“I do remember.” Osric strode to his linen chest and drew out clean garments.
“His guards have likely been ordered to attack if they see you.”
God’s teeth. “Do you think so?”
“I do. Again, with respect, I have known Molineaux for many more years than you.”
Osric pulled a shirt over his head and tugged down the sleeves. Crawford did indeed have a better knowledge of Molineaux. Even as Osric’s heart insisted on gallantry, the voice of reason advised him to accept the steward’s guidance.
“Fine. I will leave the matter in your capable hands,” Osric said.
“A wise decision, milord.”
“You will keep me updated, though.” Osric reached for his weapons belt. “You will also organize a thorough search of this estate. I want to be sure Violetta Molineaux is not on my lands.”
***
Seated with her back against the tunnel wall, Violetta opened her eyes. Last night, she’d hobbled as far as she could—not all that far, really—until pain had forced her to stop.
She’d sat on the ground and drawn her dagger, its solid weight in her hand a comfort in the darkness; at least she’d had some way to defend herself if attacked by animals or humans. After pulling her cloak tightly around her to ward off the dampness, she’d tried to stay awake. Yet, as the night had dragged on, she’d dozed, and now daylight streamed through the hole in the ground a short distance to her left.
Violetta swallowed hard, her throat dry. The knife had fallen from her grasp while she’d slept. She left it on the tunnel floor and rubbed her neck that ached from her sleeping upright while she took in what she hadn’t been able to see last night. The stone and dirt passageway continued off to her left, which meant the tunnel ran under the wall between the Seabrook estate and her father’s. To her right, the passageway appeared to widen, but darkness hid what lay beyond.
Did her father know about the tunnel? If he had known, surely he’d have installed an underground barrier of some kind, to prevent anyone, especially the Seabrooks, from using the passageway to get onto his lands. One good thing about her fall: she’d made an important discovery to share with her sire. Once she’d told him of it, he might not be quite so furious about her having snuck out of the castle alone at night.
Hopefully.
Guilt gnawed at her. By now, she’d usually be in the rose garden with her mother, weeding the beds, cutting spent blooms, and pruning the climbing roses so they continued to grow up and over elegant trellises. Yesterday, she’d promised to help her parent gather rose petals this morning, to be made in potpourri and ointments.
“’Tis an exceptional year for the roses,” Violetta’s mother said, her woven basket brimming with long-stemmed pink, yellow, and red blossoms she’d picked for an arrangement to go on the lord’s table in the great hall.
Rising from a rose bed bordered by a low stone wall, Violetta brushed dirt off her gown. “The roses bloom as they do, Mother, because you show them such tender care.”
Smiling, her parent swept her long, gray braid over her shoulder. “I only do as your grandmother taught me. Speaking of Jacqueline, did you see the bud on the blue rose bush?”
Violetta nodded. The bush had been grown from a cutting given to Jacqueline, her father’s mother, long ago by a suitor. Violetta’s paternal grandfather had been just nineteen years old when he’d died, leaving young Jacqueline widowed and with an infant son: Violetta’s sire. The rose had supposedly been gifted to Jacqueline before she’d remarried and moved away from Darringsleigh to raise her boy until he was old enough to return and rule the castle.
While no one could remember the name of the long-ago suitor, the bush was said to bear exquisite and very rare blue roses. Yet, Violetta couldn’t remember ever seeing one of the blooms.
“At last, we may finally get to see a blue rose,” her mother said.
“Have you never seen one before?” Violetta had assumed it had bloomed while she’d been away, for she’d left Darringsleigh at the age of eight to become a ward of one of her father’s allies, and had only returned to live with her parents after her betrothed’s tragic accident last autumn.
“The bush has produced buds before,” her mother said, “but they never matured. They were destroyed by foul weather, insects, blight, or were eaten by animals.”
“I see.” Metal clanked as Violetta dropped her trowel into the basket by her feet. “Do you…think the bud is an omen?”
