The Flower And The Sword

by Jacqueline Navin

  Lily was too struck by disbelief to speak. Rogan brushed past her, knocking her back a step as he stomped to the door. “Thomas!” he yelled down the corridor. “Heat some water for the tub!”

  Lily could hardly believe her luck. Here she was, ready to take the worst of punishments, now being treated to a bath.

  “Take that off,” Rogan said, coming back into the room and closing the door. He waved his finger at her gown.

  “Wh-what?” Lily stammered.

  “Get that thing off. As you have just called it to my attention, it’s covered with filth.”

  “It is all I have.”

  “I will find you something else. Take it off now.”

  Since he obviously had no intention of leaving, or even turning around to afford her some privacy, Lily stood awkwardly before him.

  He offered a lopsided smile as he struck a cocky pose, arms crossed in front of him, shoulder against the wall. “I have seen it all before, wife.”

  “Matters were different between us then.”

  “What difference is it?”

  She stuck her chin out. “It makes a difference to me.”

  “I am having that thing burned, so if you want, I will cut it off for you,” he suggested, pulling out the small dagger in his belt and showing it to her.

  “No!” she said. Pushing aside her modesty, as well as her outrage, she tore off the offensive garment, trying not to think of his gaze sliding down her form.

  “Thomas is coming,” she said. “Is he to view me unclothed? Is that part of your revenge?”

  He scowled at her, but drew a blanket off the bed and held it out. As he wrapped it around her shoulders, she thought how strange it was that the brush of his fingers along her bare skin should seem so warm. He held her for a moment, arms snug around her, the length of his body pressed lightly against the back of hers. The tickle of his breath was at her ear, making tiny currents of pleasure ripple through her.

  Thomas arrived with the water. Lily ducked behind Rogan, but she needn’t have worried. Thomas did not dare a single glance. As soon as he had gone, she quickly dropped the blanket, lifted her shift over her head and nearly leaped into the steaming tub.

  She knew Rogan watched her, but she could hardly have cared now she was immersed. She washed leisurely, taking time to soap and rinse her hair twice.

  She would have liked a longer soak, but the gray gaze trained on her every movement eventually made her self-conscious. She rose and grabbed one of the drying linens. Wrapped tightly in the plush cloth, she sat by the fire and combed her hair out with her fingers. Rogan frowned at her from his seat on the bed.

  “I have no comb for my hair. It will get tangled. And I have no clothes,” Lily said.

  “You will not need any tonight.”

  Lily felt her heart give a lurch and lodge itself in her throat.

  He continued, “I will instruct Sybilla to secure something suitable. Tomorrow.”

  Lily thought of the kinds of gowns Sybilla was likely to deem suitable, but said nothing. She was far too concerned about his comment regarding her not needing clothes tonight.

  He had said he wanted children. She should have prepared herself for this. But night after night during their long journey here, he had rolled her into his blanket without giving the slightest suggestion of desire. What had he said on the boat? If he could overcome his revulsion, he would see to getting children from her? But if he indeed felt repulsed, why were his eyes so dark and why did they linger almost longingly on her body?

  She stood, gathering the ends of the linen around her. “I should be going back to my room.”

  His hand shot out and grabbed her arm before she could get by him. “There still is the matter of the ‘stew’ you made for supper.”

  So, it was that on his mind, not desire. “Now that I am clean, you wish to beat me?” she asked innocently.

  “I will not beat you. You will find out what your punishment will be when the time comes.”

  “Then, I shall go to my room.”

  She made to leave again, but his grip held her fast. In a soft voice that brooked no argument, he said, “You will stay here tonight.”

  Her heart leaped in panic. She could not do this. The cruelty, the humiliations, even abuse she could take, but not this intimate touch when it brought so much back, so much she could not bear to remember.

  She did not move as he stepped behind her, his hands on the linen where it lay against her shoulders. Gently he clenched his fists, gathering the cloth into his hands.

  “Please, no. I—I’m not ready.”

