The Rose and the Shield E-Book

Sara Bennett

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 518

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Beautiful Lady Rose, the fiercely independent mistress of Somerford Manor, fears she may lose her home to roving raiders. As a lone woman—in a man's world—asking for help from her Liege Lord, so instead, she reluctantly hires a bold Viking warrior, Gunnar Olafson, and his mercenaries to protect her undefended lands and people. Strong, muscular, and intense Gunnar takes her breath away, but she dares not trust him, especially when she barely trusts herself! Gunnar is not what he seems. Posing as a hired soldier, he is duty-bound to expose Rose, whose actions have been seen as traitorous. Somerford is to be his reward. Gunnar quickly realizes Rose is the true prize. Now he's trapped between his duty and his desire, revealing his deception to the woman who's stolen his heart. "Sara Bennett is one of today's most gifted romance writers. She writes with passion and truly gets into the 'heads' of her characters making them come to life for all of us to enjoy."—Joyfully Reviewed "Bennett gets this true-to-life tale of medieval life exactly right."—Romantic Times

Leseprobe

The Rose and the Shield

Sara Bennett

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Rose and the Shield

Copyright © 2002 by Sara Bennett

Ebook ISBN:

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Discover More by Sara Bennett

About the Author

Prologue

Somerford Manor, the Southwest of England 1072

Rose leaned on the sill of her solar window and gazed out into the darkness. Lonely and alone, four years the Lady of Somerford, one a widow, she stood in the night and felt the trappings of her position slip from her. Here, now, she was simply Rose, a woman waiting...

There was no moon tonight, not even a hint of one, only the starlight to see by. Dreamily, Rose’s gaze followed the faint, silver curve of the river Somer, to the ford that had given her manor its name. Then on past the village, past the meadows and cultivated field strips to the woods that covered the hills curling in a protective arc around Somerford from south to west. But as usual on nights like this, Rose’s gaze soon strayed northward. Away from solid land, to the pale shimmer of water and the white breath of mist lying in the hollows and damp places.

Somerford Manor was situated on the edge of the Mere—a vast salt marsh fed by the sea—which covered much of central Somerset. In some parts it was called Avalon, and in others the Levels, but around Somerford it was called, simply, the Mere. Here, sedge and rushes and furze thrived and the merefolk lived on low islands, growing their crops in the tenuous soil and traveling in boats. Sometimes they made trackways above the mud with stout poles and sods, hoping the winter floods would not wash away their efforts and isolate them once more.

A strange, watery existence.

When morning came across the Mere, Rose knew she would see the islands, but more particularly the high, mist-shrouded knoll of Burrow Mump, rising from the waters like some strange, mythical beast. It was rumored to be an old Briton burial place, although the Somerford villagers’ superstitions had furnished it with a far more romantic tale.

On dark nights, they said, like this one, when the Mere lay still and quiet and mist swathed the land, on such nights as this a great legion of the old gods sprang up from Burrow Mump. From the earth itself they would rise up and ride out on their warhorses over the treacherous, marshy Levels. And they never sank in the mud or stumbled, for the hooves of their magical mounts never touched the ground. They rode in a great cloud, like a coming storm, and sometimes rumbling could be heard as they approached. On their heads they wore horned helmets, like the Viking raiders of old, and their chests were bare and gleaming, and their eyes were shining with a hot and frightening glow. And if, ’twas said, anyone should be so unwise as to peek out through the shutters to see them, then the old gods would swoop down with a great rush and snatch up that foolish and curious person.

And carry him away.

To what? Rose wondered, with the cold night air on her face. A life of slavery in their dark underground hall? A fearful death? Or a long captivity as wife to one of them? For, she reasoned, if they were all men, these wild creatures from Burrow Mump, might they not long for the soft arms of a woman? Just as Rose longed for the arms of such an imaginary man—a strong man, a man who would love her and none other.

Real love, flesh-and-blood love, was something she never allowed herself. But she could pretend...

Lady Rose, widowed, lonely, burdened by worry for her manor and people, often found herself thinking of Burrow Mump. She was not overly superstitious, but sometimes on dark nights like tonight she found herself opening her shutters and leaning out—as if daring the old gods to find her.

And often, alone in her bed, she would dream of those ghostly warriors. Dream she was riding before one of them on his horse, the taste of the salty marsh wind on her lips. His strong arm would be hard about her waist, unrelenting, and yet comforting in its claim on her. Mine, he would say in a voice without words. And then, in her dream, if she turned and looked up she would see the cold shape of her captor. Only he had no face; it was always veiled as if by a mist. She strained to see beyond it, but she could never make out his features. Whoever the warrior was, his identity was forever hidden from her.

Perhaps it was better so, she thought matter-of-factly. Perhaps in not knowing she was saved from disappointment.

And yet... Rose leaned perilously far from her window, gazing out into nothing. And yet I long to see him, and I will never be happy until I know his face as if it were my own.

Chapter 1

The small band of mercenaries rode out of the shadows of the forest and drew to a halt. Their leader, Gunnar Olafson, narrowed his blue eyes against the June sun. He looked across the meadows of ripening wheat to the dark rise of keep and ramparts, and beyond that to the vast expanse of the marshes.

This was Somerford Manor, and it was not as he had expected.

Gunnar had seen so much waste in his travels about England, good country lying fallow for want of enough men, or the will, to plant it. Though he was no farmer, it hurt Gunnar bitterly, in some fundamental way, to see the land so abused.

The coming of the Normans had meant more than a new system of government; in many cases it had meant an entirely new way of life. Such changes could not be wrought in a year, or even six. It would take a long time for prosperity to return to England.

Gunnar had been prepared for similar chaos here at Somerford. Instead he gazed on a golden harvest so abundant the grain was almost bursting from the fields, and the soil beneath appeared well cherished and rich. He could not help but wonder if this was the Lady Rose’s doing.

He did not want to think so.

He did not want to think well of her.

