Chapter 15

Constance found Gunnar Olafson in the great hall. He was speaking with Ivo, his second in command. The two big men looked serious, and although their voices were too low for anyone else to hear, it was obvious to Constance things had not gone according to plan. Ivo appeared even wilder than usual, his hair windblown and tangled, his dark eyes blazing. In contrast, Gunnar was still and calm. He radiated confidence and reliability—leadership. Aye, he was a born leader, ’twas a shame his heart was as black and rotten as Rose had said it was that day in the solar.

Constance hovered at the edges of their conversation, awaiting an opportunity to intervene. Even now, looking at the mercenary captain, knowing what she did, she could not believe him to be an evil monster. So handsome! The air about him hummed with sensuality. Constance sighed. It didn’t seem fair. She had wanted Gunnar Olafson for her lady, she had believed that here was the man she had been waiting for, who would stand by Rose and love her. She had been so certain he was that one that she had even told him so to his face.

And now all appeared lost.

Ivo hurried off, intent on carrying out whatever orders he had been given. Constance turned her face away as he passed, so that she would not have to meet that fearsome black gaze. There was something even more frightening than usual about Ivo, he fairly shimmered with rage. In contrast, Gunnar had coolly lifted a mug of ale to his lips and was swallowing it down, his throat working. It was only when he had drained it to the very dregs and replaced his mug on the table that he noticed Constance, waiting. Cautiously, before he could send her away, she crept forward, keeping her eyes on the ground.

“Captain, I…my lady wishes to speak with you.”

Constance was relieved her voice did not shake too much.

He did not move, though a quick glance upward showed a tightening of the muscles in his arms, the clenching of the hand resting upon the hilt of his sword.

“Can she not come herself?”

he asked, but it was softly said, not the roar of a monster.

Constance shook her head.

And then she heard him sigh—there was a world of sadness in that sigh, a world of regret. It was the sigh of a man who has lost all hope.

Constance was thrown instantly into doubt and confusion.

Surely an evil monster would not sigh like that? And had she not seen him save a child from a possibly fatal fall when no one else would move to help? And had she not seen him show kindness to the silly wenches who gazed slack-jawed at him during mealtimes? And what of the manner in which he looked at the Lady Rose, as if she were all he had ever wanted in a woman and more?

Nay, this man was not evil! She had been right from the first. Constance dared a look up into a pair of wary blue eyes.

“Does she hate me as much as I think she does?”

Gunnar asked her, and there was a wry twist to his lips Constance had never seen there before. As if he mocked himself for caring.

“Aye, at least that much.”

“I told her to trust me.”

“My lady does not trust men easily. Her experiences with them have not always been…agreeable.”

But still he was wounded by her mistrust—Constance sensed it. He had wanted Rose to cast all else aside on the promise of his word—barter with the lives of her people, her lands, her own life. And she had not known him above a week!

Gunnar must have read the amazed amusement in her face. He folded his arms, the muscles bulging, and gave her a frown.

“Lady Constance, do you recall what you said to me last night, when I came to her room?”

Constance thought back to the moment when she had opened the door—the look in the mercenary’s eyes as they met Rose’s, that blind blaze of emotion she recognized so well. They had already forgotten she was there, and Constance had slipped past Gunnar to the door, saying…

“I said, ‘Open your heart to her.’”

Constance shifted uneasily before the intensity of his gaze. “My lady is tender-hearted, Captain,” she explained, choosing her words carefully. “I saw in that moment that you could hurt her badly. I wanted you to be honest with her, show her she had nothing to fear if she did the same.”

Again that wry smile. “’Tis not easy to open your heart when to do so could cost lives.”

“I understand that, Captain. I am not a fool. You have your work to do—whatever that may be. But my lady will not easily come to trust you again, not fully, maybe not ever. She is gentle-hearted, but she is also strong and stubborn.”

He smiled.

Constance’s voice softened, and she returned his smile. “Aye, like the flower she is named after, my Rose has thorns.”

Gunnar glanced past her, and his gaze sharpened. Constance turned to look back, and saw Arno farther down the hall, partaking of his own ale.

“Can you look as if you’re afraid of me?”

Gunnar Olafson asked her quietly, frowning all the time as if he meant to strike her dead on the spot.

Constance nodded jerkily.

“Then do it. Now.”

He leaned into her face, glaring. His voice rose to a shout. “Get out of my way, you old witch!” And he brushed rudely past her, out of the great hall and toward the stairs. Constance cringed, pressing herself to the side of the hearth. The hand she clutched to her fluttering heart shook convincingly.