  His voice came soft and clear at her ear. “It is not like this is the first time. I told you I intended this.”

  “Why? You hate me!”

  He did not answer. Turning her around to face him, he slipped his hand around her waist and drew her close. “Yes, I hate you. But you are my wife.”

  His head dipped down and his lips captured hers, stealing her breath away. The feel of his mouth stunned her for a dizzying moment She stiffened, jolted to the core by her body’s almost violent reaction. Then, incredibly, he gentled the kiss. Somewhere in the back of her brain was a dull awareness of her intention to resist, but she did not heed it A sensuous longing sparked to life, powerful enough to rob her of her will.

  A low moan escaped, sounding passionate and mournful in her own ears, a testimony to the torment of that kiss as it deepened. He caught her tight up against him, parting her lips and slipped his tongue inside, touching it to hers.

  This was what she had feared. The feel of his body was like a drug, intoxicating and able to lull her into sensual abandon. But for him, this was merely his duty. Not a pleasant one at that, he himself had said.

  The thought brought her up short. In a single burst of resolve, she pulled back, stumbling a few steps when he let her go.

  He looked furious. He looked glorious. His eyes smoldered, his lips parted as his chest rose and fell heavily.

  “Please,” she said. Her voice sounded meek, pleading. She tried again, this time forcing her tone to a stronger level “Not like this, Rogan.”

  “How would you have it?” he growled. “You dare deny me?”

  She couldn’t speak. She simply shook her head.

  He raised a single finger before her. “I could command this of you if I had a desire to do so.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged. “But I beg you not to.”

  He glared at her, as if he could scarce believe her gall to ask so much. Suddenly he dropped his hand. “You plead so prettily, Lily. A man would have to possess a heart of stone to be deaf to it. And though mine is no longer the tender member it once was, even I cannot bear to force you.”

  His expression grew fierce as he reached a hand out and cupped the back of her neck. “I told you on the boat what I expect Tonight, you learned that I meant it. I shall be requiring you in my bed. Prepare yourself, for this is the last time I will be patient.”

  She bit her lips and nodded, wishing he would let her go. Tears were brimming and she did not want him to see her cry.

  Staring into those gray depths, she feared she would be lost. So much of her hungered for the very things she denied him.

  It seemed an eternity before he released her. “Go to your room,” he said simply.

  On winged feet she fled without a moment’s hesitation, slamming the door to her small chamber behind her and leaning against it while she tried in vain to steady her thundering heart. She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing the tears. They slipped out all the same, silently running down her cheeks and onto her hands where the slim band of gold Rogan had long ago placed on the second knuckle of her index finger gleamed dully in the candlelight. Throughout all that had passed, she had never removed it, not even for her wedding to de Aignier.

  The next time he took her in his arms, she would have to submit. Be taken without passion, without love. A chore, a duty it would be. Nothing more.

  If Rogan had wanted to keep her in hell,
he had found an excellent way to do it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sybilla woke Lily just before dawn the following morning.

  “Here’s a dress,” she spat, throwing a rough woolen garment onto the bed. Lily sat up.

  “Put it on and come to the kitchen. There’s work to be done. Lord Rogan’s gone, and I’m to make certain you don’t be lazing about just ’cause he’s not here.”

  Lily dressed quickly and went downstairs.

  Sybilla was waiting. “After you are done with the pasties, there is laundry to be boiled. You will find the cauldron outside. Make sure you stir roughly. Thomas has built the fire for you but you will have to light it when you are ready.”

  Lily did not bother to respond. Resigned, she turned to the chore of baking the meat pies.

  She kneaded the dough and rolled it out with the heavy pin. Placing a dollop of spiced venison in each small round, she folded the pie in half and pinched the edges, just as Sybilla had taught her. She could barely lift the heavy baking tray and several pies slid into the fire while she was struggling to put them over the hearth. The flames reacted violently, shooting up a shower of sparks that singed her sleeve.