Gunnar rarely associated with Norman ladies, and this particular Norman lady was already his enemy. Although he had never met Lady Rose, he was prepared to wish her ill.

“There are strong wooden ramparts around the bailey.” Ivo, his second-in-command, leaned closer and gestured across the fields with his black-gloved hand. “And within the wall there is a stone keep—there are not many stone keeps built on manors as small as this. Aye, their defenses look good, Captain. They are prepared.”

“But prepared for what?” Gunnar said in reply. “Are they hoping to keep out Lord Radulf’s enemies? Or Lord Radulf himself?”

Somerford Manor straddled a corner of the great Lord Radulf’s Crevitch estates, and shared boundaries with the lands of Lord Fitzmorton and Lord Wolfson. Gunnar knew that neither of these latter two barons was an ally of Lord Radulf, the legendary King’s Sword, and both were wont to turn greedy eyes in his direction.

Lord Radulf had sent to Wales for Gunnar and his men because he had a bad feeling about Somerford Manor. An itch, he had told Gunnar in his low, husky voice. The itch had begun when he accidentally intercepted a sealed letter from Somerford to Lord Fitzmorton, asking for help in obtaining mercenaries. He wanted Gunnar to scratch it, while at the same time not upsetting his wife, the Lady Lily, who had made Lady Rose her protegee...

“You really believe this Lady Rose is in league with Lord Radulf’s enemies?”

Gunnar shrugged off Ivo’s question. “This is what we have come to find out.”

“They will not suspect us?”

“They have sent for mercenaries and that is what we are. Why should they suspect us? They do not know it is Lord Radulf’s orders we obey.”

“And if the job is done well, then Radulf will see you have Somerford Manor as reward, Captain.”

“Aye. But for those of you who want to stay here with me, there is a welcome place. For those who want to go, there will be recompense.”

The others murmured their agreement, but Ivo shot his captain an uncertain look. “We have never dealt with a woman before, Gunnar.”

Gunnar shrugged off Ivo’s doubts. “A traitor is a traitor whether it be man, woman, or child. We will do our job, Ivo, as always. It may be our last.”

Ivo nodded and scratched his chin. “Our last, aye. You know I am with you, Captain, as always.”

Unsmiling, Gunnar turned to look at each of them, feeling the weight of their lives heavy in his hands, memorizing their faces. These five men had been with him for more years than he cared to remember: Ivo, Sweyn, Alfred, Reynard, and Ethelred. They trusted him, they relied on his steel strength and calm stillness, and they in turn gave him a reason to stay alive in a world he found increasingly lackluster.

Their fellowship was coming to an end.

“Follow me,” he said quietly, and knew they would.

Gunnar led them from the shadowy forest and along the rough track in the direction of Somerford Keep. The meadows of wheat waved about them.

What would it be like to be master of all this? To be lord of Somerford Manor? Certainly he would have no trouble protecting and fighting for the land and the people; being a mercenary had taught him well when it came to warfare. But a man, even a lord, could not be always fighting. Mayhap he would marry as his mother was always telling him he should.

I am an old woman. I need grandchildren, my son. And you need a wife. If you remain alone you will grow bitter and nasty, and you do not want that, Gunnar, do you?

He smiled at the memory of her voice, her pale eyes all but closed and yet seeing so much. He had made her wait a long time, but maybe at last the moment had come. Soon, if his future turned out the way he hoped, he would need a wife. Not a Norman lady—they were for the wealthy or the ambitious, and being neither, he had no use for them. No, give him a good earthy peasant woman. Someone he could hold without fearing she might shatter, or kiss without going down on his knees for permission. A plain, good woman to keep him warm at night; that was what he needed to cure this melancholy that had lately afflicted him.

Aye, a woman in his bed and his own land beyond his door!

“The gate is open.”

It was Ivo who spoke, drawing him back to the matter at hand. Gunnar frowned. The gate was open. Wide open. Such a lack of caution or care was not good. If they had been a band of outlaws, they could have ridden straight in. Five minutes, and all who lived would have been dead.

Had the Somerford garrison grown so careless that they had forgotten such simple precautions? Any lord or lady who neglected fundamental laws for the protection of people and property deserved nothing but contempt.

Gunnar and his men clattered across the narrow bridge, its sturdy legs straddling the deep ditch outside the wooden ramparts. The bridge was approximately the width of a cart, and they were forced to ride in double file, therefore exposed to the dangerous fire of arrows and slingshots from the walls above—if there had been men there to loose them. Gunnar noted that there was not even a single guard to give warning.

His face hardened.

The Lady of Somerford had much for which to answer.

“I will speak for us all,” he reminded them, as they followed him into the bailey. “Take my lead. And remember, we are men who will do anything for money... even change our loyalties.”

Ivo nodded, and Gunnar felt a surge of affection and gratitude for the dark brooding strength of his friend and second-in-command. Many times in the past Ivo had been at his back, and now it would be so again. One last time.

Inside the bailey there was plenty of activity, and for a moment no one seemed to notice them. A couple of oxen bellowed their resentment at being harnessed to a cart filled with wood. A smith was busy in his open forge, the smell of fire and metal so familiar to Gunnar that he breathed it in with pleasure. A trio of women were drawing water from a well, gossiping, laughing. One by one they stopped, gazing in alarm at the newcomers, though more particularly upon Gunnar himself—and now the women’s eyes widened in admiration.

Gunnar didn’t pay any attention to the staring women. They had turned to look all his life—ever since he was old enough to be called a man. Not that there hadn’t been times when he enjoyed their bedazzlement to the full, but their admiration did not make him what he was.

Tall and broad-shouldered, Gunnar was aware that his chain mail tunic made him seem more so, and as he removed his helmet, his hair caught the sun like a fortune in copper coin.

Physically he was a big man, very much as he imagined his father Olaf the armorer must have been in his youth, his upper body grown muscular from wielding the swords and battle-axes made by his father, or working in the forge beside him when he was young. His dark red hair was worn long to his shoulders in the English fashion, and twisted into narrow braids either side of his face. His eyes were the dark blue of the oceans his ancestors had crossed so readily to raid unwary shores.