Arno guffawed, enjoying seeing the old woman bested, and poured himself another ale.

Rose was prepared. She was, so she told herself, tranquil in mind and body. This was simply something else that must be done for the sake of others, and Rose was always prepared to make such sacrifices. She would bargain with him just as she had done before. She knew he wanted her. She did not believe he could pretend such a thing, not so many times as he had taken her. No, he wanted her, and that could only work in her favor.

The knock on the door was loud, peremptory. His call of “Lady Rose!”

was a demand for entry.

With trembling hands, Rose lifted the bar, and then he was pushing open the door and striding in. As if he already owned Somerford Manor, she thought angrily, and the anger helped to steady her. Rose turned to face him.

Jesu, he was big!

He made the solar seem tiny. Her composure wavered but she held on to it with both hands.

Forget what has happened between us thus far. Forget how he made me feel when he held me in his arms. That is over and done.

This was the real Gunnar Olafson before her now, his face impassive, his eyes empty of any feeling. This was the man who had kissed her in the stable and a moment later looked at her as if she were no more than a tasty hunk of meat on a hook, who spoke of taking Somerford, and her, for his own, as if it mattered not that they were not his to take.

I have already plowed the lady…

When he said it, the image had been so sharp, Rose had not known whether to weep for what might have been, or to scream her outrage. He wanted her to swell with his seed. It had been there in his eyes, in the way they shone so hot. He wanted to take Somerford from her, but he wanted her as well. Like the ghostly warrior of her dreams, he would snatch her up and carry her away as his prisoner.

Only this time she would not be able to wake up.

“Captain,”

Rose said, and was glad to hear her own voice so unwaveringly authoritative—the voice she had learned to assume in moments of trouble. This was not a time for begging or pleading, as her mother would have done. It had not worked on Rose’s father and it would not move a man like Gunnar Olafson. How could it? This creature would not be shamed into penitence by a few tears.

“Aye, lady? I am waiting to hear what you have to say.”

He was impatient to be gone, pacing across to the window and back. His hand was closing and unclosing on his sword hilt, as if he might draw it out at any moment. His glance flicked to her and away again. Such restlessness was unusual for Gunnar—even in the short time Rose had known him, he had seemed amazingly unruffled. The still center of a storm. And yet here he was, behaving more like Ivo. Aye, clearly he was a man with much on his mind. Mayhap that, too, would work in Rose’s favor.

“I have heard that you have moved Harold the miller.”

He stopped. “So?”

“I do not want him hurt. Him or his children. I know Lord Fitzmorton wants justice for his man Gilbert, but killing Harold in cold blood is not justice.”

He was watching her. “Do you think I will hurt him?”

She searched his handsome face, but where was the point in trying to find feelings where there were none? It was easy to pretend to herself that there was a hint of hurt in his blue eyes or a touch of self-mockery in the curl of his firm lips. But Rose had discovered she was adept at attributing emotions to Gunnar that were not real. He was a cold-blooded monster that she had endowed with all the virtues she so longed to see in a man, and she had been silly enough to think him real.

“Please do not hurt Harold and his children,”

she said quietly.

He frowned and opened his mouth to reply. Thinking he meant to tell her bad news, Rose went on hastily, frankly.

“I am willing to bargain for their lives.”

“Bargain?”

He eyed her warily—they were on opposing sides, after all. “What do you have that I could want, lady?”

But he knew. She read it in the sudden blaze of his eyes, saw it in the abrupt tightening of his mouth. Mayhap he wouldn’t make her say it aloud.

He wanted her, he had wanted her since the first moment their eyes met in the bailey. Just as she had then, Rose sensed desire’s heady presence in the room, and—God help her!—felt her body begin to soften and ache. Rose turned away, so that he could not see her humiliation.

He was going to make her say it after all.

“There is me, Captain,”

Rose informed him in a cold little voice.

He said nothing for a long time, but she could not turn and face him. She did not dare. Not because she was afraid of him, but because something had happened to her. For although she knew full well what he was and what he had done, her body didn’t care. His mere presence was enough, just being close to him. Was this what her mother had fought against? Rose asked herself. The bitter realization that, no matter what promises she made to herself, they would inevitably be broken?

His step was soft behind her. He was so close now that she could feel the heat of his body. His arms came around her, forcing her back against him, so that she had the urge to gasp for breath. Then she felt him, already fully aroused, hard against her. She realized then that this was a test. He had done this on purpose. He wanted to know whether she was really willing.

