Deeper Than Roses

by Charlene Cross

  Suddenly frightened, Kristiana grabbed a handful of skirt and set her feet at a full run. After what seemed an eternity, she stood before the church, the heckling bunch not far behind. Out of breath she paused briefly to gather her courage, then she stepped to the massive wooden doors. Shaky fingers pulled one open just enough for her to slip through.

  Momentarily she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, then she crossed herself and uttered a short prayer, whereupon she was met by the sound of another condemning voice.

  “You pagans are extremely bold, entering a house of worship, then blaspheming all that is holy!” From the shadows a stern-faced man stepped forward, his long robes slapping against his legs with each stride. “Get thee from inside these hallowed walls, Gypsy heathen!”

  Long fingers banded Kristiana’s arm, and the man directed her toward the door, intending to thrust her out onto the steps. Sanctimoniously he thought her a lowly infidel. Even if she was, she thought, his treatment of her was unwarranted. After all, his calling in life was to save lost souls. Or at least, that was what she believed to be the doctrine of the Church. Her anger flared, and she shook free of his hold.

  “Sir,” she stated, refusing to honor him with any other title, “you are mistaking my identity. I am not a Gypsy, but one who has been under their protection. I thought I could seek sanctuary from the Church, especially since I am a faithful worshiper who has partaken of the sacraments and who, in the not-too-distant past, attended Mass daily. But apparently the Church does not recognize one of its own. And, as one of its priests, you have judged me by my appearance and not by what is in my heart. For that I admonish you.”

  “Bold words for one who seeks my help.” The man studied her closely. “If you are not a heathen, then who are you?”

  “I am Kristiana Rosamond Harcourt, daughter and heir of the late Baron Robert Harcourt.” A look of surprise passed over the man’s face, but it was quickly masked, and Kristiana was uncertain if she had seen it at all. “My life is in danger, and I have come to ask for asylum from the Holy Roman Church. Will you grant me such?”

  “An unusual request, my child, but good fortune is with you, for the bishop is visiting us. Come, I shall ask an audience of him.”

  Kristiana followed the dark-robed man along the side aisle, on past the high altar, and into the side chapel.

  “Wait here while I speak to His Grace. I will not be long.”

  She watched as the robed man wended his way through the narrow passage at the rear of the church. When he had disappeared she set herself to repeating every prayer she had ever learned; then she added some of her own. In the midst of one her long lashes sealed themselves as she tried to picture her favorite saints, but to her utter dismay they eluded her.

  Instead, thick-lashed golden eyes painted themselves across the field of her mind, their amber fire burning itself into her soul; Kristiana felt herself melting under the heat of the imagined gaze. At once she heard footsteps hitting the stone floor, headed her way. Her eyes opened. Believing she was doomed because of her wayward thoughts, she fought to keep the telltale blush from rising any higher on her cheeks. Then, seeing the priest, she held her breath.

  “The bishop is most anxious to see you,” he stated, motioning her toward him, “He awaits you now.”

  “Thank you,” she said, relief flowing through her. Promising never to think of her handsome Gypsy again, especially in the house of God, she followed the priest through a narrow passageway. Oil-painted likenesses of the various saints she’d tried fruitlessly to envision stared down at her from the smooth stone walls. They seemed to mock her, and she wondered, after what had just transpired, if they would willingly intercede for her. She noticed a carved wooden door stood before her, and she stopped, waiting for it to be opened.

  As she stood there Kristiana nervously smoothed her skirt, then glanced down at herself; she fused red. Having forgotten about the threadbare tunic she wore, she pulled the thin material away from her firm breasts and prayed the bishop would not notice her improper mode of dress. A long mantle fell across her shoulders, and Kristiana stared up at the priest.

  “For decency’s sake.” He reached around her, his hand twisting the latch; the door opened. “The bishop awaits you.”

  A light of gratitude shone in Kristiana’s eyes as she pulled the heavy cloak more securely around her. “Thank you,” she whispered, gazing through the panel at the austere little room. Its solemn closeness reminded her of a tomb, and Kristiana shivered through and through. Taking a deep breath, she stepped across the threshold.