  It was only a short time later when the acrid smell of charred food caught her attention. Too late, she dove for the tray, burning her hand. Her efforts were in vain, for the pasties were blackened beyond hope. With a vengeance and some entertaining thoughts of Rogan doubling over when her fist connected to his stomach, she began again, cutting the fat into the flour to make the crusts and mincing and spicing a new slab of meat

  When these were cooked and put on the flat sill to cool, she hurried to see to the laundry. Her hands were covered with tiny cuts from her misuse of the knife and the burn on her palm throbbed. But she was running too far behind, so she put the discomfort out of her mind while she vigorously stirred the boiling cauldron.

  She was scalded once or twice, then had to repeat the agitating action again when she realized that she had forgotten to add the soap. By the time she wrung each piece and spread them on the rocks to dry, she was in agony. There was not an inch on her body that didn’t hurt. Shivering in the cold, she hastily stoked the fire, too preoccupied with wanting to return to the warmth of the house to notice when her hem caught on fire. She was beating out the flames when the first sounds reached her ears.

  She stopped, lifting her head. All at once, she became acutely aware of the gloominess of her surroundings. The day was overcast, and the thick cluster of tree trunks around her made it dimmer. When another screech came, her first thought, she was ashamed to admit, was of spirits.

  Her second, after picking up the distinct rustle of the dead bracken, was of animals. She remembered the cry of wolves that first day and wondered if they would be so daring in daylight as they were purported to be at night Almost immediately, however, she detected high-pitched voices and knew that it was no ghost or beast who stalked her, but only children.

  She could see them now, hunkered down behind a piling of boulders halfway up the hill. The trees were not so thick, nor were the little ones so clever for them to be invisible.

  Her aching body and dispirited soul had put her in a foul mood. “You better come down here and tell me what you are about,” she called crossly.

  “See, I told you not to go so close. She smelled us!” came a loud whisper as the three faces ducked under cover.

  Far from amused, Lily shouted, “You had better tell me why you are spying on me!”

  Tentative heads poked up once again. “We have the cross of our Lord to protect us, witch!”

  “Get going, then, you silly twits!” she snapped, turning her back to them. The cold was seeping clear into her bones and she had no time to fuss with the pack of waifs.

  Indistinguishable whispers hissed from behind her, which she promptly ignored. After a space, she heard them scurry off. She did not know who they were, and didn’t much care. Hauling up some of the sodden garments that had slipped into the snow, she gave the fire a few vicious pokes and hurried indoors.

  She noticed the missing pies immediately. With a cry of rage, she flew to the open sill to stare dumbly at the empty tray.

  Those devils! They stole her pies!

  Plopping down onto a nearby stool, she fought the wave of anger curling in her chest. The halt of footsteps behind her brought her attention up to the frowning countenance of Sybilla, standing just inside the door.

  “You lazy girl,” she hissed, her beady eyes glowing like twin dots of fire. “I leave you alone and find you resting. Where is dinner? Have you been sitting there this whole time? Well, if you do not see fit to follow my instruction, then you simply will not eat today. Now, take the cart and go into the woods to gather some firewood. And don’t be all day about it.”

  “I am soaked to the bone,” Lily said dangerously. “And I am exhausted. I am going upstairs to my room. I will remove this wretched garment and hang it up to dry and while I am waiting, I think I shall have a nap.”

  Sybilla took a menacing step toward her. “Get out in the woods, I say, and do what I have told you.”

  Lily stood, and without any forethought to the foolishness of her actions, sauntered brazenly up to the woman. Sticking her chin out, she stared into the pinched face.

  “No,” she said simply. Sybilla’s mouth fell open. Grabbing a handful of raw beans, Lily brushed past her and climbed the stairs.

  Andrew St. Cyr stood in the doorway of Rogan’s chamber and stared at the hunched shoulders of his brother. It was one of those times Rogan wanted to be left alone, Andrew knew, but he had too many questions to quietly retreat and leave him in peace.