Gunnar’s hands slid up her body, cupping her breasts impertinently through her gown, pressing her soft flesh into his callused palms. Rose stood rigid, refusing to weaken against his touch. Her mind was stronger than her body, she told herself. She could overcome the weakness. She could!

He found her nipples, hard as buds. His fingers were delicate as he caressed them, sending arrows of sheer pleasure into her treacherous body. Rose heard herself gasp, and wanted to scream in despair as her resolve began to crumble.

He did not laugh, as she had thought he might. Instead he bent his head, his mouth hot against her neck, sending more shivers of want through her. Rose’s head fell back against his shoulder, and she closed her eyes. One of his hands slid down over her belly, seeking the hot core of her, his fingers sliding into the apex of her thighs. Even through the stuff of her clothing, she sensed the pleasure to be gained, longed to give herself over to it. Want pooled between her legs, and she trembled with the effort of not pressing against him. In another moment Rose knew she would be totally lost.

Violently, she pulled away, taking a couple of desperate, shaking steps before she turned to face him. Her chest was heaving, her hands clenched at her sides. She must have looked like a madwoman. She took in a gulp of air.

“You have not agreed to your part of the bargain,”

she reminded him, and was not surprised by the hoarseness of her voice.

He looked as if their impassioned embrace had disturbed him not at all. If it had not been for the faint flush on his tanned cheeks, the glitter in his eyes, Rose would have believed him untouched by their encounter.

“Do you remember what I said in the stable?”

He surprised her with the question.

Rose glared at him, her weakness receding as she regained some control over her senses. This was better; she was really angry now. “What you said? Do you mean the part where you were willing to betray me to Fitzmorton for a few more marks? Or, Captain, do you mean the part where you admitted to wanting my lands and getting a child on me?”

He shook his head at her in mocking disapproval. “None of that, lady. I mean the part when I told you to trust me.”

Rose stared at him a moment more. She felt confused, but didn’t want him to see it. Surely he did not think she could trust him now? Did he think her a fool, to believe any man just because he asked her to do so?

“I trust no man,”

she said coldly.

And Gunnar believed it.

She had trusted him, for a time. He remembered her asking for his word the first night there, and then by the Mere when Miles had come, her fingers resting so trustingly in his. Aye, she could deny it all she wanted, but Gunnar knew she had trusted him and, by Odin, she would trust him again.

But, for now, Gunnar knew he had no option but to secure her obedience in any way he could. Her life depended on it. And if that meant using fear and threats, then so be it.

He smiled a cold-blooded smile and fingered the hilt of his sword, as if his breeches were not stretched tight over the evidence of his lust. It amused him that she was having difficulty keeping her eyes away from that most eager part of him. She might no longer trust him, but she still desired him.

“Listen to me now, lady. You have a choice to make. Both Miles de Vessey and Arno want you—which do you prefer?”

She stared back at him defiantly, but she couldn’t hide the flicker of fear in her eyes.

He let his smile grow. “Aye, I thought not. Then listen to me, Rose, and listen well. I have sent Harold and his children with Alfred to safety—”

“I don’t believe you.”

He laughed harshly in surprise, quelled it. “Constance believes me.”

Rose’s lip curled. “Constance is half in love with you, Captain. You could be cutting her throat, and she would believe you meant her no harm.”

Now he was angry. She had finally gotten him angry. He saw her stiffen as she read it in his eyes, saw the doubt, but she did not step back, did not retreat, although she must be longing to. Aye, by Odin she was brave! A beautiful, courageous woman. Was Rose his fate—assuming he could save both their lives?

“Believe me,”

he said quietly. “The miller and his children are safe, for now. I have hidden them away from Arno and his friends. I thought I might have a use for them later, when Fitzmorton comes. He will pay well for them.”

The lie was more successful than his attempt at the truth had been.

Her face went white. “You monster, have you—”

“I agree,”

he said abruptly.

She stopped, confused, her chest heaving. “You…agree?”

“I agree to your bargain,”

he explained. “Fitzmorton would pay me with coin, but I prefer flesh. You were right, Rose, when you thought to tempt me with your body. I could take you now, but you would fight me, and I want you willing. I want you as you were before.”

She had nothing to say.

“I’ll be back tonight, lady,”

and he came right up to her, looming over her. She flinched but stood her ground. He put his lips against her ear. “Be sure to let me in,” he whispered.

She nodded.