“Do I believe ’tis a sign, as foretold in legend, that enemies will become lovers?”
“’Tis what Grandmother told me, when I was young.” How fondly Violetta remembered her petite, gray-haired grandparent, Jacqueline, who had taught her her first embroidery stitches and had spent afternoons reading to her in the garden. Violetta had always sensed, though, that despite her quick laugh and warm smiles, her grandmother had harbored great sadness—although Violetta’d had no idea what had caused such unhappiness.
“I am going to wait until that bud actually opens,” Violetta’s mother said while brushing a beetle off a blossom in her basket. “Then I will think more about the truth of that legend. Now, come help me put these blooms in water, before they start to droop.”
Violetta’s heart constricted, for her mother would have been frantic to find her missing today—as would her sire. She must get home.
First, though, she must make sure she could put weight on her ankle.
Last night, to ease her pain, she’d removed her boot. She carefully pulled aside the folds of her cloak covering her legs and grimaced, for her ankle looked swollen and purplish in color.
Her injury obviously needed tending as soon as—
A faint nose filtered in from aboveground: an animal, foraging in the grass?
She strained to hear.
Hoofbeats.
“Help!” she screamed. “Please, help me.”
Her voice cracked, but she called again: “Help. Help!”
***
Osric reined in his destrier. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what, milord?” asked one of his men-at-arms. The other three, closer to the stone circle, also appeared puzzled.
“Halt,” Osric commanded. “Listen.”
The guards obeyed. The morning breeze rustled through the surrounding grasses and made them ripple like waves upon the sea. Birds twittered and swooped down into the field, as one of the horses snorted—
There. A faint cry for help.
A woman’s voice.
“Shout again,” Osric yelled.
“Help. Please, help me!”
He swung down off his horse and left it to graze. He signaled his men to do the same while he urged the woman to continue calling out.
Osric followed the cries to a hole in the ground, barely visible through the waist-high grass.
“God above.” He knelt beside the hole. Dirt crumbled down into what appeared to be a tunnel. “Can you get to the opening?” he called into the ground.
“I…cannot. I hurt my ankle.”
He recognized her voice. It belonged to the woman he’d met at the stone circle.
She must have been in the tunnel all night, alone, wounded, and without food or water. Anger and concern welled up inside him. What a fool he’d been to leave her and return to the castle.
“Fetch rope,” he said to a guard. When the man-at-arms returned with a coil taken from his saddlebag, Osric cast one end of it down into the hole and ordered his guards to hold onto the other. Osric climbed down into the shadowy tunnel.
He’d had no idea such a passageway existed on his lands. Had his father known? Yet, Osric’s curiosity vanished when he spied the maiden sitting against the wall. She looked ready to burst into tears. Her grimy hands bore cuts and scrapes and her clothes were filthy.
If she was Lady Violetta Molineaux, she was in a wretched state indeed.
When he started toward her, a sound between a sigh and a sob broke from her. Whether this woman was his enemy or not, he had to hel
p her.
As he neared, he saw the dagger lying beside her.
Crawford’s warnings about Molineaux stirred in Osric’s mind. Could she be trying to trick him? Lure him in close so she could stab him? Osric didn’t believe so, but still….
Halting, he indicated the knife. “Push it away.”
Her startled gaze shifted to the dagger. “I promise, I—”
“Push it away.” He hadn’t intended to speak brusquely, and his gut clenched as her expression turned to dismay. But, she placed her hand atop the knife and shoved it hard, so it slid out of her reach.
“Thank you,” he said, more gently. He closed the distance between them and crouched beside her. “’Twill be all right.”
She shook her head, and her features contorted into a touching blend of regret and anxiety.
“You must not fret.”
“You do not understand. I—”
“Later, you can tell me all.” He gestured to her swollen ankle. “Are you in a lot of pain?”
“Some.”
“Only some?” He respected bravery, but ’twas better if she told him the truth.
She sniffled. “Fine. It hurts a great deal.”
“I will have to carry you, then.”