Slowly, all around them, the comfortable bustle of the bailey had fallen silent. Now, each and every one of Lady Rose’s people was still and staring, totally focused on the new arrivals.

Gunnar was aware of the picture he and his men presented—hardened warriors in rough coverings of wool and hide and metal, armed for battle. Men for whom no crime was too great, or too unspeakable.

They were a pack of wolves set down in a dovecote.

“Ah,” said Gunnar. “Now they are afraid. Now that it is too late.”

“There are no guards,” Ivo added, glancing about. “A few men, but they are either unshaven boys or ancients. Maybe the gate was open because it required too much strength to close it.”

Sweyn chuckled, and then the smile slid from his face. “Someone comes, Captain.”

Gunnar looked up, wiping all expression from his own face. The approaching figure was that of an older man with close-cropped dark hair streaked with gray. He wore a sword at his hip, and beneath his well-made brown tunic and breeches his body appeared sturdy and strong. Clearly a Norman knight—it was there in the arrogant way he walked, the hard look he gave them. Gunnar’s information was that this man was probably Lady Rose’s lover—and her coconspirator in treason.

“Sir Amo d’Alan,” Gunnar observed softly to his companions.

Silently the band of mercenaries watched him approach. Gunnar’s men were used to being insulted by such as Sir Amo d’Alan, and from the expression on the knight’s face, today would be no exception.

“State your business,” the Norman knight demanded, dark eyes narrowed as he peered at them against the bright sky, taking in their disreputable appearance and the casual way they sat their horses. In fact he was at a disadvantage on foot, but he acted as if he were not.

“I am Gunnar Olafson,” Gunnar replied in a measured voice that conveyed his thoughts not at all. “Captain Olafson. And these are my men. We have come in answer to your need for fighting men.”

“Olafson... ?” Sir Amo frowned, and then the lines on his brow cleared as he understood, his arrogant mask slipping into something more calculating. “The mercenaries. Ah, then, Captain, I am Sir Amo d’Alan, and this is Somerford Manor. I had heard that a troop of men was coming to our aid, but I did not expect anyone so soon.”

“Your gate was open.”

Gunnar stared down with expressionless blue eyes, one hand on the hilt of his sword. There was no criticism in his voice, but Sir Amo seemed to sense something. His lord-of-the-manor pose slipped.

“Open, you say?” Amo glanced across the bailey as if he hadn’t noticed before. “Mayhap the Lady Rose gave the order. That need not concern you.”

Gunnar considered whether to disabuse him of that fact, and decided against it. Amo would learn soon enough that any place where Gunnar Olafson was became his concern.

“You know why you are here?” Amo’s voice was sharp, authoritative, and all business. His eyes were sly, as watchful as a cornered fox.

“You are paying us.”

It was the literal truth. “Yes,” the Norman knight said slowly, “I am paying you. Therefore you will do exactly as I say.”

Gunnar nodded, his blue eyes cold. “We will do most things for money, but if you want women and children killed you’ll have to pay us extra.”

Sir Amo was nonplussed. Gunnar could see the questions in the man’s eyes: Is he jesting? Should I fear him? And then the mental shrugging of his shoulders, the reminding himself of his better blood and breeding, the unshakable confidence in his own authority.

“Good,” said Sir Arno. “As long as you don’t kill anyone without orders.”

Ivo made a soft sound of disgust.

Gunnar’s hand clenched more firmly on the hilt of his sword, but otherwise he made no movement. So far Sir Amo had done nothing wrong. Arrogance and cruelty coupled with complacency weren’t treasonable offenses.

“Captain?”

Ivo’s voice was not raised or markedly different, and yet there was something in it, a hint of surprise or perhaps warning. Gunnar looked up quickly.

And felt his wits dissolve in a hot shower of lust.

She was walking toward them.

Her madder-red gown was made of fine wool, and it molded to her tall, shapely body. A plaited gold girdle clung about her hips, a purse and various keys and gew-gaws fastened to it. He could see the shape of her, the long length of thigh, the curve of full breast. Her face was a pale oval within the soft fluttering folds of her white veil. Dark eyes, lush mouth, skin like milk with the slightest hint of honey.

He had thought his body jaded—there were always women wherever he went, too many, and when he was hungry for them he supped. And yet now that same body reacted like that of an untried youth, startling him, jerking him from his complacency. He wanted to reach out and lift her across his saddle. He wanted to fasten his mouth to hers, taste her, drink of her lips.

For a man of such rigid calm, he felt raw and wild and out of control in a way he had not felt for years.

Maybe ever.

Great Odin, let her not be the Lady Rose! But even as the prayer passed his lips, he knew Odin had denied him, for Sir Amo lifted his head and murmured, “ ’Tis Lady Rose. A word of warning, Captain. You will not mention who it was that sent you? The lady does not like to declare her business before strangers.”

Gunnar barely acknowledged the caution. His eyes were fixed on the approaching woman.

It was the last thing he needed at this time and in this place, with so much at stake. Gunnar groaned softly to himself. Had he really believed his final undertaking would be easy?

The vision of sweet beauty approaching them was none other than the wanton and treacherous Lady Rose of Somerford Manor—the woman he had come to destroy.

Rose had not seen the mercenaries arrive.

She had been down to the storeroom, looking over a suspect barrel of salted meat. The meat smelled, but Rose had learned caution in her four years at Somerford Manor, one of them as sole ruler. It was prudent to keep everything, even smelly meat, until better could replace it. Besides, there were ways of making bad good again. Washing the meat thoroughly in vinegar, for instance, or burying it in the earth for a day or two. Still, they would not eat it, not yet, not unless they had no option. And even then—Rose wrinkled her nose—the situation would need to be desperate!

And then she reminded herself that it was desperate. They were undermanned and therefore vulnerable to attack from anyone who had the will to do so. And of late someone wanted very much to see the people of Somerford brought low.

