Chapter 7

Rose was pretending it hadn’t happened.

The fact that she had allowed the Viking mercenary to kiss her was…well, impossible. Not to be borne. The feel of his mouth on hers—hot and urgent, making her head swim—had stayed long after he had released her. Indeed, was with her still. She had allowed Gunnar Olafson to kiss her, to fondle her—and she had kissed and fondled him back.

Heat crept into her face. Even now the sense of need pooled in her belly and quickened her heartbeat. Lust, that was what it was. What else could it be? She had known the man for a day.

Rose withdrew into her thoughts while she went about her tasks, hardly knowing what she did.

Her tasks were many.

The villagers had to be fed and cared for and comforted. Most of them were keen to return to their homes or to begin rebuilding, but there were others who had no wish to leave the safety of the keep. Places had to be found for them to sleep there in the great hall or in the bailey, and tasks had to be set them. Somerford Keep did not feed idle hands, could not afford to. It was summer, but the harvest would not begin until next month, and food was scarce. Ironically, it was during summer, while waiting for the harvest, when most of the peasants in England starved.

With such serious matters to consider, Rose knew she should not be remembering the feel of Gunnar Olafson’s lips on hers.

She had spent a number of hours teaching Millisent the finer points of cleaning clothing. This, as she had explained to the girl with a smile, mainly involved hard work, but a paste of wood ash was useful when it came to whitening linen.

They were presently in the kitchen, engaged in the tedious business of making candles. Using a wooden board cut into regular holes, Rose had carefully fixed twisted linen threads through these holes. The threads were in fact wicks, and they would be dipped into a bowl of mutton fat again and again, until the candles had grown to the required thickness.

Millisent, at her side, watched closely and helped where she could. The girl had washed and changed into a plain, homespun gown supplied by the more buxom Eartha. The long sleeves hung over her hands and had to be folded up, while the hem swept the floor—it made her look younger and even more vulnerable.

While the servant women chattered around her, Rose dipped her candles once more into the congealing mutton fat, and knew with a sense of helpless dismay that she should be using this time to consider the measures needed to protect her people against their attackers. She should be deciding what to do about the dead stranger. She should be contemplating Harold the miller and his strange disappearance. And, apart from her current troubles, there would soon be crops to harvest—if they were not to starve.

Rose wiped a hand across her brow—it was very hot in the kitchen—and, catching Millisent’s eye, smiled comfortingly. The girl was pale and worried, and it would do no good to add to her fears until they knew the truth. Will was playing in the corner with Eartha’s child, the two of them giggling as if this were an ordinary day. Rose could not remember being so carefree when she was a child; she had too soon been burdened with adult cares. Serious and solemn, that was little Rose. Her mother had seemed always to be weeping and when she had deigned to notice Rose, she had tended to hug her too tightly, as if to make up for her previous neglect. Her love for Rose’s father had been a terrible affliction to both her and her daughter.

Rose had never wanted love. She was no romantic. Few Norman girls dreamed of finding that sort of romantic love with their husbands—that was not what marriage was for—but Rose was even less romantic than most. Thankfully Edric had been kind and gentle; she had been grateful for that. There had been no passion between them, none of the aching intensity Rose had heard sung about in the sweet ballads. Such excess of emotion disturbed and frightened her, threatened her ordered existence. And yet, contrarily, most nights she did dream of it. Of him, her ghostly warrior.

And last night she had dreamed he wore his copper hair in narrow braids, like Gunnar Olafson.

Fear rose up in her, a thick black wave she could almost taste. The kitchen was too hot, too noisy. The intensity of her feelings—feelings she had always believed she could control—overset her outer calm, causing her hands to shake. Suddenly Rose had to escape. There must be somewhere quiet where she could think this thing through—reason with her mind instead of allowing her emotions to overcome good sense.

Rose turned to Millisent and said in a false, bright voice. “Here, now ’tis your turn.”

And she thrust the candleboard she had been working on into the girl’s surprised hands.

“But lady—”

Millisent blinked.

“Ask Eartha if you need help.”

“Aye, I’ll help you, Millisent.”

