The Viking's Heart

“Who did you think it was?”

“Why did you follow me?”

“You speak first.”

“I thought…it could have been anyone.”

The challenging spitfire from the other day was gone. Here again was the cringing waif. He said, “Surely you know you are safe. Who would harm you here in your cousin’s home?”

She tucked her chin into her shoulder. “Do you think there are only certain places where evil can reign? It can enter anywhere. It resides in homes like this one, I can tell you.”

“Are you an expert on evil, Rosamund?”

When she turned back to him, her eyes were a bit wild—large and round, lost in that pretty face. They startled him. So did her answer. “Aye. Of a sorts, I am.”

He blinked, trying to absorb it, trying to think what it meant. In the end, he only held out his hand. “Come. Let us back to the hall.”

She was so artless, so utterly transparent. Casting a look up the stairs, into the rising treads that disappeared into darkness where the weakening strains of daylight could not penetrate, she hesitated. “I…I thought I might roam a bit. Get to know the castle.”

“What a poor liar you are.”

Her head whipped around. She was all fire again. “What an insulting man you are! What reason have you to question me?”

What reason had he? Only that every inch of his flesh screamed with instinctive uncertainty whenever she was in sight, only that something deep down in his gut seemed somehow connected to this woman—a woman he had known but a sennight. Only that his soul spoke to him of her, and it told him disturbing things.

It was true he didn’t seem to know what he was about when with her. But it was hardly seemly to tell her this, so he only smiled and shook his head. “I can take you on a tour. Shall we go to the top of the turret and see what we find?”

Suddenly she was all nerves again. “Nay. We have been overlong on these stairs. The air is stale. Let us to fresher areas. Perhaps outdoors.”

“But I insist, my lady. You should not change your plans for me.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along up to the top of the tower. “We will go together to conquer the challenge of the turret.”

She resisted a bit, but it did not impede their swift progress up the stairs. The small chamber at the top was empty.

“See,” she said, but her voice trembled. “The air is close in here. ’Tis unhealthy. Let us to the garden, or better yet, the grove. ’Twill refresh us.”

Agravar let his eyes travel about the small chamber, quickly assessing there was no place for anyone to hide.

What was he thinking? It was ridiculous to suspect Rosamund had been sneaking off to some kind of secret assignation. To what purpose? And who would she know here at Gastonbury whom she could not speak to out in the open?

And yet…

There were so many doors leading into the turret. The top chamber may not have been her destination at all. Or, perhaps, if there had been someone waiting, they could have easily slipped away without anyone the wiser.

She took his proffered arm stiffly and they descended the steps. Bypassing the hall entrance, they went down one flight farther and then out the doorway that led into a small enclosed yard.

The sun was low, stretching long, cool shadows that made the little area pleasant. Rows of vines clamored over one another, bare now of their spring fruit. Trees clustered in uneven groves laden with apples and pears. They stood hunched against the sun, weighted by their burdens, like sentinels to guard and protect.

’Twas only an illusion, he knew. At Gastonbury, he was the captain of the guard. He protected. If need be, even from unlikely threats in the form of shapely maidens with cascades of golden hair and eyes of soft, pale brown.

She moved idly, lost in her own thoughts. He trailed behind, keeping a seemly distance. His body still felt singed where he had brushed up against her on the stairs.

“The grove is cool,” she stated.

“Aye.” There was a pause. “’Tis pleasant.”

She bowed her head, silent for a space. “Our grove at home was not so sheltered as this, and not nearly so comforting. I like it here.”

“Do you mean the grove, or Gastonbury?”

“I like Gastonbury. I have found kindness here—in Alayna and her mother. The Lady Veronica is patient with me.” Her hands fluttered, betraying her nervousness. “I shall hate to leave it.”

The statement jarred him. He had nearly forgotten. Lord Robert would soon bring her to live with him at Berendsfore. A strange sensation of loss twinged the edges of his awareness.

She said, “Have you kin here at Gastonbury? You are not from Denmark, you told me.”

“My brother lives in this castle.”

“Brother? I have seen no other Vikings here.”

“Yet you have met him. I do not think you are fond of him, however. ’Tis Lucien who I call brother, and he is the only family I acknowledge.”

“No others?”

“None.”

She paced off a few steps and lifted her head to the lurid sky. The colors of sunset cast her fair aspect in bronze. “I, too, am alone.”

It was the last thing they said that night. They stayed together for a bit more before she wandered back inside. He remained until dusk had settled in full, and her words stayed with him.

Chapter Eight

Gastonbury must be a place of enchantment, Rosamund thought. It had done the impossible.

She had forgotten.

Life seemed to have been given to her anew and her past…her past was somehow irrelevant. Comfortable and safe this last fortnight, she hardly recognized herself any longer.

For the first time, she knew deep contentment and she was happy.

In the ladies’ solar with Alayna one afternoon, she sat on the floor with Leanna, who was just shy of her second year and as placid and pleasant as her brother, Aric, was brash. Lucien and Alayna’s second child was doted on by her parents, and was her grandmother’s delight. Veronica sat on a cushioned chair, smiling indulgently as her granddaughter built tiny towers with the colored blocks Rosamund handed her.

“She is an angel,” Veronica mused. “Though I am sure I do not know from where she gets it. Her mother was a handful, always tearing in my embroidery basket and unraveling my loom. She never sat still, not for an instant, that one. As for her father, I have little doubt he was a full-fledged terror.”

Rosamund stayed wisely silent. Her own opinion of Lucien was hardly flattering. The fearsome lord of Gastonbury’s visage set her to quaking even now, a full month after being welcomed to his home.

Veronica continued, “I shall have to ask his mother when next she visits. She comes every Easter, a week as uneasy as you are like to find in this castle. The rest of the year she spends in a convent.”

“How odd.” Rosamund looked up at Veronica. “Why is it she only comes for such a short time? Is she unpleasant?”