The Flower And The Sword

Rogan pretended to relax, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “What can you tell me of your sister, Lily?”

The stroking stopped for a moment, then resumed. “Why do you ask about Lily?”

“I was curious. Has your family chosen someone for her to wed?”

“Lily is a pleasant girl. But she is young, and still unrefined. I have done my best with her, but she can be headstrong. As to her marriage prospects, I am sure my father shall have no difficulty finding someone suitable. When the time comes. It is traditional for the eldest to marry first. And it may be difficult to find someone after this scandal.”

“Rich enough.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said, rich enough. Certainly with a prize such as yourself, you would want to make the best possible liaison, am I correct? Another duke, perhaps?”

Catherine shrugged mildly. “I do not know. Certainly someone of good family. But I only received the news today of my betrothed…that the duke married another. But these are matters for my father.”

Her hands trailed down his chest. She rubbed his legs, stroking the washing rag over them each in turn.

“I tell you, I am most impressed with her,” he continued, pretending to be unperturbed by her ministrations.

Her voice betrayed her tension. “Let us not talk of her. Surely we can find something else more amusing for our conversation?” She was not going to be dissuaded by his lofty praise of her sister. “May I speak plainly, Lord Rogan?” she asked.

He was never to know what plain conversation she had planned, for it was then his chamber door opened. Andrew stood at the threshold.

“Ro—” he started, then stopped just inside the doorway, visibly taken aback by the scene before him.

Rogan called out to him pleasantly. “Come, Andrew, for I was just speaking to the Lady Catherine on her future prospects of marriage. Did you get a chance to discuss our family’s concerns with her when she attended you at your bath?”

There was a short silence, then Andrew said, “Ah, the Lady Catherine did not attend me in my bath—eh, that is to say, I had no bath.”

Catherine stood, finally flustered. “Well, there is only one tub, and you must understand that Lord Rogan, being the elder, was chosen to—”

“Nonsense, think nothing of it,” Andrew said, waving his hand nonchalantly. “I rarely bathe anyway.”

Catherine hurriedly brought forth the drying linen when she saw Andrew settle into a chair, apparently determined to stay.

“If you will not be needing me any further this eve, I will see you on the morrow,” she said stiffly, and exited the room before Rogan could reply.

When the door had shut behind her, Rogan grunted, “That was close.”

“Afraid the lady would compromise your reputation, were you?” Andrew teased. “I must say that I am more than passing insulted. I would have very much liked a bath and a brisk rub!”

“It is cruel to tease me,” Rogan said dangerously. “I could barely stand the feel of those bony hands on my flesh with that feral gleam in her eye.”

“I will be glad to be away from this place. Enguerrand seems to have recovered well. But that woman. Do you think you can escape the attentions of Lady Catherine?”

Rogan didn’t answer. He climbed in bed and pulled the furs up over him. “I shall be safe. Douse the candle on your way out, will you? And relax, brother. If all else fails, I do have my sword.”

“My good fellow, it is something of a sword the woman is after!”

After breaking their fast the next morning, Rogan and Andrew were invited to accompany their host to the practice field where, he boasted, he would show them a fine display of fighting prowess.

Rogan stood quietly as he watched Enguerrand’s men go through their drills, working with swords and maces. Andrew, who was off a little ways behind Marshand, amused himself by rolling his eyes at the stumbling maneuverings of the soldiers, then offering facetious compliments. Rogan scowled in mute warning for him to stop, but Andrew merely smirked.

His mind wandered to Catherine. Andrew had been right when he had said that her obvious interest in him could be a problem. And there was Lily. Thoughts of their meeting last evening in the garden still made him smile. She was a strange girl. She was beautiful and proud and yet unassuming, so unlike her elder sister.

“What say you, Rogan?” Enguerrand said, and Rogan snapped back into awareness. He glanced over at Andrew who was wearing his usual expression of ill-concealed mockery, brows raised in expectation.

“What was that? I am afraid I was distracted for a moment.”

“Thinking twice, eh, St. Cyr?” Enguerrand hooted.

Andrew leaned forward. “He wants to know if you want to take a chance with one of his men.” He rolled his eyes. “Damn daunting challenge.”

Rogan ignored Andrew’s jest and considered the invitation. With all of this pent-up tension, swinging a sword would feel wonderful right now.

“Very good,” he said, and Enguerrand announced the match.

Rogan doffed his jerkin and shirt, surprising his host when he strolled onto the field bare chested.

“No chain mail?” Enguerrand asked Andrew.

Andrew shrugged. “Too hot. Rogan despises the heat.”

“But without the protection…”

Andrew smiled. “Not to worry. He’ll not receive a mark.”

Enguerrand frowned, a bit insulted.

Behind a large piling of crates and barrels at the edge of the practice field, Lily hunkered down out of sight. She peered around the comrnr of her hiding place, trying to keep herself concealed and at the same time get a clear view of the goings-on.

She must be mad, she told herself. If her father saw her he would be furious. Worse, if Rogan spied her scampering about like an urchin, she knew she would never survive the humiliation.

But she had to see him again.

She had not been able to stop thinking of him all last night. She had been sorely disappointed this morn when she had found her father had taken him off so early. When she learned he was to fight one of her father’s men, she could not have stayed away for all the riches of the Holy See.

As Rogan walked onto the field, stripped to the waist as he was, Lily dove deeper under cover. Her heart thundered in her chest as panic arose. He was half-naked!

Oh, she should run back while she still had the chance, steal into the solar where she was supposed to be, quietly sewing and gossiping with the other women. Aye, most certainly she had been foolish to give in to her impulses. She stood, firmly resolved.

But somehow, instead of going back to the keep, she crept closer, slipping behind a cart nearer to the perimeter of the field.

From here she could view everything much better. She was close enough to see the movement of muscle as Rogan swung the broadsword over his head to limber up. Fascinated, she noted the slight beading of perspiration glisten on bare flesh. She felt faint, closing her eyes to steady herself.

He was magnificent, more physically glorious than any hero of a bard’s tale. His arms were thick with sinewed definition, sculpted as perfectly as the god Hermes in the garden, and his chest was broad with a light furring of auburn to match his wild mane of hair. It spread across his skin, tapering to a trail over the flat stomach. He turned, his back flexing with each of his powerful movements. Bracing himself, legs apart, he nodded to his opponent that he was ready.

Lily almost gave away her hiding place when she saw who it was her father had chosen to face Rogan. Latvar the Dane—a huge, ugly monster of a man. He was by far her father’s most accomplished warrior, held in awe among the men for both his skill and merciless strength. As he approached, swinging his spiked mace, Rogan only waited with deadly calm.