Eartha smiled kindly, glancing up from the table where she was rolling pastry for a fish pie. “There be nothing to it.”

“There, you see?”

Millisent still looked as if she might object, but Rose gave her no choice. With another wooden smile, she turned and left them to it.

The stairs leading up from the kitchen were dim and deserted, and the air was cool and still. Rose stood a moment, taking deep breaths, grateful for the respite. Slowly her panic subsided, and order was restored to her erratically hammering pulses. She was able to consider her situation with some measure of tranquillity.

The dream had been only that—a dream. A fantasy fashioned by her overwrought mind. Her ghostly warrior was not Gunnar Olafson. He could never be Gunnar Olafson. It disturbed her that she could imagine, even for a moment, that he was. Her dream man had no face—he wasn’t real—and thus it was safe to love him and to long for him. But Gunnar Olafson was very real indeed—an earthy, sensual warrior—and he was anything but safe.

Probably, Rose told herself, he was the sort of man who kissed every woman he came across. And she had not fought him, she had been more than willing, even encouraging. For a moment last night, as they stood locked together, she had believed herself capable of rattling the mercenary’s control. She dismissed such imaginings now. Probably he had meant to seduce her from the beginning, and had gone about it in his cold, methodical manner. And she had been ripe for seduction.

Was Constance right; did she need a lover?

A vision came rushing over her—her bed filled with hard, powerful flesh and blazing blue eyes. Once again she felt swamped, breathless and shaking.

She had had enough of quiet.

Now she needed clamor!

With a gasp, Rose hurried up the stairs, trying to outrun her own thoughts, and burst into the great hall.

In contrast to the stairwell, it was awash with people and movement. The outside noise left no room for her own wayward thoughts. And at least the mercenaries weren’t there, so she was spared the embarrassment of coming face-to-face with Gunnar Olafson. For now.

He was out hunting. Arno had told her so, and at first she had thought he meant for meat for the table—they were sorely in need of such with all the extra mouths to feed. Then she realized that of course Arno had meant “hunting”

for whoever had attacked the village. She had an image of the mercenary troop pursuing the merefolk like a savage wolf pack chasing deer, and shivered.

Arno hadn’t gone hunting, he had remained in the keep. “To protect you and your people,”

he had told Rose, shooting her a wary, sideways glance. As if, she thought, he had not drunk so deep last night that he could not lift his own sword. Perhaps he did not remember, or hoped she had not noticed it or was too polite to mention it? He had failed her last night, and today he was trying to make amends, but the fact remained.

Again her comparison of the behavior of the two men—Arno and Gunnar Olafson—made her uneasy. Surely it should have been Arno who remained sober and this morning took charge of the hunt, and the mercenary who stayed at home recovering from his drunken excess?

“God curse them, halffishes that they be. Aye, tails for legs!”

The imprecation brought Rose’s head around. Faded blue eyes turned red from smoke and lack of sleep, set in a mass of wrinkles. The ancient creature was clasping a wooden cup full of milk in her crooked hands, and over the brim her gaze was fixed defiantly on Rose. As Rose was well aware, it was the general belief among her people that the merefolk were in fact halffish—grotesque creatures of skin and scale, designed for their watery home rather than dry land.

Rose bent down and tried a soothing tone. “Did you see the merefolk burning your house, grandmother?”

“Nay! They be too clever for that, lady. Hergat’s dead, the old whip-tongue.”

Her eyes stared, unblinking, more surprised than sorrowful.

“I know. I’m sorry to hear it.”

Rose leaned closer, ignoring the snuffling of a small spotted piglet confined in a willow basket. “Grandmother, have you lately seen any Normans in the village?”

“Apart from yourself, lady, and Sir Arno? Not I.”

“Did you see Harold the miller last night?”

“I heard his daughter scream,”

she said helpfully.

Rose nodded and touched the woman’s bony shoulder. “Rest now. Drink your milk.”

But the old woman hadn’t finished. “He be a fine man, that Captain,”

she said, her pale eyes gleaming in a manner quite unbefitting her age and situation—almost lasciviously.

“Is he?”

Rose replied, pretending disinterest. To her dismay she felt blood heat her cheeks.

