The Viking's Heart

“Of course,” she replied, surprised that the prospect of conversing with him was not nearly as untenable as it should have seemed. They sat together.

She looked over at him, hiding her curiosity under her lashes. His angular features seemed sculpted out of granite. He seemed content to just sit, his leg drawn up, his elbow cocked on one knee, and watch the gathering in comfortable silence. A warrior angel, both golden and mighty, at rest.

She was curious about him. “You say ‘our monarch,’ yet you are a Dane, are you not?”

His head dipped a moment, then came back up. “I am English,” he replied. It was the tightness in his voice that warned her off.

“Oh.”

He seemed to regret his harshness after a moment. “My mother was an English lady.”

“Oh.”

“How do you find Gastonbury?” he inquired, taking a fresh tact.

“Pleasant.”

He nodded, then fell quiet again.

She took in a long breath and expelled it slowly. Her fingers drummed idly on the blanketed ground. The silence stretched on.

“Why are you so nervous all the time?” he asked suddenly.

She started. “Nervous? Me? Why, I am not nervous.”

He laughed, though not unkindly. “Aye, nervous. You. You are more skittish than an unbroken colt.”

Her hand fluttered to her hair, smoothing and tucking in absent movements. “Mayhap you merely think I am because ’tis your nature to be suspicious.”

“My lady, I have a most congenial nature. Not suspicious in the least. However, I find it most suspicious that you should think me so.”

Her lips quirked. “Therefore you confirm my opinion, and admit you are suspicious.”

He opened his mouth, frowned in puzzlement, and then shut it again. “’Tis a silly conversation.”

“Then let us end it.”

“Aye.”

It wasn’t long before she demanded, “Why do you always stare at me?”

He grinned without even glancing at her. “Your great beauty, of course.”

“But I am not a great beauty, sirrah.”

He looked at her then, rather critically and with intense eyes as his gaze slid over her features. “Are you not? Perhaps you underestimate yourself.”

“No troubadours shall sing verse to my face, I think. Homage like that is deserving of beauty such as Alayna’s.”

“And yet I have observed that kind of attractiveness can be as much a curse as a blessing. There are other kinds of allure a woman can posses. Mystery, for example.”

Her heart lurched. Mystery! “How absurd. What mysteries can a woman have?”

“I would say a great deal.”

“We are not allowed mysteries, sirrah.” She could not help a touch of bitterness from entering her voice.

“Allowed? What do you mean?”

“Why, we have no rights, no choices. We are at the mercy of our men.”

“All the more reason for your hearts to be held in secret,” he observed blandly.

“Secrets, aye,” she conceded. “We women have many secrets. But you used the term mystery, and that denotes a secret that would be of interest or consequence. I fear that our secrets are of little meaning to men. They are simply our own, and matter only to us.”

“How tragic to hear you say so. And I think your new friend, the Lady Veronica, would chastise you sorely for such sentiments. She would give you a different view of woman’s attributes, and a much fairer one, I’d wager.”

“You disagree with me? How odd, when we seem to be of a like mind in so many other things.”

“My lady,” he said with a slow grin, “I would be the last man on this good earth who would profess even the most meager wisdom of women.”

“You must have some knowledge.” Her tone was sly.

“None.”

“Then why do those three women yonder keep staring at you?”

He started. She saw she had him off guard, and a playful urge asserted itself. “Is it that one of them is your woman? If she is, will you please go to her so that I will be spared the daggers shooting from her eyes.”

He seemed deeply displeased at this. At first, Rosamund thought it was she who had angered him so well, but he turned his scowl to the trio of blondes whispering behind their hands. They immediately adjusted themselves, thrusting out their chests and donning alluring smiles.

Agravar made some sort of sound. Kind of a growl. “Those idiots plague me.”

With feigned innocence, she asked, “Then they are not beloved to you?”

He appeared appalled. “Damnation, they are not, I tell you.”

She wanted to giggle in delight. This huge hulk of a man was embarrassed. “You need not be awkward if you are of a mind for a romance, sirrah. Why, I would think any one of them would be willing to entertain your attentions, seeing as they are always smiling this way.”

He rubbed his chin roughly. “Aye, Rosamund, I know what it is they are willing to oblige me, and I have no interest in it. Now may we please quit the subject?”

“Very well. ’Tis of no matter to me, of course. ’Tis only they seemed so disturbed by your—”

“May we speak of something else, madam?”

She shrugged. “But, sirrah, we seem to have nothing else to say to one another.”

He narrowed his eyes with ill intent. “Mayhap a return to our earlier topic of how you are more than you seem.”