  Logan reined his mare beside Sidi’s wagon and jumped from the cart. “Kristiana!” he called, his feet hitting the steps at a frantic pace. Inside the wagon, espying only the sleeping Sidi, his aunt attending her, he stopped short “Where is she?” he questioned Rupa.

  “Who?”

  “Kristiana,” he bit out, knowing his aunt had heard him call her name.

  Rupa shrugged. “With the others, I suppose. She left with the women and children.”

  “You were told to keep her here!” A shaky hand raked through his hair in frustration. “Why did you let her go?”

  Rupa’s eyes narrowed as she rose from the low stool where she sat; her shoulders squared. “Why do you worry over her?” she asked, anger rising in her voice. “It is best she has gone. She doesn’t belong here and will bring us nothing but trouble if she stays. You are a fool for refusing to realize it.”

  “A fool?” Logan questioned. “It is not I who is the fool, Aunt, but you. Because you allowed her to leave, the trouble you speak of will now descend upon us all, and you are to blame! Make ready to break camp. The others should be here soon. If I’m not back by the time you are ready to leave, go without me. I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Where do you go?” Rupa asked, rushing toward him as he turned to leave.

  “To find Kristiana.” His eyes like twin suns burned into her. “Hope, Aunt, she is safe. For if she is not, I will lay a curse upon you.” Rupa stumbled back from him, fear written on her face. “Make haste and see the others are warned,” he ordered, his feet descending the steps. “I go back to Stirling.”

  Loping to his uncle’s wagon, Logan cut loose the lone stallion left behind. Bridling it, he caught a thick clump of mane and sprang to its back. At a quick command the stallion galloped from the camp, Logan hugging its back.

  Along the road he met the returning band, his uncle among them. Pulling the stallion to a sharp halt, he shared a few brief words with Yokka, then set the beast to running again. Behind the horse and rider a cry went up, and the fearful Gypsies disappeared into the wood. Horses, carts, men, women, and children all cut their own paths as they headed back to camp, intending to flee the area with haste.

  His golden eyes steady upon the road, Logan again prayed he’d find the errant Kristiana before it was too late. He’d gone to Stirling to make certain her passage would be safe. What had made her run from him, he could not say. But she would rue her decision to disobey him. His anger rose with each passing mile, and he prayed he would find her first.

  Standing before Kristiana, his straight, slim form draped in long robes of black, was a pious-looking man, his stoic face lined with age. He uttered not a word as he extended his hand, waiting for her to show the respect due him and his office.

  Another chill rippled through Kristiana’s body, and she nervously clutched her cloak around her. Her courage gathered, she stepped forward and started to kneel, intending to kiss the man’s ring, when she saw a movement from the corner of her eye. Her gaze searched the shadows, then her eyes widened as another man stepped into view.

  Her feet stumbled backward, and the bishop’s hand fell from her own; a cry of disbelief escaped her lips. “Edward! What…how…”

  She swallowed her words while her frightened eyes watched him stalk toward her; then Kristiana’s whole body reacted. Twirling, she aimed herself for the door, but before she could reach the latch Edward’s hen
chman, Richard Black, slid his muscular girth against it, blocking her way. His hand on his axe, he smiled at her; the cold light in his wintry gray eyes nearly froze her solid.

  Recovering, Kristiana spun toward the bishop, eyes pleading for his help, but the man remained impassive. Then Edward’s voice echoed in her suddenly ringing ears. “Kristiana, my pet, I had thought you dead. Praise be to the saints—you are safe and well. I came to the bishop to ask his help. But by some miracle you have found your way to me.”

  Unknown to Kristiana Edward had sought her at the nunnery first. Thwarted he’d made his way here. He stepped closer, and she thought her legs would give way, but somehow they managed to keep her upright.

  “Come, pet, I shall take you home, where you can recover from your ordeal.” His glacial blue gaze bore into her. “Your aunt and cousin anxiously await your return.”