“Oh, aye, lady!”

she was assured. “Every woman in this keep would welcome him under her blankets! But maybe ’tis not the same for the nobility…?” The old one bowed her head and coughed, disguising a chuckle.

Rose straightened, well aware of her flaming face and rigid bearing. Thankfully, before she had to think of a reply, one of her servants approached, eyes lowered respectfully. Or mayhap, Rose thought in mortification, she was chuckling, too!

“My lady, we are in sore need of more clothing.”

Relieved at the chance to escape, Rose answered swiftly. “Constance will know what we can spare. I will go and ask her.”

Once again Rose set off in search of the inner quiet she seemed to have lost since Gunnar Olafson came to Somerford. This time she climbed the stairs to the solar, where she knew Constance would be at this hour.

The ancient crone’s insolence had been unbearable! And yet it was not normal for her to be so upset at what was only a bit of risqué joking. Life in the keep was close lived and there were few secrets between its walls. Men and women were attracted to one another, and were rarely coy about it or the subsequent couplings. Why had she not laughed back, made a jest about Gunnar’s handsome looks? Joined in? It was true enough that all the Somerford women were enamored of the mercenary. Why could she not have pretended that she was, too?

Because for her it was no jest.

Slowly she continued up the stairs, wondering once again how she was going to face Gunnar Olafson. Perhaps she could hide herself away in her chamber? she thought feverishly. Pretend she was ill? But her people were depending on her in this time of hardship, and Rose had never been a coward.

Bleakly, she glanced from one of the arrow slits that had been built into the thick wall of the keep. The day beyond looked a fair one, and as expected, Arno’s young recruits were training. The boys, stripped to their waists, thin chests shining with sweat, were practicing with wooden swords and shields. Arno was striding up and down, shouting instructions. By the gate, Edward stood on guard duty in his antiquated helmet and padded vest.

All was as normal; it was almost as if last night had never happened.

If only that were so, thought Rose with a sigh, and continued on her way.

It was near to darkness when the mercenaries finally rode back to Somerford Keep. As the gate was heaved open for them, the cry went up that they had a prisoner, and soon news spread from the bailey to Rose, sewing by the light of one of her own candles. She hurried out to see for herself.

The mercenaries’ horses drew to a tired, clattering halt. The animals were dusty, their coats flecked with sweat; the mercenaries were not much better. Gunnar Olafson dismounted from his gray stallion, spoke briefly to Ivo, and then turned toward Rose. The dusk gave him an eerie look. With his pale face and dark eyes, he was a creature of dreams, not flesh and blood at all.

He stopped within two feet of her, so close she could feel him. Just as she had when he came upon her last night.

His gaze was like the thrust of a sword, intent and unswerving. Even had she wanted to avoid it, he would not have allowed her to.

At some point during the long day, Rose had finally managed to find peace. She had done it by convincing herself that the feelings she had experienced when he kissed her, looked at her, touched her, were naught but the fantasies of a weary and worried widow. He was very handsome, and such an attraction was to be expected. She had simply allowed her loneliness to turn that attraction into something that didn’t really exist.

Like her dream warrior.

But now, one look from Gunnar and the harsh truth stripped bare every lie she had worked so hard to make herself believe. This was no fantasy, this was real. Rose wanted to close the small distance between them, to lean into him and feel the hard heat of his body against hers. To lift her face and close her eyes, and feel the eager press of his mouth on hers. Her breathing quickened, her skin felt as if it were too tight, her clothing abraded her breasts and thighs.

Pretense was pointless. Whether this feeling was lust or desire or simply bedazzlement, Rose wanted Gunnar Olafson.

Stop it, stop it now!

The voice came to her rescue again. Resolutely, Rose forced her eyes away from the mercenary, and instead turned to the figure that had been lifted down from one of the horses. Harold the miller, his clothing stained and dirty, had his head bowed in despair. He stood as if he were all alone and not at the center of such a noisy crowd. If he was not a guilty man, Rose thought in dismay, then he was certainly giving a good impression of one.

She approached, ignoring the warning murmur from Arno, who was following behind her. “Harold?”

She spoke his name quietly, gently.