Her wide-eyed gaze met his.
Osric winked. “Have you never once dreamed of a brave, handsome knight coming to your rescue?”
His teasing words had the desired effect: she smiled. A fetching smile, even if her face was streaked with dirt. “Mayhap once or twice,” she admitted.
“If my embrace is unbearable, you need only endure it until we get you aboveground. All right?”
“All right.”
After making a mental note to have one of his men retrieve her dagger, gloves, and the boot she’d removed, Osric slid his right arm between her back and the wall then eased his left arm in under her knees. When her hurt leg shifted position, she winced. “Try to think about something pleasant to get you through the pain,” he coaxed, “such as a picnic on a summer afternoon.”
“How about a hot bath?” She gasped as he lifted her into his arms and stood. Her arms looped around his neck, drawing her body more tightly against his.
Desire, powerful and unexpected, coursed through him. He fought to ignore the sinful heat and imaginings of her naked in his tub. “A bath,” he echoed. “With or without dried flower petals?”
“With petals.” Her head settled against his shoulder. “And fragrant oils.”
“Do you have a favorite scent?” he asked, as he turned and strode for the dangling rope.
“Lavender. And almond.”
Osric chuckled. “That is two scents.”
Her sigh warmed the side of his neck. “I am greedy.”
“Luckily for you, the healer should have both of those at the keep.”
The injured maiden raised her head. “Coltingstow Keep?”
“Aye. ’Tis closer than the town.”
Her breathing quickened. She sounded panicked—as he’d expect, if she was his enemy. “I cannot—”
“You must.” Her injury needed to be tended right away. Her wellbeing took priority over all else. “Once we have seen to your wound, I will help you get messages to your friends, family, and anyone else who will be worried about you.”
She looked about to protest further, but they’d reached the rope and his men-at-arms, staring down at them.
Osric grabbed hold of the rope. “Now, hold tightly to me. Do not stop thinking about that bath.”
A Knight and His Rose
Catherine Kean
Chapter Three
“There,” the gray-haired healer named Shelley said, as she tucked in the ends of the linen bandages she’d just finished wrapping around Violetta’s ankle.
“Thank you.” Sitting back against plump pillows on a cot in Coltingstow’s infirmary, Violetta curled her fingers into the sheet beneath her, while Shelley gathered up the items she’d used. Earlier, the healer had poured a small mug of murky liquid from a flask and urged Violetta drink it, to help with the swelling and pain in her ankle, before rubbing on a thick, greenish ointment and applying the bandages.
The herbal scent of ointment still lingered in the air and mingled with the earthy smell of smoke wafting from the fire blazing in the hearth. After the chill of the tunnel, Violetta relished the chamber’s warmth. But, she didn’t dare shut her eyes and give in to her weariness.
Dread had haunted Violetta from the moment she’d arrived at the keep, for she still didn’t know if the knight who’d rescued her was Osric Seabrook. She’d thought of asking Shelley, but Violetta’s tired mind couldn’t think of a discreet way to do so that wouldn’t raise suspicion.
The healer had worked with such care, though. Did she always bestow such respectful tenderness upon those she treated, or had she figured out that Violetta was noble born? Her palms clammy, Violetta had waited for Shelley to inquire about her background and family, and had prepared vague answers that would fit her ruse of being common-born, but Shelley hadn’t asked a single prying question.
Not yet, anyway.
Mayhap Violetta’s rescuer had asked the healer not to ask questions. Or mayhap Shelley had sensed how exhausted Violetta was. Whatever the reason, Violetta was relieved to have been spared from awkward conversation.
Upon arriving at the fortress, which appeared at least as large if not grander than Darringsleigh, her rescuer had brought her straight to the infirmary, spoken quietly to Shelley, and then had walked out and hadn’t returned. ’Twas odd he’d just disappeared. The way he’d smiled at Shelley before leaving…. They clearly knew each other well and thought fondly of one another.
