The Flower And The Sword

by Jacqueline Navin

  The sound of the door opening was accompanied by a sudden draft that made the candles flicker. Several heads snapped up and were quickly brought down again when they saw Rogan’s glare.

  With her head bowed and eyes downcast, Lily came to sit at the edge of the bench. In the candlelight, her tumble of curls looked like a shimmering veil of gold and the soft curves of her face still glowed from the kiss of the cold air. Such a winsome sight, Rogan could not help but notice. A pity that fair facade hid such a corrupt heart. Hands folded on her lap, she sat in demure silence waiting for her meal as Rogan swept a quick gaze around to his men to make sure no one moved to go to her aid.

  “Am I to eat, as well?”

  The men shifted and cleared their throats and stared intently into their cups.

  Rogan chose to ignore her, forcing her to ask, “Sybilla, where is my cup?”

  Even Rogan was unprepared for the venom of his servant. “Lord Rogan is my master, and him is who I take my orders from. You can get your own meal, and this will be the last one you’ll eat if you don’t help.”

  “Thank you, Sybilla,” Rogan said when he saw Lily coming to her feet. “I am too tired to enjoy a catfight just now. Lily, get your cup and fill it. Sybilla, show her where she can find the bread and broth.” At Lily’s shocked look, he explained, “In the future, you will not expect to be served by Sybilla or Thomas. As to your chores, we will discuss that later.”

  “Chores?” she squeaked.

  He gave her a quelling look. “Later.”

  He finished his meal before Lily returned. Rising, he caught Andrew’s eye. He read the unspoken question in his brother’s glance.

  “Even I have had enough for one day. I am going to bed. Have Sybilla give Lily the other room, and you take the third. The men can bed down in here after the table has been cleared away.”

  “I will take care of it”

  Suddenly weary, Rogan stepped on the creaking treads of the old stairs. As an afterthought, he called Thomas over. “Bring up that old tub and fetch me some water.”

  The bedchamber was cold so he built a fire. By the time Thomas arrived, Rogan had already stripped down to his underlinen. He prowled restlessly, alone with his thoughts, while Thomas fetched the water.

  He was particularly infuriated. Lily had managed to appear completely ingenuous and, blast his weakness, pathetically appealing. Even with those cat eyes and lush mouth, she had a damnable way of looking like a lost child.

  Rogan hunkered down in front of the fire and stoked the embers. The flames leaped to life, warming his skin, but he still felt cold inside. He had to be careful with the little flower, he decided. She could coax pity out of a demon.

  A loud gasp hissed behind him. His head snapped up as he realized his shirt was off and his back was to the door.

  The scars.

  Whirling around, he found Lily standing in the doorway, holding a thick pile of linens. Her face was frozen in horror.

  She had seen them, then. The ugly pattern of reformed tissue would drain the color from a seasoned warrior. A woman, upon viewing them, might faint.

  “Sybilla sent me up with these,” she sputtered in an unsteady voice, raising up the stack of cloths in her arms. “She said you would need them.”

  A strange anger twisted its way around his heart. He had left Andrew specific instructions for Lily to be given another room. Apparently Sybilla had intercepted and sent her here to test his rage.

  “So what do you think?” he said at last, grateful that his voice came strong, betraying none of the emotion suddenly swelling to life. “Not very beautiful, is it? I suppose it must repulse you to view it, but after all, it is fitting, I suppose, as you were the one who did it.”

  “I did not do that,” she whispered vehemently, surprising him. The gleam of unshed tears made her eyes sparkle in the firelight. “Never say that!”

  God in heaven, she was beautiful. In those months he had spent recuperating, he had almost forgotten just how much. Here, with the firelight glancing off her golden curls and her delicate chin set into a defiant line, he felt a familiar stirring in some hinter region of his soul.

  Thomas’s arrival just then with the bathwater was timely. On his heels, Sybilla appeared, pressing a chunk of soap silently into Lily’s hands and giving her a meaningful look before following her husband out the door. Holding the soap as if it were some novel object she had never before seen, Lily turned to Rogan.