The miller did not move. Now that Rose was near, she could see that there were scrapes and cuts upon him, one across his cheek where the blood had dried. His boots were sodden and muddy, and his wrists were tied together, the skin raw and bleeding.

Nausea fluttered in her stomach, but she forced herself to be still and restrained and not cry out in her distress. Her voice was curt. “Untie him.”

“Lady—”

Ivo began the warning, but it was Gunnar who finished it.

“He may run if we untie him.”

Rose flung him a furious look. “He is hurt. Untie him. I order it.”

“Lady Rose, think what you are doing,”

hissed Arno, but again she ignored him, her gaze clashing with that of the mercenary leader.

Gunnar lifted his brows quizzically, as if he questioned her good sense, but came without further argument and, raising Harold the miller’s hands, slid his knife between them. The bindings fell away.

Arno drew his sword. There was an audible gasp from the crowd around them. But Harold did not try to run; he simply stood with his hands dangling limply at his sides. Gently, Rose placed her hand upon his arm. The cloth of his sleeve was cold and damp.

“Harold? You must tell us what happened.”

He looked up at her then, his eyes huge in the torchlight, and she saw that his dirty face was streaked clean where the tears had run. His voice was a hoarse whisper she strained to catch. “I did not mean it, my lady. I did not mean to kill him…and yet I am glad I did.”

There was an anguished cry. Rose felt her heart jump violently, and then Millisent brushed past her, running to her father. At the last moment Alfred caught her, holding her firmly as she struggled, his scarred face grim. Millisent pushed at his arms, squirming to be free, but Alfred bent his head, murmuring words too low for anyone else to hear, and after a moment the girl went limp. She hung in his arms as if all life had left her. Alfred did not let her go, instead he tightened his hold, turning her so that her face rested against his shoulder. Millisent lifted one pale hand and clung to his tunic.

“Are you saying you killed the man whose body was found beside your cottage?”

Rose asked, keeping her voice steady with an effort.

But Harold wouldn’t answer her, setting his mouth into a thin, stubborn line. Sick fear coiled in Rose’s stomach.

“Harold?”

she whispered. “You must talk to me of this. There may be a way around it, if you will give me a reason.”

“There’s no way around it, lady,”

he said bleakly, staring down at the ground. “I killed him. He had set the cottage alight and when Millisent ran out screaming, he grabbed her and pulled her to the ground. I stuck him in the leg before he could do more than rip her gown. I didn’t know he was a Norman until he turned and drew his sword on me and shouted some French rubbish. I killed him then and took his sword and threw it into the Mere. We…I thought to burn the body, but God was against me and the fire went out before it could finish its work.”

Pale but resolute, Harold looked up into her eyes. “It was me did it, lady. Me and only me. Millisent did nothing and Will is but a child. I killed the Norman and I will pay for it.”

Millisent began to sob into Alfred’s shoulder as if her heart was broken.

The girl must have helped her father drag the body into the fire, but what use was there in forcing her to admit it? Harold had protected his daughter; he would do so now.

And by Norman law he would die for it.

Slowly, unable to resist, Rose turned and met Gunnar’s eyes. She had known he would be watching her, had felt it. He looked calm and still—a waveless sea while all about railed the storm. His solid tranquillity soothed her, and when she spoke it was in a surprisingly steady voice.

“Has he said more than this to you, captain?”

“No, lady. We came upon him in the woods. He said nothing to us, only turned and tried to run through a thicket. We caught him and bound him to stop him from hurting himself. He has said far more to you than he did to us.”

“And you found no one else?”

“There were signs of a group of men entering the Mere. We followed their track a little way but they must have had a boat waiting—the water was soon too deep without one. It would seem that we must believe it was the merefolk who burned your village.”

He put his answer in a way that puzzled her, but Rose did not have time now to solve puzzles. She turned again to the miller.

“Why was he burning your cottage? Are you sure he was a Norman? Did you see any of the merefolk with him?”

“A Norman burning a cottage?”

Arno retorted indignantly. All this time he had stood near Rose, impatient and struggling to understand while Harold gave his explanation in English, and suspiciously watchful every time she turned to Gunnar. Now he was frowning and keen to take part. “No, lady! ’Tis clear to me that this lout killed the Norman in a rage and then ran off to hide his own guilt.”