  “No!” she cried, backing away from him. He stalked her still. “I’ll go nowhere with you, you mur—”

  A hard hand clamped over her mouth as Edward pulled her fully against him. Face-to-face with him Kristiana struggled briefly, then she went limp, for she had not the strength to fight him off. Abruptly she found herself seated in a massive wooden chair, Edward’s long fingers stroking the back of her neck beneath her braid. She cringed at his touch.

  “She’s distraught, Your Grace,” he said to the bishop. “Obviously, what she’s suffered at the hands of the Gypsies has been more than she could endure.”

  “Is this true, my child?” the bishop asked.

  Kristiana noticed the man had not moved. His eyes seemed to want confirmation, but as she opened her mouth to speak the truth Edward’s hand tightened painfully at the back of her neck, forestalling any comment she thought to make.

  “Your Grace,” her nemesis interjected, his fingers pressing ever harder, warning her to keep quiet, “for my betrothed’s sake, I ask that you allow us to take our leave. She has suffered much, seeing the Gypsies murder her father, then being carried off by the marauding bunch. I’m amazed at how well she looks after all she’s borne at their hands;”

  The bishop studied her. He then looked to Edward. “Do you still wish to marry her?” he questioned. He cleared his throat, then continued. “What I am saying is that even though the papers for your betrothal have been signed by the late Baron Harcourt and yourself and seem to be in perfect order, if it is discovered she has been mistreated by any of these heathens, you could be absolved from taking her as your wife. Under the circumstances, the Church will not hold you to the contract.”

  Kristiana understood that “mistreated” meant ravished, but how her father’s signature had ever found its way onto the contract, she was at a loss to say. However, she intended to find out. “Those papers—”

  “Are binding,” Edward stated, his fingers biting into her neck with more force than before; Kristiana winced and looked to the bishop. He seemed unaware of her pain. “I’m eager to see our nuptials go forth,” Edward continued. “No matter what has happened, I want Kristiana as my wife.”

  His normally expressionless face displayed obvious pleasure upon learning the couple would be united. “Then your marriage will proceed with the Church’s blessing,” the bishop said. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to officiate at the wedding.”

  “It would please us both, Your Grace,” Edward pronounced, smiling. “As soon as the plans have been set I will send word of the date. Now, if you will excuse us, I’m anxious to see Kristiana back to her home. As I have said, her aunt and cousin await her return.”

  The harsh grip on Kristiana’s neck told her that should one word of protest flow from her lips, the two people he had just mentioned would suffer for her willful disobedience. Then the hand slowly released its hold and slipped away; Kristiana quietly rose from the chair.

  Watching as Edward offered a monetary token of his appreciation to the bishop, she belatedly wished she had never fled her protector. But then, the one who had saved her had also planned to betray her. Whether she had stayed or had run, the result would have been the same. Truly, she was doomed.

  As Edward guided her along the side aisle toward the doors, Richard Black following close behind them, a quivering Kristiana felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. All hope had fled. Soon she would have to submit to Edward’s brutality. Oh, God, she thought, if she were only brave enough, she would end her life here and now.

  Forthwith she was thrust into the bright sunlight, Edward’s fingers wrapped around her arm. Stopping short, she blinked, for there before her was the crowd that had followed her, its size having grown.

  “There she is!” someone shouted.

  “Kill the Gypsy witch!” another yelled.

  A rock was hurled at her, striking her in the shoulder; a second hit her on the thigh.

  On a growl Edward moved to protect her, cursing the ruffians as he did so. Likewise, Richard Black stepped forth, his axe in hand. A shower of stones met both men. Edward fell back, one stone grazing his cheek, and Richard sank to his knees, his arms protecting his head. Miraculously, no stones fell upon Kristiana.

  Seeing her chance, she shook the heavy mantle from her shoulders, along with Edward’s groping hand, and picked up her skirt. Her feet struck out, hitting the street at a full run. A hue and cry rose up behind her as the crowd chased after her. Above it all she heard Edward’s angry shout, and she realized he and his henchman had joined the hunt as well.