“But for now, give me a token of your honesty. Show me you mean what you say.”

“I…”

Her eyes widened, glinted with anger.

“Quickly, or I may change my mind.”

She bit back the words she really wanted to say. Trembling, her hands clutching onto his tunic, Rose stretched up on her toes and fastened her mouth to his. He did not move, and with a frustrated groan, she began to kiss him, her lips soft and warm. It was enough. More than enough. Gunnar was suddenly kissing her back, hard and unstoppable, passion flaring like a lit torch inside him.

And then he was gone, the door slamming after him.

Rose staggered, hand to her bruised mouth, breath sobbing. How would she manage tonight? she asked herself, on the edge of hysteria. How would she play at lust, when she knew, to her despair, that she would not be pretending at all?

“Ethelred is here.”

Ivo’s voice was quiet beside him, but Gunnar hadn’t been sleeping. He sat up on his bed, and saw Reynard do the same. “And?”

“They are just beyond the woods. Miles and about twenty men. They are moving slowly, but even so we don’t have long, Gunnar.”

Not long, but long enough. Gunnar met his friend’s eyes and leaned closer. “Listen to me, Ivo. This is what we must do…”

He hadn’t come.

Rose had waited for hours, at first pacing in agitation, and then lying stiffly in her bed, eyes fastened on the door. Time after time she had imagined she heard him, her heart surging. But each time the door had stayed closed. He had not come, and now it was so late Rose doubted he would.

What did that mean?

Had he decided he did not want her after all? That Fitzmorton’s coins were more tempting than a woman he could take anyway? Had she not convinced him enough with her kiss? He had told her he wanted her willing, had she not been willing enough? Or had he sensed her true feelings?

And what are they?

That I loathe him!

Aye, that is obvious. Loathe him so much you can’t take your eyes off him. You want him, lady, don’t deny it. You want to reach out and undo the laces on his breeches and take his—

“No!”

Rose did not realize she had cried out aloud until the sound of her own voice echoed back to her. She swallowed hard, reining in her wild emotions. No. It would not do to think such things, even if she feared they might be true. Strange as it was, she had thrown in her lot once more with the mercenary. He might be a monster, but Rose knew deep in her secret heart she would rather bargain with him than either Miles de Vessey or Arno.

Was she mad to do so?

“Lady?”

Rose sat up, staring wide-eyed, her dark hair falling loose about her, the covers clutched to her chest.

“Lady? Open your door.”

There was a command in his voice—he was a man used to obedience. Rose was tempted to refuse or pretend she was still asleep, but what would be the point in that? He would probably smash down the door and then he would be angry with her. She had made a bargain with him, and if she went back on it then she would be compromising her own integrity, not his.

Rose climbed out of her bed, pulling her robe about her, and with her toes curling on the cold floor, walked to the door. He was a large shadow just outside it. The torch that usually burned on the wall had been doused—the smoke stung her nostrils. As she stood, confused, every sense suddenly alerted, another shadow joined Gunnar’s, and then another. Rose began to quickly close the door.

He caught it in his hand. Slowly, inexorably, he forced it back until, with a cry, Rose stumbled backwards into her chamber. Gunnar followed her and she squeaked, thinking he would strike her or—as she had once seen her father do to her mother—pick her up and shake her. He did neither. He walked right past her, to the window. The shutters creaked as he flung them open and peered out into the night.

Rose held her breath, watching him warily. Torches burned and flared by the gate, and in their light she could see Arno and Sweyn on guard duty. The Norman was strutting backward and forward, waving his arms and talking in an agitated manner. The Dane was standing with arms crossed over his chest, watching him steadily.

In the darkness of her chamber, Ivo had come up softly beside his captain. Behind them stood the one they called Reynard, with the swarthy good looks.

“What now?”

Ivo’s voice was a deep hum.

“When Miles comes, you go down and play the part we agreed on.”

Ivo shifted as if he wasn’t happy.

Gunnar reached out and grasped his arm. “’Tis what Arno is expecting. I know you want to fight, Ivo. I know how you feel, for I feel it too, but remember there are more lives at risk here than yours and mine. If there is no fighting then no one will be hurt. These are innocents, Ivo, just as was your sister.”

Ivo nodded brusquely, but Rose could almost hear him grinding his teeth. “And you?”

he asked Gunnar.

“I will take the lady.”

“They will want to see her—Miles is probably already dreaming about what he will do to her.”

Rose tried not to move, but the pictures they were conjuring were making her legs tremble. She grasped the curtained pole at the base of the bed.