“I don’t understand why a Norman would be present at the attack on the village, Sir Arno.”

Rose looked at Gunnar as she spoke.

Big and quiet, he stood with his arms folded over his chest, his legs set apart, and his eyes on hers. At the back of her mind she could feel heat and passion, beating. Last night he had held her in his arms, anchoring her to solid ground as she soared and, almost, took flight to the stars.

I want you. I’m not one of your tame Normans.

No, Gunnar Olafson wasn’t tame, despite his still, calm demeanor. Beneath that unruffled surface was more passion than she knew what to do with.

Arno stepped into her line of vision, shooting Gunnar a narrowed look. “Maybe this man, this Norman, was passing and saw that there was trouble afoot. He went to help and this fool, mistaking the matter, killed him. Probably the girl led him to believe she was willing, and when her father arrived she pretended otherwise. The English are well known to be deceitful and—”

Arno stopped abruptly, realizing he was standing in the midst of those same deceitful Englishmen. He cleared his throat and went on briskly. “I did not understand all this man said—as you know, Lady Rose, English is not my language.”

He made it sound as if this was a cause for celebration. “But I understand enough to have heard his confession. He killed the man and then tried to burn his body so no one would know. The law is clear.”

Arno was right. And yet, in her heart, Rose did not want to pass judgment on Harold the miller. She believed him. He had been protecting Millisent. She understood why he had killed. In his position would not all of them do the same? Jesu, if only he could have captured the man rather than killed him. If only he had not made things worse by trying to hide the evidence. Yet, even so, there must be a way out of this mess without another needless death.

As if he had reached inside her mind, Gunnar said, “Whether it was an accident or not does not matter now. He has confessed. He must be brought before the manor court to tell his story there, and be judged upon the evidence.”

Rose nodded unhappily. The cool night air felt very warm against her face, as if her flesh had lost all heat. Would she be able to sit in judgment on Harold? Give him over to the hangman? She swallowed—let it not come to that. He was defending himself; surely that allowed for leniency?

“Very well, Captain. See that Harold is locked up securely for tonight.”

Millisent made a high keening sound, and Harold said in a gruff voice, “Never mind, daughter, never mind,”

as though he sought to comfort her.

Rose turned away before the tears in her eyes could fall, and began to walk quickly back to the keep. Behind her, a boy ran with a flaring torch, trying in vain to keep up. Rose ignored him, and ignored Constance hovering in the doorway. She wished herself suddenly far away. She knew that if Edric had still been alive he would have agreed with Arno, no matter that Harold had been justified in his actions, and that Edric was himself English—or maybe because of it. The law was the law, and Edric and Arno would have argued the miller’s fate between them over a good red wine, but in the end they would have agreed that he would have to die. Now Rose was the lord here at Somerford, and it was unlikely Arno would discuss anything with her over a goblet of wine, or that she would wish him to. They would never agree. She did not believe in such harsh justice, such black and white judgments. Why could there not be shades of gray?

“Slow your steps, my lady!”

She was standing in the great hall, and Constance, breath wheezing, had followed her.

“I have nothing to say, old woman.”

“Maybe not, but I do.”

Irritably Rose halted. “Then say it and be done, for I am very weary.”

Constance pressed a hand to her heart and gulped in air. “Let Arno sit in judgment on the miller.”

Rose shook her head slowly. “It is not his place, Constance, you know that. I am lady here and I make all decisions, good or bad. I have to sit in judgment on my people if I am to retain my power and their respect.”

“Lady,”

she whispered, “it will wound you grievously!”

“Nevertheless, I will sit in judgment on Harold the miller, and no one will say I have not done as I ought.”

Constance muttered something under her breath about stubborn women, but Rose ignored her. “Send someone to the kitchens, Constance, and have food brought for the mercenaries. They will be hungry and it grows late.”

When Constance went, Rose stayed a moment. She felt a little as the miller must have, standing in the bailey while the noise and movement of life went on around him, and yet alone. Soon she must sit in judgment on a man she liked and admired, who in her heart she believed had been forced to do wrong, who had been defending his beloved daughter. Aye, a brave man. And he did not deserve to die for that.