Their troubles had begun with some pilfering in the village and escalated to a woodpile burned, a hoe stolen, a pig slaughtered and the choice bits taken off. And then last month some strangers had appeared in the village in the night and frightened the villagers badly by throwing stones upon their thatches, shouting and laughing all the while.

The villagers blamed the merefolk. Rose knew her people were superstitious, and since the troubles had begun they had grown worse. Sullen, afraid, angry. Like a bubbling cauldron filled with centuries of animosity, the situation had become too volatile. Rose had realized it was time to do something more than talk.

It was she who had put forward the suggestion of employing mercenaries, persuading Sir Amo they had no other choice.

“If we had some experienced men, Sir Amo, or at least men who appear to be experienced, I am sure that would settle the matter. These mischief makers, be they merefolk or whoever, would vanish back to where they came from and we would never be troubled again.”

Amo looked pained. “I am training our men, my lady. They will be ready soon.”

“Yes, but they are raw troops, Sir Amo! Boys, most of them. We have barely enough soldiers to guard our gates; how can we frighten off an attack, if one should come?”

Sir Amo d’Alan had shrugged, clearly wounded by her lack of faith in him. Rose bit her lip, wondering how she could win this argument without hurting her knight’s feelings.

“It will be only for a short time. Until this problem is solved.”

“And Lord Radulf? Have you mentioned your plans to him?”

Rose had pretended to examine her nails. “Not yet, no.”

“My lady—”

Rose made an exasperated sound. “How can I tell Lord Radulf? He will think me incapable of managing Somerford. That I am too weak. A weak and feeble woman! You have warned me of that often enough, Sir Amo. He will take Somerford from me, and then what will become of me?”

She knew what would become of her. She would be thrown back into her father’s care—a burden. An unwanted burden. It was not something she could think of for long before cold beads of perspiration dampened her skin.

Amo had looked sympathetic but there had been a gleam in his eyes. Almost as if he were enjoying her discomfiture, though surely that was impossible. “You think Lord Radulf is watching you, judging you?”

Rose was sure of it. She could almost feel Radulf’s dark eyes fixed on her from five leagues away at Crevitch Castle. Although Radulf’s wife, Lady Lily, had always supported her, she was presently occupied with her own troubles. And besides, Rose could not be always begging for her assistance. She must manage on her own. If she could just have the use of some mercenaries for a short time, she could sort out the problems at Somerford and everything would be well again. And best of all, Lord Radulf need never know.

“Mercenaries are not tame cats,” Amo had warned her. “They will not purr and do as you bid if you stroke their fur.”

Rose’s eyes flashed. “No, but they will learn to jump for their supper or else they will not be fed! Don’t worry, Sir Amo, I will manage the mercenaries, all you have to do is find me some.”

And so he had—once Brother Mark had written the letter and Rose had sealed it, Amo had sent it off. And now word had come that the mercenaries were on their way. Although Rose had thought the offer of five marks excessive, Amo had assured her that was the standard fee in such cases. Still, she resented paying out such a sum when financially they were so stretched. Even though this summer’s harvest looked to be a good one—the best in several years—and when the shearing was done there would be wool to sell, one never knew what might occur to upset one’s plans. In the four years she had lived at Somerford, Rose had learned that much. You just never knew what new catastrophe was ahead. That money could be needed for medicines, for food, for warm clothing, and she resented using it to pay for men with swords.

With problems like hers, it was no wonder she sometimes woke full of anxiety in the darkest part of the night.

The smell of the bad meat was turning her stomach—that barrel was most definitely off.

Rose locked the storeroom door firmly behind her with one of the keys hanging from her gold plaited girdle, and climbed the narrow twisting stairs from the cellars to the kitchen.

It was warm there, the smells of bread still mouth-wateringly in evidence. Rose noted that the gray kitchen cat had had her kittens and was ensconced in a cozy corner by the oven. Surely there was time to check on them? Just a moment. Kittens were always so tempting...

But that was when Constance found her.

“Lady!”

Rose jumped like a guilty child and looked up. “Constance? What is it?”

“Those men are come, Lady Rose. Sir Amo is speaking with them now. If you want to be certain they understand it is you who is the master here, you’d best get yourself down to the castle yard right smartly.”

Frowning, Rose smoothed her red gown and settled her white veil so that it completely covered her dark hair. Constance, her wrinkled face and wizened body a disguise for her still sharp and youthful mind, shuffled closer and peered up at her. The old woman was tiny, but Rose was tall—it was a matter of wry amusement to her that her eyes were level with those of every one of the men on Somerford Manor.

“The mercenaries are here?” Rose repeated nervously.

Reading her perfectly, Constance touched her arm for courage.

“You are right,” Rose murmured, stiffening her back. “I must go and meet them. Who knows what Amo is saying to them, offering them? He has no sense where money is concerned. If he believes it due to his self-importance to offer them double the marks we have agreed upon, then he will do so!”

It was Rose’s aim to keep the mercenaries’ promised wages as low as possible.

“Then go, lady, and don’t dither,” Constance chastised her. “You are master here, are you not?”

Rose raised her chin. “I am indeed, Constance.”

And taking a deep breath, she hurried from the kitchen into the bailey.

It was very quiet.

Why was the bailey, usually a bustle of activity, so quiet? And yet it was not empty; people stood about. The silence was very odd. Her eyes flicked over the pale and frightened faces, seeking a reason, and were captured by a group of mounted men who were clearly the center of attention.

Tough and dangerous.

Those were the words that occurred to Rose as she looked at them. As if they were used to facing death every day. Which, of course, if they were mercenaries, Rose reminded herself impatiently, they were. Their clothes were chosen for warmth and protection rather than for appearance; the men wore chain mail or heavy leather tunics studded with rings. The big dark one had a thick cloak made of animal pelts—wolf, probably. And they were armed with a veritable bristle of weapons. Swords, shields, and axes. And their leader... but there Rose’s thoughts lost all clear structure.

Her eyes widened in awe.

