The Viking's Heart

Alayna slapped him away. “Nay, nay, you madman, stop hovering over me. ’Tis only a twinge. You shall not escape the questioning I have planned for you. Come.” She whirled and moved with ponderous steps toward the studded oaken portal to the hall.

Lucien raked his hand through his hair a few times and glared after her with a murderous scowl. Softly, and to no one in particular, he muttered, “More likely ’tis the gibbet you’ll have me dangling from if the whim suits you.”

Rosamund cringed at his angry words. She nearly fainted with alarm when Alayna whirled and narrowed her eyes at her disgruntled husband. “Did you say something, Lucien?”

“Nothing of import,” Lucien called back. Casting a dark look about that dared anyone to snicker, he fell into stride behind the stately lady.

“Come, Lady Rosamund,” a soft voice said at her side. She recognized it as Agravar’s.

“Will he beat her?” Rosamund cried, whirling to face him. She forgot herself enough to place a hand against his massive chest.

He appeared taken aback. “Beat her?”

“Oh, please stop him—” She snapped her mouth shut when she saw the look on his face. “She meant no harm,” she finished lamely.

“Rosamund, Lord Lucien would never lift a hand against his lady wife. She is beloved to him. Why, he would cut off his right arm for her. He would never do anything to cause her the slightest pain.”

Wrapping her arms about herself, she turned her face away from him. She was suddenly chilled.

He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. No one had known about Cyrus, either.

She could never make him see. “I would like to freshen up,” she murmured.

“Go with Margaret. She will show you where Alayna has arranged for you to sleep. I shall see you at supper, Rosamund.”

“Aye.” She almost said thank you, then thought better of it. He had robbed her of freedom and delivered her to this, the next step closer to a dreaded destiny. She had little to thank him for.

She followed the servant he had indicated. As she passed a small gathering of women, she caught one—a buxom lass with hollows under her cheekbones and a bright head of pale hair spilling about her shoulders—staring at her. With a hand on one jutting hip, she regarded Rosamund over her shoulder with a sneer curled on her bee-stung lips.

One of the two others with whom she was standing said something and there was a chorus of laughter. The woman smiled coldly and turned around with an arrogant sniff.

“My lady, this way,” Margaret said politely.

“Oh, aye.” Dutifully, Rosamund fell into step.

Lady Veronica of Avenford, an older, slightly shorter, and perhaps less spectacular version of her daughter Alayna, smoothed the last of Rosamund’s garments and handed it to Hilde to place in the trunk. “There,” she pronounced with a flash of a smile. “Everything seems to be in order. After all of that jostling, they just needed to be refolded and laid again.”

“It is kind of you to help,” Rosamund replied.

Hilde said, “I’ll take out your green gown for you to wear to supper.”

It was Veronica who replied, “Nay, Hilde. She is to rest this night. Was a difficult day for your mistress, and you, I imagine. Let her have her supper on a tray in here, and then you both can find your rest early.”

Rosamund drifted to the window. “You need not trouble yourself, Hilde. I am not very hungry.”

“Go fetch it,” Veronica said in a tone that was gentle but commanding. Hilde—who had a tendency to be bossy herself and was never docile—shocked Rosamund when she muttered, “Yes, my lady,” and scurried out the door.

Veronica had a manner about her, Rosamund considered. One simply didn’t disobey her. “Rosamund, come here. You are restless.”

“My thoughts disturb me,” Rosamund admitted. She sat in the seat indicated.

“I know it has been a trying day,” Veronica said. “Your maid is busy with setting your clothing to rights and fetching your supper. Let me brush your hair for you and you will be ready all the earlier for bed.”

On the small table, Hilde had set out her silver brush and a matched set of pearl-encrusted combs. Veronica picked up the brush and admired it. “Lovely,” she commented, then came behind Rosamund and began to stroke her hair.

“’Twas a gift from my stepfather,” Rosamund said stiffly.

“Ah. It must be a beloved memento.”

Rosamund did not reply.

After a while, Veronica chuckled softly. “I hope my daughter has not given you a poor view of our home here at Gastonbury.”

“Alayna? Why ever would that be so?”

“She is not herself. Lucien is worried sick over it. Oh, he would never admit it, but he fears for her. I can see it in his eyes, the anxious way he watches her. And she makes it not one whit easier with her disposition so sour and her reasoning utterly gone. Bless him, he tolerates much. Even Alayna knows it, yet she says she cannot stop herself from some of the most obnoxious fits of temper I have ever witnessed. And I am her mother!”

They laughed together, then Rosamund asked, “Are you worried about her?”

“Aye. Nay. Oh, I suppose. A mother always worries, but I know ’tis merely the heat and the heavy weight of the babe that makes her cross. ’Twas not like this with the others. This is the third, you know. I have a grandson who you will espy running around the keep. And then there is the pretty little angel who just coos the sweetest song. Bah! What a foolish woman I am to go on so.”

“Nay, my lady. ’Tis pleasant to hear the pride and delight in your voice.”

“You indulge an old woman.”

“’Tis not true. ’Tis I who benefit from your great kindnesses, and I am grateful for your attentions.”

“If my daughter were feeling better, she would be seeing to you and trying to comfort you after your terrible day. I know she feels dreadfully responsible.”

“Nay, my lady, she must not. I cast no blame.”

“Lucien has sent word to Lord Robert. He wishes you to stay with us until we receive a reply.”

“Oh.” The mention of Robert of Berendsfore set Rosamund’s pulse thumping a bit harder.

Veronica twisted the dark blond tresses into a thick braid and fastened the end with a leather thong. “There, now I shall leave you to your supper and your rest.”

“Thank you, good lady.”

Veronica smiled down at her, touching her slim hand to Rosamund’s cheek. A look of uncertainty passed over her features, then was gone. “Rest,” she said with a renewed pleasantness.

“I shall.”

“And eat!” she called over her shoulder.

Rosamund laughed despite her distractions. “I shall try.”

The darkness was absolute when she awoke, panting and sweating from the dream. Her mother falling…