“Find Constance, the old woman, and tell her to hold them off. Her lady is too frightened to speak or some such nonsense. And if they ask for me, then I am abed with some wench and you’re not brave enough to disturb me until I’m done.”

Ivo snorted a laugh. “It will be as you say, Gunnar.”

And he was gone.

Reynard handed something to Gunnar—a piece of clothing?—before he too turned and vanished into the darkness, leaving Gunnar and Rose alone. He was watching her, silhouetted against the faint light from the window. Rose had heard what they said, but she did not understand it.

I will take the lady.

Take her where? And why? Miles was coming—that was why Arno was waiting down there—and when he arrived all would be at an end. They would no longer pretend he was coming to oversee Norman justice. Fitzmorton wanted Somerford and Miles would take it for him.

The time for pretending was over.

“Do you think to gain ransom from my family for me?”

she asked, and was pleased with the firmness of her voice. “There is only my father, and I fear he will think it a waste of good money. He was relieved to be rid of me to Edric, he will not want me back again, especially if he must pay for the privilege.”

He was silent. Rose did not like the silence, and she filled it, her voice not quite so steady this time.

“Do you mean to sell me to Lord Fitzmorton? What use will he have for me, when he has stolen my manor? Unless he wants to marry me to one of his men, so that he can tell the king the manor came into his hands justly. Is that it, Captain, is that what you mean to do?”

There were tears in her eyes but she would not let them fall. Her breathing sounded harsh in the darkness.

“Lady, we must go.”

Rose clenched her fists and only just prevented herself from stamping her bare feet. “Answer me!”

“There is no time for answers. Your keep is about to be overrun by Fitzmorton’s men. You are not safe here. We must escape.”

Escape? Rose felt even more confused, but she put that aside and fastened onto another, more important matter. “I will not leave my people.”

“Your people will be safe enough if there is no fighting, and I have given those orders. It is you who are in danger, not your people. Get dressed now, lady. We have no time—”

“I will face them, not run,”

she declared.

But he caught her arm and swung her around against him, her bare skin, only just covered by her thin robe, abraded by the coarse stuff of his breeches and tunic. His sword belt dug into her—she could feel every metal stud that decorated the leather.

“Miles de Vessey wants you,”

Gunnar said with soft menace. “He will not wed you first, lady. And he is not like me—he will hurt you. And if you do not leave now, if you stay to face him, he will consider it an invitation to do as he likes with you. Ask Ivo. Ask him what Miles is capable of!”

He was angry. It took her by surprise. She wondered for the briefest of moments what it was Miles had done that was so shocking. And then the voice in her head was shrieking, drowning out all other thoughts.

Don’t believe what he says! Don’t trust him!

The truth was, she had no choice.

If she stayed she would surely die—or wish she had. If she left now with Gunnar Olafson she had a chance of escaping, even mayhap of finding her way to Lord Radulf. Saving Somerford and her people. Whatever the mercenary’s true plans for her, she might be able to outwit him, elude him, or, if worse came to worst, lull him with her body into believing she was no threat.

It came down to a simple choice. Leave now and take a chance. Stay and surely die.

“Very well,”

she whispered, harsh pride overcoming her need to cry. “I will agree to come with you. Let me dress.”

He hesitated, as if he was not sure whether to believe her, and then with a brisk nod he released her. Rose hurried to her chest, taking out the first garments she touched and pulling them on. Her fingers trembled and fumbled with the ties, with the stockings. She moved to snatch up her hairbrush.

“Leave it,”

he said sharply. “There is no time for more.” Beyond him, toward the woods, Rose could see movement. Shadows shifting beneath the starlight. Miles and his men.

She turned and would have swung her cloak about her shoulders, but he pushed the garment he already held in his hands toward her. “Put this on.”

Puzzled, Rose shook it out. It was a cloak, but older than her own, the cloth was thick and…She wrinkled her nose. There was an odor clinging to it that was familiar—grease, rancid meat, and incense? What did that remind her of?

“Put it on,”

he said again, growing impatient.

Rose bit back her questions and slipped the cloak about her, trying not to shrink from its contact. At least it was thick and warm. Hastily she tucked her long hair inside as she pulled the hood lower over her face. She had barely finished when there was a soft tap on the door and Constance called for entry.

Gunnar went to let her in. When Rose turned, the old woman was behind her.

“Lady,”

whispered Constance, her cold hand finding Rose’s. “They say Fitzmorton’s men are at the gate. You must flee.”