  Sybilla wanted them together tonight, Rogan realized, wondering if the servant knew that having Lily view his wounds, touching them and feeling the uneven ridges of the scars as she washed him, would make him almost mad with outrage. Good God, did the woman wish Lily dead?

  “Get out,” he told her, turning his back on her again. Trying not to think of what it was she was seeing, the repulsion she must be feeling at the sight of the ruined flesh, he dropped the linen and stepped into the tub.

  “Wh-where should I go?” she asked with uncertainty.

  “Give me that soap and leave. One of the other rooms should be free.”

  She came forward, her slim fingers brushing against his palm as she dropped the soap into his hand. It was as if that slight touch changed him, for all of the sudden his fingers closed over hers.

  He felt rather than saw her surprise, for he was staring at a large knot of wood on the far wall. “On second thought,” he said, “I will need someone to wash my back.”

  If she had hesitated but a moment, Rogan truly did not know what he would have done. He supposed this was some kind of test. If she had failed, he might have leaped up out of the water and taken her slim neck in his palms. He might have, for the hurt and pain were balled up so tightly inside he was doubtful he could have controlled it. As it was, she made no protest, but dutifully dipped the washcloth in the water and worked it against the slab of lye to form a lather.

  He braced himself for her touch, but when it came, featherlight and untroubled by its subject, it was worse than the recoil he had imagined. Her hands glided easily across his back, unconsciously sensual, as she smoothed the lather over his ruined skin. She gently massaged the tired muscle and left him surprisingly relaxed in the wake of her ministrations. Yet another tension began to build, a blending of resentment and unwilling desire. He found himself clenching his teeth, working his jaw with a vengeance until his temples throbbed. Her hands moved down his back, to his waist, spreading out to circle around to his sides.

  Suddenly he could bear it no longer. Grabbing her hands by the wrists, he pushed her away.

  “Go to your bed now,” he said gruffly. “Tomorrow we will speak about your duties. As you can see, the servant staff is small and you will have to do your share in the running of the household.”

  She paused. Refusing to look at her for fear of losing his thin veneer of control, Rogan casually picked up the soap and cloth and began to wash his hair. His eyes were closed, but he heard the soft click of the door latch clearly enough to tell him she had gone.

  The tension in the room receded as he finished washing and emerged from the tub. He would have to speak with Sybilla. He did not want any more surprises. And as for Lily, why should it bother him if his scars repulsed her? In fact, they should. Not because they were ugly, though they were that, but for the treachery and betrayal they represented.

  The whole incident was strangely disturbing, leaving him raw and aching as he climbed into bed and doused the light.

  His back!

  Alone, in her room, Lily sat in darkness, unaware of the cold, not feeling the hardness of the pallet upon which she perched. Her mind reeled with the haunting vision of those scars. Huge strips of puckered flesh, still red and looking startlingly new, crisscrossing the living flesh. She had seen them before, those awful welts, but somehow she had thought they would fade.

  They would never fade, not the wounds on his back nor on his heart.

  She closed her eyes and swallowed hard at this harsh truth. Lord, she was miserable. She had
no one. A family of deceivers, a husband who despised her, servants who held her in contempt. A life without promise, lonely and bereft of love.

  What was worse, she was almost sick with worry over Elspeth. The memory of her stricken face loomed in Lily’s mind, haunting her and bringing tears to her eyes. Was that what ate at her—her own duplicity? Lily wished she had ventured to query her little sister, but she had been too afraid to dare it, Elspeth’s nerves were so delicate.

  What had made Elspeth lie? It was Catherine, to be sure. She could only assume her eldest sister had threatened something ghastly to force Elspeth to cooperate with her. Poor, poor Elspeth. Lily remembered her little sister’s anguish after Rogan was imprisoned and felt a fresh clutch of grief. How Elspeth must have suffered. Rage chased the sadness as she seethed against Catherine. Because of her, Elspeth was in shambles and Rogan was irrevocably changed, consumed by hate and bitterness.

