The Viking's Heart

by Jacqueline Navin

  “I thought ’twas decided ’twas your suspicious nature that made it only appear so.”

  He grinned. “My lady, I might be persuaded to think you do tease me by the quick parries of your skilled tongue.”

  Skilled tongue—her? He had been more to the truth when he had called her skittish. At least, that was how she was used to seeing herself. However, she was matching wits with him, and doing a not altogether horrible job of it.

  It was a satisfying realization. She began to relax and enjoy herself a bit more.

  “I? I think not, sirrah. Your vanity is addling your brain.”

  The way the smile toyed with the edges of his mouth stirred a tiny flutter of excitement inside her. His was a broad mouth, and expressive, the only feature of softness in that hard, handsome face.

  “Is it?” he said smoothly, leaning toward her a little. “’Tis the first time I have been accused of such a vice as vanity. Pride, aye, that I have heard. Stubbornness—that seems to be one of my chief faults. But vanity…never before.”

  “You are an unusual man, indeed, to admit failings at all, let alone recount them with such ease. Men usually think themselves infallible.”

  “Nay, ’tis human I am, and all too ready to admit it. Yet, in fairness, may I also make mention of my assets. Chief among them is modesty. Naturally.”

  She couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Naturally.”

  “And bravery. And then there is my great charm.”

  “Unquestionably.”

  The flash of his smile, the smooth sound of his laughter sent a jolt of pleasure through her. “I am possessed of other attributes, of course, but since I am so modest—as was mentioned before—I am for-sworn to avoid bragging.”

  “Ah, what a shame.”

  “And how is it a shame, my lady?”

  She tossed her head and smiled and realized with a start that she was actually flirting. “I was learning so much about you.”

  And then he stopped. He simply stopped. The smile faded in degrees and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes smoothed. His jaw tightened and began working. He glanced away.

  What was wrong? What had happened?

  “What inane conversation. We must have an abundance of idle time.” He rose, dusting off his leggings and looking around, as if suddenly unsure. “I tarry too long.” Then he left her.

  Rosamund felt stripped. Confused, hurt, more than a bit angry, yet the most strongly felt emotion was an acute sense of loss. And questioning shame—had she said something amiss? Spoken wrongly? What had she done?

  Only that she was learning much about him. But ’twas part of their game, a trivial folly that had been…it had been…something she had never felt before. It had been fun.

  Of course it was silly and of course it was a bit inane. But it was fun, wasn’t it?

  Perhaps not for him. Perhaps, as always, she had gotten it wrong. Which was just as well, she supposed, because the whole matter was far more confusing than she had the energy for.

  Gastonbury was proving to be a most disconcerting place. And yet, she could not long for the end of her stay, for the only deliverance she would have from this place would be to hell. Marriage.

  Which was the same thing.

  Chapter Seven

  He was always watching her. Like fingers of pressure on her spine, the touch of his gaze was with her whenever she ventured out of her chamber. They talked on occasion—nothing consequential, nothing light and sparring like the day they had lounged together under the tent. But he watched her.

  So when she spotted Davey sitting at one of the trestle tables one evening at supper, she knew she had to proceed very, very carefully.

  Something was wrong with Rosamund Clavier. Agravar knew this for a certainty. Exactly what it was, he was not certain. But he was determined to find out.

  Lord Robert had sent a message to say he would be journeying to Gastonbury himself to collect his bride. In the aftermath of his betrothed’s ordeal, he wished to personally see to her well-being himself and offer his own guard as greater protection for her journey to her new home at Berendsfore.

  Therefore, Agravar had little time to find out what it was that haunted the graceful lady with the sad eyes. He never bothered to examine why it was so devilishly important.

  He just watched.

  Then one night at supper, when she gave a furtive look about and exited the hallway into the turret stairs, he followed.

  Stealth was not his forte. Brute strength was. He was light enough on his feet, however, to get into the turret without too much noise.

  It was dark on the stairwell. And silent; he heard no footfalls. He began to climb, his palm sliding over the outer wall to guide him.

  He heard her farther up the stairs. Following, he moved faster lest she evade him. The five turret stairs of the castle connected the different chambers and corridors of the three-story structure. This particular turret had doors that opened onto chambers used for the laundry, bedchambers, the sewing room, the ladies’ solar and the topmost chamber sometimes used to house guests.

  There was no reason he could think of why she would wish to go to any of these places at this time of day.

  He could see her now, a form of dark gray among the shadows. She had heard his footsteps and was racing up the steps. His hands shot out and snatched her. Crying out, she wrenched against his grip.