Their leader was like no man she had ever seen before. He was strange and exotic, and yet extraordinarily masculine. A dulled and shortened chain mail tunic covered his broad shoulders and chest; the metal was decorated with numerous dents as though he had lately fought hard for his life. A round shield hung across his back and one shoulder, the red background painted with the snarling form of a black wolf. His legs were encased in tight dark breeches, each powerful muscle of his thighs outlined as he gripped his big gray horse, forcing it to an unnatural stillness. Hair of dark copper fell long to his shoulders, two thin braids hanging either side of his face and giving him the look of a barbarian.

Or a Celtic warrior, or a... a...

“Viking.”

Rose whispered the word, her breath squeezed in her throat. His appearance was barbaric and savage, but—and this was the most surprising thing of all—he was also the most handsome man she had ever seen. The strong set of his jaw, the sun brown of his skin, the unflinching blue of his eyes. It seemed inconceivable that a man such as this should be so handsome. He should be scarred and ugly, and that he wasn’t must be a trick of nature, to dull the senses and bemuse the unwary, so that he could pounce. Or strike like a viper.

He is not like us.

Rose shivered. What had she been thinking to hire such men as this? To bring them onto her manor among the very people she was trying to protect!

Dear God, have I done the right thing?

“Sir Amo?” Her voice was breathless, possibly from her hurry across the bailey, but she did not think so. Fear and apprehension had tightened like bands about her chest.

Amo smiled his usual smile, and Rose felt suddenly wildly disoriented. Amo was the same and yet he seemed to pale into insignificance beside the mercenary. This was Amo, unswervingly loyal Amo, her husband Edric’s friend, the man he had trusted completely—on his deathbed, and before witnesses, Edric had sought Amo’s promise to obey and protect Rose.

Then why didn’t Rose feel her usual confidence when she looked at him? Why did the familiar no longer seem so safe?

It was the fault of the mercenary leader.

He was so unfamiliar, this utterly foreign creature. He had turned her perceptions upside down, and, shockingly, his very strangeness drew her to him. It was an attraction against her will, but she knew it was there. Like, Rose told herself, a foolish fascination for an animal one knows is dangerous.

Rose took a long, slow breath, calming herself. Stop this! She was no silly wench thrown into a state by a handsome face; she never allowed men to rule her by her senses. She was Lady Rose of Somerford, a thoughtful woman, a practical woman, a woman of good sense. This nonsensical behavior had gone far enough.

After a brief pause, Rose felt collected enough to be able to meet the mercenary’s blue eyes.

A mistake.

They were the blue of summer seas with the hint of an approaching storm. Piercing in his hard, handsome face, they delved into hers. Despite her preparation, Rose felt her stomach plummet. She was drowned in a hot wave of feeling that until now she had always believed ... hoped to be foreign to her. Shocked, her thoughts spiraled, and she lost her emotional footing for the first time in her life. The whisper in her head was one of startled disbelief.

Is this... can this be desire?

Chapter 2

“My lady!”

Amo. Good, reliable Amo. With a dizzy sense of relief Rose broke eye contact with the mercenary and turned to her knight. She must have held out her hand, although she didn’t remember it, for she felt his fingers on hers as he bent to press his lips to her skin. Struggling with the inappropriateness of her feelings, she forced herself to pay attention.

“Lady Rose, these are the mercenaries.”

“So I see, Sir Amo. Are they... that is, do they speak—”

“Captain Olafson!” Amo was frowning up at the mercenary leader. “Dismount and show some respect. This is Lady Rose of Somerford!”

He spoke as if to a recalcitrant child who needed a lesson in manners. The hush, that had already fallen about them deepened markedly. Clearly everyone was wondering whether the handsome mercenary would respond to Amo’s reprimand... or slit his throat.

Rose’s own heart began a labored bumping, but from what cause she couldn’t say for certain. It might have been Amo’s tone, or it might have been the fact that she was once more staring up into those sea-blue eyes. Only this time she was aware, shockingly aware, that despite their pretty color they were the coldest, the most emotionless eyes she had ever encountered.

Captain Olafson clearly wasn’t angered by Amo’s words. They were nothing to him. With a shrug, he swung down from his gray horse—superbly graceful for a big, strong man—and stood before them.

Too close, she thought instantly, moving to step back. And catching herself in time. No, it would not be a good idea to show this man she was afraid of him. If he were even half as savage as he looked, he would enjoy her fear.

Even Amo appeared momentarily taken aback by the mercenary captain’s size, and now the rest of them were dismounting with a muted rattling of harness and clink of wood and steel. They stood in the castle yard like a pack of wild and shaggy beasts. A child cried out, a woman hushed it. Rose realized that her people were afraid to make a sound in case it drew the mercenaries’ attention to them, and their wrath down on them.

She also realized that, for the first time in a long time, she had to look up to see into men’s faces.

Not an entirely comforting sensation.

Again she asked herself whether they would slaughter the occupants of Somerford while they slept. Would the promise of payment truly fix their loyalty? Indeed, were such men as these inclined to take orders from any-one, apart from whatever pagan gods they worshipped?

Rose drew a deep, sustaining breath. Well, it was up to her to see that they did! She was the lady of this manor, she had fought hard to retain her title, and while they were there they would listen to what she had to say.

She held her head high, cold dignity in place, and before she could think twice stretched out a hand that trembled only the merest hint. “I am Lady Rose,” she informed them calmly. “Somerford Manor is mine, and while you are here I shall tell you what you can and can’t do. Is that understood?”

Captain Olafson looked down at her hand as if he had never seen one before. Rose had a shocking thought that perhaps there was a reason that women did not trust him with their limbs, but before she could change her mind and withdraw the hand, he had swallowed it up in his own.

His fingers were startlingly warm.

Why had she thought they would be cold?

Again she would have pulled away, but by then it was too late and he held her fingers captive in his. He felt her slight tug—the knowledge registered in his eyes—but he did not release her; if anything his grip tightened. Apart from indulging in an undignified struggle, Rose could do nothing but stand and allow him his will.