As Violetta had struggled with an unexpected twinge of jealousy, the healer had summoned a servant and, to Violetta’s astonishment, had ordered a bath. Lads had brought a round wooden tub and set it near the fire, and once the tub had been filled, Shelley had poured in lavender and almond oils. After the healer had bathed Violetta and dried her with soft towels, she’d helped her into clean garments of similar quality to what she’d been wearing before. Then she’d helped Violetta to the cot to—
“How does that ankle feel?” Shelley asked, concern in her voice.
“’Tis feeling a bit better, I vow.”
The healer chuckled and set the pot of ointment, rolled bandages, and scissors back into her basket. “With respect, I doubt it can feel better so soon. You have badly strained your ankle.”
What a wretched nuisance, but at least the ankle wasn’t broken. Still, as soon as possible, Violetta must flee the infirmary and find a way out of the keep.
As though reading Violetta’s mind, the older woman shook her head. “Whatever you are thinking must wait. You need to rest.”
“How long will my ankle take to heal?”
“Hard to say. ’Twill mend faster, though, if you heed my advice.”
Violetta trapped a yawn, while the healer set her basket on a table laden with bunches of fresh herbs then went to the doorway and gestured to someone outside. A bearded man-at-arms entered, followed by a ginger-haired maidservant.
When the pair approached the cot, Violetta stiffened.
“Worry not. They will help you to a place where you can rest.” Shelley pointed to the young woman. “Gayle is going to care for you now.”
The man-at-arms scooped Violetta into his arms. She’d barely managed to thank the healer before he’d trudged outside into the bailey.
How odd it felt to be carried by this stranger. He smelled of sweat, leather, and earth, scents that told of long days of physical exertion. Such smells, on the right man, might be enticing, but she had no wish to nestle closer, as she had when held by her rescuer.
Following Gayle, the man-at-arms carried Violetta into the keep, across the high-ceilinged great hall where servants were strewing fresh rushes and dried herbs on the floor, and up the staircase that led to the part of the fortress usually reserved for the lord, his family, and honored guests.
They passed the closed door, decorated with wrought iron, of what had to be the lord’s solar.
Stay calm. Do not betray yourself.
Ahead, Gayle entered a chamber off the corridor. The guard carried Violetta into the room and set her on the bed.
“Many thanks,” she said.
The guard nodded then walked out, shutting the door behind him.
Violetta glanced about. The room was sparsely furnished, but clean. The wood-framed bed was plain in design, unlike hers at home which had a carved headboard. With its turned-down linen sheets and cozy blankets, though, the bed looked most inviting.
Violetta smothered another yawn.
“Why do ye not get in the bed?” Gayle urged.
How Violetta longed to do just that, but she must get home. “Mayhap in a moment,” she said. She could only hope the kind young woman wouldn’t be too upset when she returned later to find the bed hadn’t been used and Violetta gone. She mustn’t give away, however, that she intended to flee. “Could you please help me with the pillows?”
With Gayle’s assistance, Violetta fluffed up and arranged the pillows and sat back against them.
Crossing to the hearth, the maidservant stirred up the blaze with a fire poker. Violetta trapped yet another yawn with her hand. She could hardly keep her eyes open. The drink she’d downed earlier must have contained powerful ingredients.
What she would give to be able to sleep for a while—at least catch up on her fitful slumber from last night. But, once she’d returned to Darringsleigh, she could lie abed as long as she liked.
She couldn’t slip away, though, with Gayle in the room.
“I think I will close my eyes for a bit,” Violetta said.
“When ye wake, ye’ll feel much better.”
Violetta’s eyes slipped closed. She would rest, but only for a moment….
***
“She ’as been asleep fer a while, milord.”
Gayle stepped to one side in the doorway, and Osric entered the chamber, Crawford a few steps behind. The damsel lay on her back on the bed, her hands, marked by scratches and scrapes, folded on her belly. Her hair, still damp from being washed and no longer confined by a braid, spilled over the mound of pillows.
Rogues to Lovers: Legend of the Blue Rose Page 3