Turning about, she sought Millisent in the crowd, but the girl was not to be seen. Probably she had followed after her father to the cell where he would spend the night. Blindly her gaze slid over dozens of faces…and was caught and drawn into the very eyes she most wished to avoid.

It was full darkness now, and Gunnar Olafson stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the bailey, watching her. Alfred, his head close, was murmuring at his side. There was something almost furtive about them—what secret did they have that they had not shared with her? Her interest captured now, Rose watched as Gunnar made one last brief comment to his comrade, and then Alfred nodded and was gone back into the night.

Gunnar Olafson began to make his way across the great hall toward her.

Rose wanted to back away—she even flicked a brief glance behind her—but she was too close to the dais, and a retreat would mean climbing on it. Lady Rose did not run from anyone. She set her shoulders and lifted her chin and faced him, forcing her features into a replica of the calm mask that seemed to come so easily to him.

Gunnar came to a halt, too close as usual, and Rose was forced to look up. She felt at a disadvantage, and angry because of it. Those surging emotions were stirring again inside her, but she forced them down and hung on to her equilibrium.

“My lady.”

The dark blue gaze searched her own before sliding to her mouth and lingering there.

Rose took a shallow breath, refusing to let the memories of last night intrude. “What is it, Captain? I am occupied.”

“Do you believe Harold the miller’s story? Or do you prefer Sir Arno d’Alan’s version?”

The mockery in his voice surprised her. He appeared so unruffled, and yet his voice was anything but.

“Why should it matter to you what I believe?”

She spoke hastily, angry with him, herself, and Arno. But even as the words were spoken she was wondering if it did matter to him, if, like herself, Gunnar Olafson did not think Harold the miller should be hanged for what he had done. Curiously, she went on, “What is it that troubles you, Captain Olafson? Do you doubt what you have heard? Or is it just that you trust no one?”

Something gleamed in his eyes and was gone. He smiled coldly. “It is true I trust no one, lady.”

“I can see that a man who takes coin to kill would find trust difficult.”

She thought for a moment he might speak up for himself, tell her that she was wrong, but instead he shrugged in a manner designed to let her know her opinions were nothing to him.

“Do you know Lord Fitzmorton well, lady?”

He had surprised Rose. Did she know Lord Fitzmorton well? Now there was a question.

For a moment time slipped and she was a child again, gazing up, defiantly, into that brutal, handsome face.

Do as you are told, girl!

And then the stinging blow across her cheek, and her mother flying out of the shadows to her side. Angry, clutching arms, her face turned in quivering fury to the man.

Don’t touch her! Don’t you touch her, ever!

But he had.

Rose’s gaze refocused, and somehow she managed an indifferent shrug to accompany the lie. “I do not know him well, Captain. Lord Radulf is my overlord, and Lord Fitzmorton is no friend of his.”

Gunnar’s face still showed nothing and yet she felt the full intensity of his interest. Had he read her secrets in her face?

“If Lord Radulf is your overlord, why did you not go to him when your village was first attacked? Why did you not ask him for extra men to help you guard your manor?”

Because Arno advised me not to! Because he said Radulf would consider me weak and incapable.

Rose would never tell him that. Why should she? He would probably agree with Radulf.

The color was hot now in her face but she refused to look away from those piercing blue eyes. Anger began to uncoil inside her. How dared he question her like this? As if she were his servant rather than the other way around.

“That is not your business.”

He smiled, and the beauty of it quite simply took away her breath. Several women standing nearby gasped and stopped what they were doing, admiring him. Rose shot them a glare and they returned hastily to their business.

“I am being paid to protect you, lady,”

Gunnar said. “I was but trying to earn my money.”

“You are being paid to do as you are told, Captain, and to keep your tongue still.”

Arno would have stalked away if spoken to like that. Edric would have shaken his head sadly at her lack of manners. Rose shuddered to think what her father or brother would have done.

Gunnar Olafson laughed.