The big, dark man behind him was smiling, though attempting to hide it. Did they find this amusing? Were good manners so foreign to them that they found them laughable?

Rose flushed angrily and tugged again, but it was too late. There was the sensation of firm, dry lips pressed to her fingertips, the soft brush of his long hair against her skin. Unwillingly she looked down as Captain Olafson unbent his big body, his narrow braids swinging back into place, the fair stubble on his jaw glinting in the sunlight, and his teeth white as he gave a satisfied smile.

“You are more than welcome to tell me what I can and can’t do... my lady,” he murmured in perfect French.

Anger shot through her, hot and satisfying. He had just humiliated her, made fun of her for his and his men’s amusement, and she no longer cared whether he read the emotion in her eyes.

Sir Amo made a sound very like a growl. “Your manners, Captain!”

The mercenary barely glanced at him. Quite suddenly Rose’s anger cooled. These men might kill her loyal Amo without a second thought, and she could not allow that. She placed her hand on the knight’s sleeve, to press a warning. Captain Olafson’s eyes followed the gesture and, if it was possible, hardened even more. As they slid to her face, she read the scorn in them.

Does he think less of Amo for taking his orders from me?

He had already turned away from her, back to Sir Amo, who was still glowering.

“You have the makings of a fine harvest,” the mercenary said briskly, suddenly all business.

Rose noted Amo’s confusion—what did the knight know of harvests?—but he bluffed his way through it, nodding importantly and agreeing that it was the best he had seen for many years.

“That is good,” the mercenary went on, still ignoring Rose, “because the money you are offering is not enough.”

“Not enough?” Amo repeated.

Captain Olafson nodded. “Ten marks or we leave. There is plenty of work to be had elsewhere.”

“Ten marks!” Rose’s anger left her before this new challenge. Ten marks was a fortune. “That is too much.” Captain Olafson’s eyes flicked toward her but only briefly, and he did not turn and face her, keeping his attention on Amo, as if it were his decision that counted. Rose seethed.

“We are neither serfs nor slaves,” he went on, his voice pleasantly deep but very chilly. “We do not have to agree to conditions that do not please us.”

Amo released an impatient breath. Rose could see he did not like this any more than she, but she also knew he felt it beneath his dignity to haggle. “I am sure that we can come to some—” he began.

Rose stepped around him, planting herself squarely in Captain Olafson’s line of sight. The blue eyes narrowed and there was actually a hint of some feeling in them—she didn’t have time to try and read what it was. Certainly he was a fearsome sight in his tunic of chain mail, the pagan-looking shield at his back, a vicious sword strapped low on his hip, his Viking hair reaching past his shoulders. Rose was used to men who looked more civilized, but there was much at stake here and she dared not back down. Those five extra marks would ruin Somerford Manor.

“Sir Amo has already offered you payment for one month’s work,” she said in a brittle voice. “Five marks, with food and lodging. I thought the deal was struck. Are you going to go back on your word now, Captain?”

He stared down at her—yes, down. Rose tried not to show her unease. “I am not negotiating with you, my lady. I am telling you what I want. There was no deal struck.”

He sounded cool and controlled, and completely inflexible. Rose narrowed her eyes, just as determined. “I do not like your answer, Captain. You have been offered a fair price. I will not be bullied into making you another.”

The big, dark-haired man in the wolf-pelt cloak tapped him on the shoulder with a hand gloved in a black leather gauntlet. Without taking his eyes from hers, the mercenary captain listened to what his man murmured into his ear. Judging by the frown that creased his brow, he didn’t appear to like it. Rose glared back, while her heart was threatening to batter its way out from inside her chest. Slowly his frown smoothed away and the emotion leached from his eyes, leaving them once more cold and dead.

He nodded sharply, once, and the other man stepped back.

“Very well. Six marks.”

Rose would not have allowed even that concession, but before she could intervene Amo quickly said, “Done!” and then avoided her eyes. “It is a good bargain, lady,” he added in a falsely jovial voice.

Rose bit her lip. Maybe it was a reasonable bargain in the circumstances. One they could afford, anyway, if the harvest was a good one. But that did not explain Amo’s unusual forbearance—was he so desperate to have the mercenaries there? Was he more worried than he had allowed her to see? It seemed the only possibility.

The mercenary said nothing to her, treating the matter as concluded. Arrogant, Rose told herself, as he looked again to Amo. The sort of man who could take orders only from another man. But what could one expect from a Viking savage?

“How many men-at-arms do you keep here?” he was asking. “I saw one, maybe two. Are there others elsewhere?”

His questions were peremptory. Sir Amo shifted uneasily, not prepared to answer him. That was because he felt the answer reflected badly on him, thought Rose, but the mercenary had a right to know.

She swallowed her own indignation and, her cheeks burning but her voice strong, gave him his reply. “We have three men who belong to the keep and are able-bodied, but they are presently working in the fields.”

“You set your soldiers to work in the fields, lady?” Astonishment shone clear in his eyes, before he quenched it.

“There are crops to be grown, Captain, or we will all starve. Soldiers have to eat, too. I myself helped during sowing time. Somerford Manor supports us all, so we must all work.”

He nodded indifferently, conceding the point. “Where are the rest of your garrison, lady? Shearing the sheep?”

Rose felt her back stiffen in response to his cool sarcasm, but refused to rise to it. Instead she told him the bald truth. “The rest of our garrison went off to Lord Fitzmorton.”

As she had expected, he wanted more—the lift of his eyebrow told her so.

“Lord Fitzmorton and Lord Wolfson are both powerful men, but they are always squabbling over who is the more powerful. At Christmas they clashed, and some of their men were killed. They were then both short of fighting men and sought to replace them. They do not care where they recruit... they turned their eyes in the direction of Somerford, and I could not pay as well as they. This is not the only manor to suffer—others also lost soldiers from their garrisons.

“However,” she went on briskly, “we do have twenty villeins who perform two days’ duty once a week.” Honesty made her add, not so briskly, “Although most of them are either very old or very young, and one is crippled.”

