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They spent much of the morning in that way until a crush of appetizing scents rolled from a nearby tavern called The Chatty Horse. Rowan paid the innkeeper a handsome sum of silvers, then stored Sunbeam in the stable, where a bright-eyed boy had enthusiastically fed, watered, and brushed him until his mane shone. Blanchette had asked if he were worried he’d be stolen. Rowan assured her that the only thing a thief would leave with was one less hand. She almost laughed at that but caught herself in time and felt any good humor sour into darkness. The pervasive magic of the morning was quickly fading away. Blanchette felt bitterness rise in its place.
The Black Wolf introduced her to a new world; drunken laughter and lively conversations filled The Chatty Horse in a warm flurry. Townsfolk congregated at a dozen tables, passing around stories, songs, flagons of ale, trenchers of freshly baked bread, and platters of sweet cakes. The thrum overwhelmed Blanchette as she and Rowan seated themselves. Boisterous conversations hushed to low murmurs. She felt the townsfolk turn their attention to her and the Black Wolf of Norland. Blanchette glanced at the faces of knights, children, and laborers. She took a deep breath to slow the frantic beating of her heart. The innkeeper, a large woman with restless eyes and hands that moved with a bustling efficiency, rushed over to them.
“The Black Wolf of Norland in my own hall! Gracious Lord!” she tittered. “And Princess Blanchette,” she said. She bent into a clumsy curtsy, not accustomed to the movement, her ruddy cheeks brightening. “Such an honor to host you both, milord and milady. Anything you like, anything at all, ’tis all on my house,” she said, peering down at Blanchette. She grabbed a tray of fresh cakes from the next table and plopped it down. The two laborers sitting at the table didn’t look happy about that. “Milady, you’re even lovelier than all the talk.”
Blanchette felt the color rising in her cheeks—not from the compliment but Rowan’s attentive stare.
He reached for a cake and popped it in his mouth. He waved apologetically at the two laborers. Then he ate two more cakes. She watched his strong jaw and chin work. “She certainly is. And these are even sweeter than the praise I’ve heard among my men. As are you, Madame Bouvier.”
The innkeeper tittered again at the compliment. “I’m going to have a special meal cooked up for you two! Oh, you just wait and see. Never will your tongues have touched something so sweet…” And with that, she bustled into the kitchens, leaving Blanchette and Rowan alone at the table.
Blanchette fidgeted with her wooden cup. Rowan pushed the plate of sweet cakes toward her, but she shook her head. Nausea rose in her stomach.
“How old is he? Sunbeam?”
She watched as he sliced off a sizable chunk of bread with precise, strong motions.Rowan took a deep swallow of ale, set the cup down, then studied her intently.
“When did King Bartholomew knight me. That’s what you’re really asking.” Blanchette said nothing. “Well, I’m not sure of Sunbeam’s age. I know he’s far from a spring foal… but your father knighted me about fifteen years ago come winter, after the Battle of Shadowmoor… when I still fought and commanded men beneath my father’s Gray Wolf banner.” He laughed a full, robust sound, then took another swig of ale. Beads of liquid clung to his lips, and Blanchette caught herself staring. “You were likely practicing your needlework and royal curtseys while I was kneeling as a boy and rising as a knight.”
“Once more, you are mistaken. The only needlework I’d have been practicing was tending to wounded men, and the only stitches I made were those I pushed through their skin. In fact, I tended many of the men from the Battle of Shadowmoor. That naval uprising nearly devastated the Northlands. Or at least my father had claimed.”
“Is that so?” he asked, a strange and not altogether unsettling twinkle in his eyes. “I may have use of you yet.”
Blanchette felt a fission of anger. “Now you go too far. I am Lady Winslowe, and I’ve helped tend the ledgers and accounts since I could talk. My mother made certain of it.”
“Beautiful and resourceful,” he said as if speaking to himself.
“Norland is my home—it always has been my home and always shall be. It’s my duty to care for it. And that’s a bond I shall never break. Never will I abandon my home or people.”
Rowan sat back and idly rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. The inn’s hive of activity seemed to fade away for a moment, leaving only him. Then he spoke, breaking the odd spell his gaze had woven over her. “Aye, these are your people,” he said, glancing toward the cheery innkeeper, who was making her rounds with great bravado. “Then don’t abandon them. Serve them. Help me. Help me with the ledgers, the accounts, the running of the castle?—”
“Serve you, you mean.”
She watched as his mouth ticked at the corner. He fought off that smile, then folded one arm on the table and leaned forward. She could see the muscles straining against his tunic.
“I have no interest in wearing a crown or sitting on a throne. My duty is here,” he said, waving his hand at the buzzing room. “I serve the kingdom and those who cannot serve themselves. That’s it. You may hate me and even wish me dead with every breath, but don’t punish your people.”
* * *
So her education wasn’t lacking, Rowan thought. But it stretched only as far as her governess’s lessons and this “needle play” she claimed to be skilled at.
Blanchette looked like a stranger in her own town, among her own people. He pitied her for that. He saw the rage building on her face, in her eyes, and in how she held herself. And he felt a mirrored restlessness rise inside himself. He fought to restrain it like one might restrain a wild horse.
Rowan gestured the room and its tenants with a vague wave. “This is the real Norland, Blanchette.” She visibly stiffened at the sound of her name, her great blue eyes widening with a sudden vulnerability. He leaned forward ever so slightly, his fingertips coming together in a steeple. “These are your people; you don’t have to feel like a stranger here. Like an outsider.”
Her gaze sharpened, and her brow furrowed. “’Tis easy enough for you to say. You’re their champion. I… I represent their suffering.” That vulnerability appeared again. She tried to hide it and did so quite well, but Rowan Dietrich was a hard man to fool.
“Not so,” he replied. “Well, for some… yes. But for many, you remain a symbol of hope.” He tapped his fingers against the table and held her wary stare. He recalled Sir Edrick’s words from days ago. She’s a stronger symbol.
His gaze slid across her delicate features, then locked on her scar. Delicate, yet as strong as any soldier he’d ever commanded. Her poise and strength came together in a breathtaking tapestry of day and night. Rowan felt every muscle in his body tighten at the prospect of holding her in his arm, feeling those lush curls strewn across his chest, damp from their lovemaking.
Those thoughts alarmed him.She looked at him, her blue eyes dark with an emotion that might have been anger or lust.
Nay. She loathes me—and for a good reason.
Her bravery and softness drew him in with equal enthusiasm, fueling his admiration for her.
The silence stretched on as he examined Blanchette, and she studied him. Her eyes narrowed, and suddenly, he felt like she was seeing into him.