Shocked, Rose stared as he threw back his head in genuine amusement, and then looked down at her with such blazing warmth in his eyes that it was difficult for her to breathe. There was silence in the hall, but Rose could not take her gaze from his.

“My tongue is a matter of interest to you, lady?”

His murmur was soft, seductive.

“Of course not!”

But she was breathless again, her cheeks hot, her hands trembling.

“No?”

He gave her his smile, and now there was no doubting the predatory gleam in his eyes, the desire to have her. Rose felt the overwhelming urge to take that one step forward and press her body to his, lift her mouth to his. Give herself over completely to him.

Stop it! Stop it now!

“I…there are things I must do. I…forgive me, Captain, I…”

His mouth twitched as he bowed his head, but she spun around and was gone. Halfway up the stairs to the solar, she became aware of Constance tugging at her sleeve. The old woman was particularly persistent tonight.

“Have done, old woman,”

she begged. “What is it now?”

But Constance had no intention of “having done.”

“He is a fine man.”

“Who is a fine man?”

Rose retorted and kept climbing, hoping to outpace Constance. “Surely you have not followed me to tell me that!”

“The mercenary,”

Constance panted. “Captain Olafson. He is a fine man. He will make you a fine lover.”

Rose blinked at her incredulously. “You speak of fine men and lovers at a time like this? He is a mercenary, a soulless creature who would kill for a coin. I have other worries—”

“Maybe, but that does not alter the fact that he is very handsome and you enjoy looking. I saw you just now, lady, and last night. He kissed you and you were not loath to kiss him back.”

“You saw us?”

Rose choked, and then slumped against the cold stone of the stairwell. “Of course you did! You would never miss such a thing.”

Constance stopped in front of her, chest heaving, and her expression became sly. “Why do you not take him to your bed, Rose? Have him while he is here? Enjoy him and yourself. He is yours to command, and no one would blame you for commanding him into your bedchamber.”

“You are wanting in your wits, old woman!”

Rose cried, but to her horror her voice lacked conviction.

“If you do not take him then another will,”

Constance went on blithely.

“Then they are welcome to him.”

“Huh! We shall see how you stare when Eartha is clinging to his arm, rubbing her big chest up against him. You will be cross then, lady, and I will know why. You should take him now. Why not? If you were a man, a lord, you would not hesitate to pick the best bedfellow for yourself. Why should a woman’s lot be any different?”

“Because it is! Now go, Constance, and take your nonsense with you. I cannot listen to any more!”

Constance muttered her way slowly back down the stairs. Rose stared after her, breathing quickly. Harold the miller was to come before her manor court to be charged with the murder of a mystery Norman, and probably, to appease her Norman overlord and her king, she would have to sentence him to be hanged; the village was half destroyed and must be rebuilt before the harvest; the merefolk were on the rampage and might attack again at any time; and now Constance had run mad with lust.

And not even lust for herself, but proxy lust on Rose’s behalf!

Why was it then that a tiny voice at the back of her mind was whispering to her that Constance was right?

What the old woman had said was in part truth. If Rose were a man she would be free to take any woman she desired and no one would say her nay, or even raise an eyebrow. It was accepted that that was the way of things. Gunnar Olafson desired her. She saw it in his eyes. Felt it in his kisses. If she commanded him, it would not be as if she were forcing him to do something he did not wish to do. And God help her but she was in desperate need of a pair of strong, warm arms about her in these troubled times! Perhaps for one night, just one, and then all would return to normal?

“And mayhap I have run mad, too!”

Rose gasped, shaking her head, and turning wearily to climb the remaining stairs.

The solar was warm and she was past tired. Swiftly Rose undressed and climbed into her bed, drawing the curtains to shield her from drafts and—she hoped—bad dreams. In another moment she was asleep.

The dream started as usual, with her approach on foot to Burrow Mump and then the warriors springing forth from the earth. Only this time, as she turned to run, she realized that one of the horses was known to her. A gray stallion, fine and strong. With a cry she tried to lengthen her strides, her heart pounding, but it was already too late. A muscular arm folded about her waist and lifted her up. Hard flesh, surrounding her, safe and yet very dangerous.

“Mine.”

His whisper brushed her cheek, warm and scented with cloves.