  Andrew said, “All went according to plan. I would have expected you to be strutting about her like a smug cock. Do not tell me you have doubts?”

  “Do not be ridiculous!” Rogan exploded, coming to his feet to pace before the hearth.

  “Then what is it?”

  He stopped, resting his hand on the stone lintel. “It is just that it is more complicated than I thought. She acts one minute like the suffering martyr, then the next she is a spiteful vixen.”

  “You had feelings for her once,” Andrew prodded. “She is quite beautiful. It seems she is adept at inspiring sympathy. All the men refer to her as ’the little flower.’”

  “Truth, she excels at it,” Rogan growled. “I half expected a rebellion on my hands. She has this quality of innocence. The damned creature pouts as if she were the wronged one. As for being referred to as ‘the little flower,’ I believe I have you to thank for that.” Whirling, he held up a finger as if scolding his younger brother. “If you are suddenly so concerned with the saving of souls, then you had better start with hers, and quit your troubling over me.”

  Unperturbed at his brother’s temper, Andrew exclaimed, “An excellent idea. You are so right!” Thoughtfully, he rubbed his jaw. “But how to go about it? It will not be simple…”

  Puzzled, Rogan watched him as he hurried away, all but rubbing his hands together over his mysterious revelation.

  Three cooked, fat partridges sat on the windowsill, filling the glade with their luscious aroma. Lily was crouched down behind the scrubbed oak table.

  It had been almost a sennight since the little thieves had struck, and she had become near obsessed with catching them and giving each a turn over her knee. Every day, she had set out enticing treats to tempt them, but the little demons did not appear.

  One benefit of her newfound mission was Sybilla’s approval of Lily’s show of industry. Combined with Lily’s defiance, it was quite effective in discouraging the dyspeptic servant’s abuse. As much as Lily was able under the circumstances, she was enjoying herself.

  Ah! At last her patience was rewarded. Lily watched triumphantly as a grubby hand reached up and closed around the tantalizing bait.

  Lily crept to the door. Ignoring the cold blast of wind, she emerged just in time to see the small trio disappear around the corner of the house. She smiled
grimly as she slipped unheard along the wall, pausing to listen.

  “Go ahead, Lizzie, take it,” the boy’s voice said.

  “But you are hungry, too.”

  “No, take it. I’ll get another.”

  Oh, no, you won’t, Lily thought. Her hand itched to slap their impudent little behinds.

  “But the witch baked it. What if she poisoned it?”

  Now, there was a thought. Nothing deadly, mind you, just something to have made them regret their boldness.

  “Nonsense, Lizzie, why would she poison her own meal? She din’ know that Oliver would snatch it.” This from an older, steadier female voice.

  “Witches know things. Maybe she saw it in a spell.”

  “Are you going to eat it or not?” the boy demanded.

  “Go on, I know you’re hungry,” the oldest urged.

  Now, thought Lily. She peeked her head around the wall.

  She was taken aback at the sight before her. They stood in a circle while the smallest one bit voraciously into the little bird. The boy, whose back was to her, scanned the woods for any threat of discovery while the oldest, the girl with the soft voice, watched the youngest eat. Her grimy face was enraptured by the sight of the succulent meat, but she made no move as it was devoured before her eyes. And the child, the littlest girl who guiltily partook of the feast, was only four years old. If that

  Gone was Lily’s thirst for revenge. As the tot’s clumsy fingers shoved bits into her mouth until her cheeks bulged, Lily thought, My God, when was the last time they had eaten?

  The little girl, Lizzie as they had called her, suddenly stopped. She thrust out the half-eaten carcass. “Here, Anna, you have the rest.”

  The older girl could not withstand the temptation. Reaching for it, she tore off a small leg and smiled, “Just this little bit. Go on, Oliver, you take it.”

  Lily could not have moved if the angel Gabriel had appeared at that moment and bade her take flight. She watched as the boy shook his head, turning away bravely in silent command for his sisters to finish the feast