  And Lily’s life was ruined beyond measure.

  As she leaned her head against the bedpost, she wondered what she had done to deserve it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “So, you plan to make a servant of your wife?” Andrew said as he cocked his crossbow. They were out in the forest, hunting small game, an easy task since the tracks were clear in the freshly fallen snow.

  “It will not harm her to learn how to cook and to help with the serving,” Rogan answered with a shrug.

  Andrew took careful aim and sent the arrow flying. “Ah, that makes ten hares.” He paused. “Sybilla hates her. She is a vicious hag, you know. She might try to harm Lily.”

  As they walked to retrieve the felled animal, Rogan thought of her sending Lily to him last night. He said, “I can handle the servants.”

  Andrew glanced at him. “I wonder at this course you have chosen.”

  “This course is not one I have chosen. It is the only one I have.”

  “Have you given no thought on what Marshand will do now that you have abducted his daughter?”

  “She is no longer his daughter, but my wife. And there is nothing the old fool can do without exposing his own treachery. How would it look to have it known that he had a fellow noble all but killed for nothing more than injured pride? Enguerrand had the upper hand once, but he played it and now he has lost the advantage.”

  “And this is what you want, to live with a woman you despise, dedicating yourself to her punishment to the end of your days?”

  Rogan did not answer as they bagged the game and mounted their horses. Andrew’s words stirred in Rogan’s heart. Once, he had thought that the elusive prize of happiness would be his. He had thought he had found a woman with whom he could share a life of contentment and desire and the kind of sharing a man yearns for with a woman. It was a bitter medicine to be reduced to this: a jailer, a tyrant But, as he had said, what else was there?

  Rogan growled, “You think I make too much of all this, do you?”

  “Of course not!” Andrew answered sharply. He sighed, shaking his head. “I just wonder what it will cost you. And what you hope to gain.”

  Sighing, Rogan asked, “What exactly is it that has you so troubled?”

  “Your soul, brother,” Andrew answered without hesitation. “It is your immortal soul which has me so troubled.”

  Lily was in the kitchen when the brothers returned from their hunting. Andrew, who had not spoken a word to her since their flight from Charolais, dumped his pouch on the table and went upstairs. Leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, Rogan slung his pouch up beside his brother’s and waved a hand at Lily to open it.

  Gingerly picking up the first sack, she peered inside to find the carcasses of several small animals. Letting out a shrill cry, she flung the offensive contents on the floor.

  “Is that how you treat your supper, wife?”

  She gaped at him. “Supper? You give me a pack of disgusting…dead things?”

  “Have you never eaten rabbit or squirrel?”

  “Yes, of course. But it was merely bits of meat in a stew. You cannot expect me to touch those!”

  “I most certainly do,” he drawled. “In fact, you are to skin and gut them, then cook them for the evening meal.”

  “But I do not know how!” she objected, eyeing the stiff corpses strewn at her feet.

  “Sybilla will tell you,” he said. He leaned his back against the wall, a slight twinge of pain registering on his face. Lily thought of the tender wounds, remembering he had said they trouble him sometimes.

  “You had better pick those up,” he said casually, indicating the game.

  Lily stared back at him, considering her options. Up to now, she had obeyed his orders, except when she had refused to come into the house. That had been foolish. If she were to indulge her wounded pride, she would have to choose her battles more wisely.

  But she could not bring herself to touch those hairy creatures, not even for fear of him. Acting on impulse, she grabbed a large flat spoon and slipped the bowl under a rabbit, balancing it cautiously. With infinite care, she brought it back up to the table and dumped it.

  Turning back to Rogan, she smiled smugly at her accomplishment.

  “You do enjoy your petty triumphs, do you not?” he said. “Take comfort in whatever duties you can manage to avoid.” In a sudden movement, he pushed away from the wall and stood before her, his whole body only inches from hers. His hands stayed at his sides, but she was caught just the same by those gray wolf eyes. “You will not be able to evade all of them so easily.”