  Her heart hammered loudly in her chest as Kristiana cut a weaving path through Stirling, ducking down one narrow street, then another, her pursuers not far behind. Her legs burned, as did her lungs; a pain gripped her side. But she kept to her dash, fearing Edward more than the rest. Should he catch up to her, she prayed the crowd would, too. She’d welcome a hail of stones, hoping their onslaught would end her life. Anything to keep her from Edward’s grasp!

  Winded, her legs quivering beneath her, Kristiana knew she could not go on much farther. Then she thought of her aunt and cousin. Perhaps she should give herself over to Edward, saving her relatives from his ire. No! Deceit was a game Edward played often, and she had no way of knowing if the pair still lived. Dear Lord! she pleaded silently, her stumbling feet fighting to keep her legs steady. Was there no one to save her this time?

  From a break between the thatched-roofed structures lining her path, an arm snaked out, encircling her waist. A cry escaped her lips, but it was quickly silenced as a hand clamped itself over her mouth. Her back held firmly against the muscular wall of her captor’s chest, Kristiana felt herself being lifted from the ground. Her feet dangling in midair, her heels battered the man’s shins while she struggled against his hold, but to no avail.

  A chorus of voices rose along the main thoroughfare not far from where she’d just been plucked, and Kristiana was thrust into a darkened doorway. Her cheek pressed the rough stone, and a heavy masculine body crushed itself against her, driving her deeper into the shadows.

  Wild with fear, Kristiana was certain the man who imprisoned her was Edward; she fought against him. Her small fists struck backward at him, their blows landing about his head. Abruptly she was spun round, eyes of gold pinning her to the wall. “Damnation, Kristiana! Keep still before we are discovered!”

  “Balo,” she breathed; then she slumped against him, Liza’s words of his betrayal momentarily forgotten. “Dear God, is it really you?”

  “Hush,” he ordered, holding her close, his own anger at her flowing from him. For the moment he knew she was safe.

  Their bodies nearly melding, Kristiana leaned into him. How had he found her? she wondered, relieved he had. With his strong arms encircling her she felt secure, protected; she never wanted to leave his embrace—ever!

  Beneath her ear she heard the steady beat of his heart; then, closing her eyes, she inhaled the familiar scent of him. It comforted her.

  Sighing, she nuzzled her cheek against the loosened piece of thong woven through the fine slits along the opening in his tunic. Crisp, dark hair
tickled her skin, and, unknown to Kristiana, her lips sought to taste the narrow strip of flesh exposed between leather and linen.

  As Logan felt the soft kisses raining down his chest, the air caught in his lungs. His eyes closed, and he fought the urgent desire growing inside him. Unable to withstand the torture of her lips a moment longer, Logan released a ragged breath; his hands cupped her face. Gently he pressed her mouth away from his chest. “Don’t, goddess,” he whispered in an agonized tone. As he gazed down into her upturned face he espied the dazed look in her luminescent emerald eyes, and his heart tripped wildly. Her softly parted lips beckoned to him, and his own began their descent, wanting to taste what she seemed willing to offer. In a breath of time his open mouth brushed lightly against hers, then withdrew, and Logan struggled to control his rising passions. With a will of iron he set her from him. “We must go,” he said, his voice thick, unsteady.

  His husky words broke the spell under which Kristiana had fallen. She blinked. A hint of a blush crept up onto her cheeks as she realized what had happened. She had allowed his golden eyes to mesmerize her, and, captured by their magical amber glow, she’d succumbed completely, her reserve melting like the wax of a lighted candle.

  The angry voices had faded, and Logan grasped Kristiana’s hand. Swiftly, silently, he guided her along the narrow streets. As he wended his way toward the waiting stallion he thought of his vow. Damn his vow! his heart cried, knowing with all his being he wanted Kristiana for his own. But first he had to make sure she was out of harm’s way.

  Thinking how close he had come to losing her to Edward again, Logan felt his ire rise anew. Why had she run from him? he wondered, promising to discover what had made her bolt. But he knew the questions would have to wait until they had overcome the threat of encountering Edward’s men, for Richard Black was not the only one who had ridden to Stirling with MacHugh. Were they fortunate enough to escape his stepbrother’s clutches, Logan swore he would then have his answer. And her reason had better be good.