This was Constance, who sometimes annoyed her but more often had loved her throughout her years at Somerford. It occurred afresh to Rose just how dear the old woman was, and she returned the pressure of her clasp. “What if they hurt you? If my going will bring down their anger on you, Constance, I—”

Constance snorted with derision, as though her eyes were not shining with tears. “I am not afeared of them, lady! I have lived through some terrible times. Besides, I am old and can be stupid if ’tis necessary. I will make them think me half-witted, so they will let me be. Now hurry, go with the captain before ’tis too late.”

Gunnar’s hand pressed against her back. Rose found herself moving forward onto the darkened stairs. She glanced behind her, but Constance had already closed the door, and she heard the sound of the bar falling. Gunnar’s breath was warm against her ear. “Whatever happens, keep your head down, and say nothing.”

They started down the stairs.

Rose stumbled once, but he pulled her in against his body, holding her firm when she would have tried to wriggle out of his grip. His step was swift and sure, and they were soon at the entrance to the great hall. But they didn’t go that way, instead Gunnar turned down again, toward the kitchen.

The low room was dark and empty, apart from the gray kitchen cat and her kittens, curled by the oven. Gunnar moved silently through the room, to the door that led into the small garden. He unbarred and opened it and, after a brief glance outside, drew Rose after him.

Her head was immediately filled with the sweet and spicy scents of fresh herbs, and the earthy reek from the midden. Her cloak brushed against a rosemary bush, and then Gunnar was leading her onward again. They were close to the wall of the keep, moving in the direction of the bailey.

Beyond the gate, horses were clattering across the bridge. Miles and his men had made good time. “Open up!”

The shout rang in the silence. “Open up in the name of Fitzmorton!”

“You, there! Help me!”

Arno was beckoning to old Edward, who appeared too shocked to move. “Do as you are told, you dolt!”

Sweyn stepped forward, brushing by Edward and murmuring something to him at the same time. The old man stared at him a moment, and then slowly, sullenly, came to help unlatch and pull open the heavy wooden gate.

Rose turned to look up at Gunnar. His eyes were fastened on the stable, judging the distance, judging the chances of them reaching it unseen. And then what? How could they possibly ride out of Somerford Keep without being stopped?

“What will we do?”

She was shivering. With cold or fear? Rose wasn’t certain.

Gunnar said nothing, but his arm tightened about her, drawing her in closer to his warmth.

Fitzmorton’s men hadn’t waited for the gate to be opened fully. They were already galloping in, the distinctive blue and yellow banner flapping at their head. Rose recognized Miles’s voice, carried eerily on the night air.

“Where is the lady?”

“She is in her chamber,”

Arno replied promptly, destroying any hopes Rose might have had that he would stand up for her. “I have just now set a guard on her door.”

A guard at her door?

Rose shut her eyes with a dizzy wave of relief. She had escaped just in time.

“Good, good.”

When she looked again, Miles had swung around and had begun shouting orders to his men. They were dismounting, some heading off across the bailey, others towards the keep. Edward and Sweyn remained side-by-side by the partly open gate, the old Englishman and the sturdy Dane.

Gunnar’s voice was so soft, it was like a thought against her ear. “Wait and watch. When you see me point to the gate, walk quickly toward it. Once you are outside it, run. I will catch you up.”

She stared at the shape of him, the glitter of his eyes. “They will know me!”

“But you are Brother Mark,”

he said. “You are wearing his cloak. Keep your head down and walk as he does, and no one will ask you to stop. Why should they? Lady Rose is in her chamber with a guard at the door.”

Brother Mark! That explained the cloak—no wonder the smell had been familiar. “And if the real Brother Mark should come?”

“He won’t.”

Gunnar’s voice didn’t change, but there was a coldness in it.

Rose opened her mouth to ask about Brother Mark, and then changed her mind. She didn’t want to know after all, she thought, hugging her arms about herself.

Gunnar stared down at her another moment, and then, seemingly satisfied that she would do as he had told her, he stepped away. But at the last moment she caught his arm.

“What of you?”

she whispered anxiously.

Something like triumph flared in his eyes, and Rose could have cut out her tongue. He thought she was concerned for his welfare! Worried for him! Even if that were so—which it was not—she would never have let him know it.

“If you are killed I will soon be recaptured,”

she explained in a furious murmur. “So, Captain, answer me now. What of you?”

He smiled, that familiar tug at the corners of his mouth. “We need a horse,”

he said patiently, and with that he was gone.