shallow, but beauty is all I have. Beauty and purity. Now there’s an irony for you.” Her lip began to quiver again. “I wish I had a skill like you. My brother said your grandmother was training you to be a healer? Then I could make my own living and marry whomever I choose instead of some crusty rich old man. Enough of me. Let us banish my problems by reading a little verse. Did you know Robbie is a poet?”
“I did not. I do not know him that well at all.”
“He read me a poem he has been working on. I am sure I can find it somewhere among his papers. It is called The Swordmaster’s Daughter.”
Lucinda coughed so violently she nearly self-ejected from the chair. Rosalind rushed to tap her on the back and offer her some ale.
“It is not that bad a poem,” Rosalind smiled. The twinkle in her eyes was very like that of her brother’s and gave the first brief glimpse of her true nature and disposition. She pulled a volume down from the shelf which, blessed relief, was not a volume of her brother’s poetry. “Thomas Nashe, The Unfortunate Traveler. Have you read it? It is quite the tale. Here, you read first.” Lucinda was so relieved she did not heed Rosalind’s last remark and failed to put out her hands to take the book. “Oh. I am terribly rude. You can read, I presume?”
“Yes, I can, though most of what I read is about herbs and remedies.” And sword fighting manuals though she certainly was not going to mention that.
“Now the fire has died it is growing quite cold,” Rosalind said. “We could share the bed and read it together. Like sisters. I always wanted a sister.”
