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“She hated me,” Blanchette heard herself thinly whisper. “I saw it in her eyes.”
Rowan stiffened behind her. When he spoke, the warmth of his breath fanned against her curls. “She hated your father. His kennel hounds likely ate better than those two children. The world they’ve known has been cruel and unforgiving.”
And so are you.
Rowan tugged on the reins and brought Sunbeam to a halt. He slid from the horse’s back, his movement smooth as silk, and held his arms out to Blanchette. She hesitated. Glanced about at the townspeople encircling them. Then she dismounted from Sunbeam and glided into his embrace. He set her down gently while his gaze locked on hers.
“It’s the princess!”
“It can’t be. She died in the siege.”
“You are wrong. I saw her at a tourney once. It’s her.”
“Yes, she looks just like the queen.”
Overlapping chatter pulled Blanchette from her trance. Rowan must have read the fear in her eyes because he set a large hand on her shoulder, leaned forward, and said in a soothing voice, “I won’t let anything happen to you. Now come.” He urged her to move with a hand on her arm, directing her to the back of the wagon.
She flinched out of his grip. “I can walk, thank you very much,” she spat with no gratitude in her voice. She wheeled around him, her heart banging like a war drum.
He’d loaded the wagon’s open back with barrels, boxes, and piles of assorted goods. Blanchette’s heart sank as one of her father’s fine silk tunics caught her eye. She stood back while Rowan quickly worked, unfastening a giant, stringy-looking rope that’d held two of the barrels in place.
Just behind him gathered a cluster of merchants, workers, women and children, soldiers and schoolboys, the young and old. Rowan turned the two enormous barrels upright, checked the etchings on their lids, then hefted one up and set it onto the ground with a bang. “These grains shall last you through most of the season, I should think,” he said to a man wearing a stained apron and pleased grin.
“Ah, bless you,” the baker returned with a gracious bow, signaling to a man behind him. Together, they carried the barrels away from the wagon and into a small shop just off the main road. Rowan caught Blanchette’s gaze for a moment and held it. Then he looked down as filthy and fearless little hands tugged at his jerkin.
Two more children flanked his sides. Rowan gripped their small shoulders, directing them back a few steps. “Careful now, mind where you stand. Sunbeam is a beauty for sure, but a temperamental beast,” he murmured as he sealed gazes with Blanchette again. The children were a mousy-haired pair—likely twins—with crystal-blue eyes, trusting and unscathed by the world and wars.
“Sir, sir!” one girl said, her voice as high and light as Rowan’s was dark. “Have you brought anything for us? Have you?” Rowan’s lip quirked at the corner. He placed a gloved hand on her head and ruffled her stringy curls.
“We have,” he replied, gesturing at Blanchette with his other hand.
All eyes were on her, but she only felt Rowan’s gaze. He stared at her for a long silence, his face’s hard, rugged lines softening. She eased forward until she stood beside him and before the girl.
Blanchette forced a smile and felt the scar on her cheek pull tight. “Hello. What are your names?”
“Brienne,” the girl answered, then pointed at her sister. “This is Cassandra.”
“I see,” Blanchette carefully said, “and where are your parents?”
Brienne dropped her chin, her blue eyes filling with a darkness she recognized all too well. “My mama died when we were born. And Papa died during the battle.”
By battle, Blanchette knew she meant the sacking of Winslowe Castle. Blanchette shut her eyes, looking deep inside herself. Then she opened them again and placed a hand on Brienne’s bony shoulder. “Mine, too, sweetling. I’m so sorry. I… I know your pain.” She felt Rowan’s stare all the while.
The tension loosened as he strode back to the wagon and ruffled through the goods and provisions again. He pulled a small wooden box forward and carried it to the twins. He opened the lid, revealing a swarm of fine silks and linens—garments Blanchette knew to be her own.
Rowan hesitated and caught her gaze in an unspoken question. Blanchette ran her fingers over the materials, then withdrew a deep-green woolen cloak. Forcing her smile back into place, she knelt before Brienne and swept the garment over her slim shoulders.
“Ah, a bit too long, but you’ll grow into it quickly. It brings out your lovely eyes.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” The girl gaped at the cloak and rubbed the material in visible disbelief.
Blanchette tried to summon feelings of hate; she fought to recall all the destruction and horror Rowan had caused. She glanced down at Rowan’s cloak, fastened around her neck with the wolf heads.
She should have been seething with hatred, yet on that crisp morning in late winter, watching the twins gush over garments that had been gathering dust in her own wardrobe, she felt an odd sense of contentment. She cursed herself more for it, but it persisted, much like the first rays of light bursting through a blanket of clouds.
And it seemed to come from everywhere. Norland was alive with it. That feeling—that fragile burst of hope. The children’s elated smiles were part of it. The glances and chatter of the townspeople, which had turned from disdain to curiosity to outright acceptance, were a part of it. The way they smiled at her as she moved through the throng and handed out blankets and garments and toys was a part of it. The silky timbre of Rowan’s voice as he passed out provisions was a part of it. The way men and women reached for him and touched his fingertips was a part of it.
Rowan’s protective and persistent touches were also a part of it.