His mouth, already firm, tightened. “And why do you depend upon old and crippled villeins to guard Somerford Manor?” he asked in a deceptively calm voice. “Have your able-bodied villeins also gone to Fitzmorton?”

Rose was starting to feel like a child making feeble excuses to her guardian for some misdemeanor. Ridiculous, she told herself. You are lady here, and he is nothing but a hired soldier. A peasant in chain mail. A Viking savage with neither manners nor courtesy. Her voice lifted, growing in haughtiness as it always did when she was nervous, but in the circumstances this seemed no bad thing.

“Our able-bodied villeins are dead, Captain. Before I came to Somerford there was an English uprising against the king. My husband, Edric, stood with Lord Radulf against it, and many of our men went to fight. Lord Radulf won the day, but very few of Somerford Manor’s men returned. He presented Edric with a gold goblet in remembrance of his loyalty and sacrifice.” She remained emotionless for the mercenary’s benefit, pretending indifference she didn’t feel—death was always a waste. “Sir Amo has begun training some of the younger boys, though it will be some years yet before they are ready to fight. I have suggested to Sir Amo that the women might take up guard duty, until their sons are grown. Many of them are widows of the villeins who died in the uprising, and they are more than willing to take over their dead husbands’ duties.”

Eartha, the cook at Somerford Keep, had been particularly keen to don armor and stand guard, even to fight. Why could women not fight as well as men if the need was there? she had declared, and Rose had agreed there was no reason. Amo had thought differently.

“Sir Amo finds the idea of women garrisoning Somerford...” Unacceptable? Repugnant? Threatening? Rose wondered just how to put into words the expression on Amo’s face at the time. In any case, she didn’t have to find the right words because the mercenary cut her short.

“A garrison of women.” He said it straight-faced, but with a twist to his voice that was almost a smile. His men laughed. “There are better things to do with women than kill them.”

“Captain!” Rose’s anger was near boiling point; in a moment she would say something to put them all in danger.

“Better to send the boys to fight.”

Rose felt her anger fly out of her head. Briefly she struggled with his meaning, but there was really only one conclusion she could draw. Despite herself her reply was strained. “I don’t care what you do where you come from, Captain, but at Somerford we do not send our children out to die.”

The blue eyes narrowed, and then he shrugged as if such histrionics were of no interest to him. “You’d rather send out your women?” he asked with cool curiosity.

“If they want to go. It is for their homes and their children’s lives that they would fight.”

“Maybe that is so, lady.” His agreement pleased her, but his next words froze any pleasure. “Sometimes it is necessary for women and children to fight. And to die.”

There was something uncivilized in those eyes, thought Rose. Something wholly savage. Something soulless. Had she really felt desire for such a creature? Perhaps she had confused lust with fear.

He is not like us.

How could she think to control such a man? A man who would let children die in the wars of men? A shiver ran through her. Surely they would be better off facing their problems on their own, or begging Lord Radulf for help, whatever he might think of her for doing so? Even if he takes Somerford from you and sends you back to your father? Yes, even then! Rose looked toward Amo, sure that he, too, must have come to this conclusion, but to her consternation he refused to meet her glance.

“Women do not understand war,” he said, but in such a fond, patronizing voice Rose longed to scream. As it was she gritted her teeth and turned back to the mercenary. With a curt gesture of her hand she drew his attention to their surroundings.

“Our defenses are strong—after the English uprising, Lord Radulf helped my husband to increase our strength. If there is an attack, everyone will come and shelter inside. If there is a siege, we have a deep well for water and, after the harvest, we will have food enough to keep us for many months. Although I have no doubt that long before we ran out Lord Radulf would have heard of our plight and sent us help.”

“That may be so, Lady Rose, but—”

“Sir Amo should have explained to you that you are here for show, Captain Olafson. Nothing else. The people from the Mere have been stealing from the village, but they are more of a nuisance than a serious threat. At the moment they think us easy pickings, but when they have seen you and your men they will go elsewhere. That is all we require of you, Captain. To scare the merefolk away. And indeed, you are well qualified for that!”

He let that pass, replying dismissively, “If these merefolk are allowed to steal from your village then you have let your people grow fat and lazy.”

Once again Rose felt the color come stinging into her cheeks. It was an insult. As if he could do better. Despite her resolution to be calm, her dark eyes flashed up at him. “Somerford has been at peace for four years, and if we have used that time to remember what it is like not to guard our backs at every waking moment, then I say that is a good thing.”

“It is never a good thing to be unprepared. Death awaits at every man’s shoulder.”

“Mayhap death awaits at some shoulders more than others!” she retorted. “You have it wrong, Captain. You are mistaken. The merefolk are not vicious raiders. They have hurt no one”—well, apart from a pig—“and once they hear of your arrival, they will leave us be.”

Captain Olafson smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “If they are clever they will leave, if they are not they will die.”

A murmur of agreement rose from the creatures behind him. Like a pack of wolves barely held in check, they shuffled closer.

Rose wanted to tell them to leave; she wanted to declare that such men were not welcome at Somerford Manor. This was a peaceful place; there would be no fighting or slaughter. But they were here now, and however different she might wish things to be, in her heart she knew she needed them. So, instead of sending them on their way as she longed to do, Rose said quietly, “This is not war, Captain.”

He looked thoughtful, his gaze fixed on some point far beyond her. “Your gate was open.”

Frowning, Rose glanced to Amo and back again. “Open?” she repeated, puzzled. “But... the merefolk have been causing problems. It was necessary to leave the gate open in case the villagers needed to seek protection. There is no danger in it, surely?”

Amo had told her that and given the order, yet now, when she looked to him for confirmation, he carefully avoided her eye, uneasy again.

“If I am to stay here and protect you, lady, the gate will remain closed unless I give orders for it to be opened. Is that clear?”