  The spoon fell from her limp fingers, clattering onto the wooden floor. There was no mistaking his meaning—the insinuating closeness of his body, the searing look all made clear to what he was referring. Lily felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. With his smirk back in place, Rogan sauntered out of the room.

  She trembled with rage, finding it difficult to refrain from the impulse to pick up the spoon and send it flying at him. Paling at the realization that should she do it—though, of course, she never would—the wooden missile would hit him squarely on the back. The thought of aggravating his wounds made her feel ashamed.

  She could not even indulge in a pleasant fantasy without guilt! Well, she decided petulantly, she would imagine the spoon hitting him on the back of the head, then. The image made her smile, and she played it over and over in her mind as she scooped up the rest of the animal carcasses.

  Sybilla came in, looked at the pile of game, and said, “Take the large knife and cut the throats. Then, pull the skin away from the meat and slice it off. Try to keep the pelts in one piece, we can use them.” Picking up a bag of peeled turnips, she poured them in the pot hanging over the fire and left again.

  Lily stood still for a long moment. Cut the throats? Slice away the skin?

  Enough. She had played the docile role for too long. Summoning up her courage, she daintily picked up the small corpses with her thumb and forefinger and plopped each one, fur and all, into the pot of boiling turnips.

  Brushing off her hands, she smiled to herself with great satisfaction. There, she had made supper.

  Rather surprised when Rogan did not appear to drag her downstairs by her hair, Lily curled tighter under the rough blanket. The warmth from the tiny fireplace was sufficient, though she missed her furs. But the setting was cozy enough, and surprisingly, she was being allowed to enjoy it undisturbed.

  With a surge of mischievous glee, she wondered how they had enjoyed their stew and how long it had taken them to finish picking the fur out of their teeth.

  Her pleasure was short-lived. Rogan pushed her door in and stood on the threshold. “Come to my room, Lily,” he said.

  “I—I am already abed.”

  “Do not force me to say it twice.” He turned and disappeared, presumably to his room.

  Lily stood on trembling legs and followed. In the dim light of his chamber, Rogan was just a shadow by the bed.

  A taper flared and he touched it to a torch, bringing the place to light. Silently he moved to
the hearth and knelt down to stoke the fire. It was a long time before he spoke.

  “You ruined good meat, which is hard to come by in these cold months. What is more, you wasted what took Andrew and I an entire day to hunt. You did not think I would overlook that, did you?”

  “Sybilla told me to skin them. You saw how I could not even touch them. She wanted me to chop off their heads!”

  “You are to do as you are told.”

  “I am to take orders from a servant?” She stamped her foot down in indignation.

  “Sybilla has my authority. She will let you know what it is I expect from you.”

  “And what will you do, beat me if I refuse?” she shot back, her chin jutting out defiantly.

  “I may,” he said threateningly, straightening and advancing toward her.

  “Well, then do just that!” she exclaimed, taking a step forward as if openly pronouncing she was willing to meet this fate.

  “Take care, Lily, you do not want to provoke me.”

  “Spare me your threats. If you will beat me, then go ahead, for I truly do not care any longer because nothing matters. You will do what you will. What can be worse than what has already befallen me? You have taken me to this awful place, with only those who revile me as my companions. I have not one stitch of clothing other than this torn gown—my wedding dress at that I have not bathed in days. I am exhausted, having been woken up by that harpy you call a servant before dawn to cook your meals. I am tired, Rogan, and I am filthy. If I get a few bruises along with it, so be it.”

  Rogan stared at her for a long time before moving slowly to close the gap between them. Lily braced herself, a sudden lapse of courage making it hard to stand in front of his heartless gaze and wait for the first blow.

  “You have no other clothes.” It was not a question. Rather it was as if he had only just realized his oversight.

  Lily blinked in surprise. “I have been wearing this for almost a week.”

  “Why did you not ask me for something suitable?” He sounded irritated.