The Champion

Blinking furiously, Linnet made out a figure hunched over her. His hair and clothing blended with the gloom so his face seemed to float above her.

Simon of Blackstone’s face.

“Sweet Mary, I have died,” Linnet whispered.

A dry chuckle greeted her statement. “I think not, though doubtless you will be bruised come morn. I am sorry I did not see you coming.” Dimly she was aware of gentle pokes and prods as he examined her arms and legs. “I do not think anything is broken.” He sat back on his haunches. “Can you move your limbs?”

“Simon?” Linnet murmured.

He cocked his head. “You know who I am?”

“But…you perished in the Holy Land….”

“Nay, though I came right close on a few occasions.”

Joy pulsed through her, so intense it brought fresh tears to eyes that had cried a river for him.

He leaned closer, his jaw stubbled, his eyes shadowed by their sockets. “Do I know you?”

A laugh bubbled in her throat, wild and a bit hysterical. She cut it off with a sob. She had been right. He did not even remember her or their wondrous moment together. “Nay.”

“Curse me for a fool. You’ve hit your head, and here I leave you lying on the cold ground. Where do you live?”

“Just yonder in the next street.”

He nodded, and before she could guess what he planned, scooped her up, bundle and all, and stood.

The feel of his arms around her opened a floodgate of poignant memories. “Please, put me down.”

“Nay, it is better I carry you till we can be certain you are not seriously hurt.”

So gallant. But his nearness made her weak with longing, and she feared she might say something stupid. “I am not hurt.”

“You are dazed and cannot judge.”

“I can so. I am an apothecary.”

“I see.” His teeth flashed white in the gloom as he smiled. Though she couldn’t see it, she knew there’d be a dimple in his right cheek. “I should have guessed, for you smell so sweet.” He sniffed her hair. “Ah, roses. I thought longingly of them when I was away on Crusade.”

She had always worn this scent. “Did they remind you of a girl you had left behind?” she asked softly, hopefully.

“Nay.” His eyes took on a faraway look, then he shook his head. “Nothing like that. I have no sweetheart and never have.”

Linnet’s eyes prickled. “Please put me down.”

“You are stubborn into the bargain, my rose-scented apothecary,” he teased. “But I am, too. Which way is home?”

Linnet sighed and pointed at her shop. It was heaven to be carried by him, to feel his heart beat against her side. If he had dreamed of roses, she had dreamed of this. She looked up, scarcely able to believe this was not some fevered imagining, but the warmth of his body enveloping her as it had long ago.

All too soon they reached the back of her shop.

“Will someone be within?” he asked.

Shaken from her reverie, Linnet nodded. “My maid.”

Simon kicked at the door with his toe.

“Who is there?” Drusa called out.

“It is I, Drusa,” Linnet said, but the voice seemed too weak and breathless to be her own.

Nonetheless, the bar scraped as the maid lifted it, then flung open the heavy door.

“Oh, mistress, I was that wor—” Drusa gasped and fell back a step, one hand pressed to her ample bosom, her lined face going white as flour.

“Fear not,” said Simon gently. “Your mistress has taken a tumble and hit her head. Where can I lay her down?”

Drusa, not the most nimble-witted soul, goggled at them.

Aiken appeared behind her. “What is this? Mistress Linnet!”

“I…” Linnet’s wits seemed to have deserted her.

“Your mistress has hit her head. Direct me to her bedchamber, lad,” Simon said firmly but not sharply. “Drusa, we will want water for washing, a cloth and ale if you have it.”

Used to following orders, Drusa spun from the door, hurried across the kitchen and began gathering what he’d requested.

Aiken scowled. “Ain’t fitting for ye to go above stairs.”

“Aiken…” Linnet began, her head pounding in earnest now. “Pray excuse his rudeness, sir. He was Papa’s apprentice, and with my father gone, sees himself as protector of our household.”

Simon nodded. “Your caution and concern for your lady do you credit; Aiken.” His voice held a hint of suppressed amusement. “But these are unusual circumstances and I am no stranger. I am Simon of Blackstone, a Knight of the Black Rose, newly returned from—”

“They said ye all died!” Aiken exclaimed.

Simon smiled. “Only six of us survived to return home.” The smile dimmed, and profound sadness filled his eyes.

Linnet’s heart contracted, thinking of the hardships he must have endured. But he was back, alive.

Aiken grunted. “I suppose it’s all right, then.” He led the way through the kitchen and into the workroom beyond. “Those stairs go up to the second floor.”

“Will you light the way?” Simon asked.

Aiken grunted again, seized the thick tallow candle from the worktable and tromped up the stairs.

Simon followed.

“I can walk,” Linnet whispered.