“I don’t see—”

“If we had been enemies of Somerford you would all be dead now. We would have ridden in at a gallop with no one to stop us, my men would have killed everyone here in the bailey, Ivo would have taken care of Sir Amo before he could draw his sword, and I would have come for you... lady. Now do you see?”

Amo was blustering, but no one paid him any heed. The Viking savage was staring at her fixedly now, and as if he had placed it there, Rose saw the scene he described in unrelenting detail. People running, screaming... She, alone in her solar, hearing his approach up the stone stairs, the door crashing open... He filled the doorway, dazzling her frightened eyes with the vivid colors of his hair and eyes. And then he strode forward toward her, drawing that wicked sword from its sheath...

Although—and now confusion replaced fear—the sword part didn’t seem quite right. She could imagine him striding toward her, but after that it seemed much more natural that he should leave the sword where it was and pull her into his arms, claiming her mouth with his.

Rose found her head nodding of its own volition. She felt dizzy, every bit of her tingling... some bits more than others. Stop this, stop it now! She forced her voice out, forced it to obey her.

“Very well, Captain Olafson. The gate stays closed.”

Her reply was his cue to turn his back on her.

Again.

At least, thought Gunnar, he had won that point, although it was clearly difficult for her to concede to him. She had nearly choked on the words, but the gate would remain safely shut from now on. There were other questions he needed to ask, other points to be made, but he decided it was better to leave it there, since he had the advantage.

Standing face-to-face with her, staring into her eyes, Gunnar had found himself imagining things that had more to do with satisfaction than safety. Even with his back turned, he could smell her sweet scent. Almost, he could taste her on his tongue. Quite suddenly he did not trust his normally reliable self-control.

“My men and their beasts have traveled far and need to rest. Show us where to stable our horses, Sir Amo,” he said, forgetting in his haste to be away to make it sound more like a request and less like an order.

Amo’s dark eyes narrowed, but thankfully he did not quibble.

Gunnar could feel her staring at his back as he walked away. Shivering like an angry kitten with needle claws. If she flew at him she would do about as much damage, but he did not think that would stop her from making the attempt. There had been passion in her dark eyes. Women like the Lady Rose were not easily subdued, and she alone had held the reins of Somerford Manor for over a year now. She would not give them up easily.

She was not what he had expected.

Gunnar had imagined the Lady Rose to be like other Norman ladies. In his experience they were either cold, haughty creatures, quivering with good breeding and reluctant to get too close to him in case they were soiled by his lowly presence, or else they were weak and clinging, unable to stand, it seemed, without the assistance of a stronger will. Get too close to them and they were liable to faint or swoon about his person.

In general, Norman ladies knew little to nothing of the practical details of guarding their property; they did not send their soldiers into the fields to work alongside the serfs and villeins, nor did they work alongside them; they did not dress their women up as men and order them to stand guard! In Gunnar’s opinion, this Norman lady’s ideas were quite remarkable, and although he did not agree with them, he found them... admirable? No. He did not want to admire her—that was not his mission.

His mission was to destroy her.

And yet from the first moment she walked—a simple word for such a heavenly movement—across the bailey toward him, he had sensed a serious breach in his defenses. An open gate in his wall. Maybe his men had sensed it, too, this ripple in his normally imperturbable calm, for he had felt them move instinctively closer, as if to cover his back.

She had been afraid of him—of them all, but of him in particular. Why else would she have stared at him when they first met as if she had been struck by a bolt loosed from a longbow? But fear had not stopped her from arguing over a few paltry marks. Why had he antagonized her? So that she would know from the first you are not one of her serfs, or a tame Norman knight like Sir Amo d’Alan.

And she had refused to pay—as if he were not worth the silver! He had felt his temper slip, surprising himself and Ivo—he never lost his temper. Ivo had had to remind him, quietly, the real reason they were there. Money was not the object—they would be well paid.

So you lost your temper over five marks?

No, not for that... Unwillingly, Gunnar recalled how she had grasped Amo’s arm, the familiar intimacy of the gesture, and jealousy twisted in his gut. He, Gunnar Olafson, was jealous! He was never jealous; he had no reason to be. Women came to him; it was they who were jealous—of one another! But now he pictured dark eyes so large and beautiful, skin so fine and soft, a mouth so moist and ripe, and a firm, full body. The possibility of another man possessing all that... He clenched his jaw, hard. It was as if, he thought in disgust, he had never had a woman before.

In other circumstances he would have wooed her with his considerable charm, won her over, and taken her until he had rid himself of his need for her. But he was there for a reason other than to serve her, a secret reason, and rumor had it that she was sharing her favors with the knight.

So it is good that she is afraid of you ? Did you enjoy persuading her you would allow children to be slaughtered in battle?

No, Gunnar told himself. It was said for d’Alan’s benefit, to further convince him of our brutality. If it drove the beautiful lady further from me, then that is good, too. Except she hadn’t fluttered her hands and turned faint. Oh, she had paled, but then she had argued the point with him.

Gunnar smiled wryly at the memory. This was no weak and feeble lady. Strong, yet—he remembered the nibbled nails on her slender hand—vulnerable. He found the combination very appealing.

And then his smile died. He had been thinking as if Lady Rose were an innocent party in all this. He knew better than that. If there was a plot at work at Somerford Manor, then Lady Rose must surely be in the thick of it. It was she who had asked for mercenaries; d’Alan was only the messenger. The letter intercepted by Radulf’s men had definitely come from her, for it was she who had sealed the incriminating missive with the Somerford seal—no one but the lord or lady of the manor could use the seal. That letter was the reason Gunnar was there. No, Rose was no innocent victim, and next time he imagined bedding her he should remember that.

“One thing.”

It was Amo speaking, and Gunnar turned his head to look down at d’Alan’s thinning pate, wondering what the knight wanted now.

“The Lady Rose,” Amo said, as if he had read Gunnar’s mind. “She is a sweet lady, but she has no head for... practical matters. She does not understand the ways of men and the world, so she leaves such things to me. It is I who give the orders, Captain Olafson, no matter what she believes. Is that clear?”