  Her scent assailed him. That perfume, he thought. What the devil was it, some enchanted scent?

  His voice came out like gravel. “Rosamund, ’tis me, Agravar.”

  She twisted away. His hand slipped, sliding across her waist. Hissing in a startled breath, he felt how slender she was. Strong, yet fragile in his large hands.

  Damn her perfume! His head was completely befuddled. His hands moved without him even thinking he wanted them to. Oh, he did want them to, but he shouldn’t. He knew he mustn’t. This was a lady. A betrothed lady, guest to his friend and lord, cousin to his lord’s wife…ah, hell. He dipped his head giving in to impulse.

  Her breath fanned against his cheek, rapid, ragged gasps. His own grew unsteady. He pulled her closer. A bold, conscious need stiffening him and defying his self-control, he pulled her closer still.

  A remote part of him, some observer untouched by the searing presence of her willowy form so near to his, warned him. Honor. Aye. Honor. It was what defined him, the penultimate antithesis of what his hated father had been.

  Honor.

  She made a sound, a kind of whimper as if he might be hurting her. It was a small thing, but it gave an edge to reason and he let his grip go lax.

  Stumbling, she scrambled up a few steps to a window slit. Grasping the sill, she gulped in the fresh air.

  “You frightened me!” she said accusingly.

  Her hair was nearly undone. Its combs hung loosely, still caught up in the tousled tendrils. Her cheeks were flushed.

  He found he had to physically restrain himself from going to her side and putting his arms about those delicate shoulders. Asserting dominion over the impulse, he crossed his arms.

  “Who did you think it was?”

  “Why did you follow me?”

  “You speak first.”

  “I thought…it could have been anyone.”

  The challenging spitfire from the other day was gone. Here again was the cringing waif. He said, “Surely you know you are safe. Who would harm you here in your cousin’s home?”

  She tucked her chin into her shoulder. “Do you think there are only certain places where evil can reign? It can enter anywhere. It resides in homes like this one, I can tell you.”

  “Are you an expert on evil, Rosamund?”

  When she turned back to him, her eyes were a bit wild—large and round, lost in that pretty face. They startled him. So did her answer. “Aye. Of a sorts, I am.”

  He blinked, trying to absorb it, trying to think what it meant. In the end, he only held out his hand. “Come. Let us back to the hall.”

  She was
so artless, so utterly transparent. Casting a look up the stairs, into the rising treads that disappeared into darkness where the weakening strains of daylight could not penetrate, she hesitated. “I…I thought I might roam a bit. Get to know the castle.”

  “What a poor liar you are.”

  Her head whipped around. She was all fire again. “What an insulting man you are! What reason have you to question me?”

  What reason had he? Only that every inch of his flesh screamed with instinctive uncertainty whenever she was in sight, only that something deep down in his gut seemed somehow connected to this woman—a woman he had known but a sennight. Only that his soul spoke to him of her, and it told him disturbing things.

  It was true he didn’t seem to know what he was about when with her. But it was hardly seemly to tell her this, so he only smiled and shook his head. “I can take you on a tour. Shall we go to the top of the turret and see what we find?”

  Suddenly she was all nerves again. “Nay. We have been overlong on these stairs. The air is stale. Let us to fresher areas. Perhaps outdoors.”

  “But I insist, my lady. You should not change your plans for me.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along up to the top of the tower. “We will go together to conquer the challenge of the turret.”

  She resisted a bit, but it did not impede their swift progress up the stairs. The small chamber at the top was empty.

  “See,” she said, but her voice trembled. “The air is close in here. ’Tis unhealthy. Let us to the garden, or better yet, the grove. ’Twill refresh us.”

  Agravar let his eyes travel about the small chamber, quickly assessing there was no place for anyone to hide.

  What was he thinking? It was ridiculous to suspect Rosamund had been sneaking off to some kind of secret assignation. To what purpose? And who would she know here at Gastonbury whom she could not speak to out in the open?

  And yet…

  There were so many doors leading into the turret. The top chamber may not have been her destination at all. Or, perhaps, if there had been someone waiting, they could have easily slipped away without anyone the wiser.

  She took his proffered arm stiffly and they descended the steps. Bypassing the hall entrance, they went down one flight farther and then out the doorway that led into a small enclosed yard.

  The sun was low, stretching long, cool shadows that made the little area pleasant. Rows of vines clamored over one another, bare now of their spring fruit. Trees clustered in uneven groves laden with apples and pears. They stood hunched against the sun, weighted by their burdens, like sentinels to guard and protect.

  ’Twas only an illusion, he knew. At Gastonbury, he was the captain of the guard. He protected. If need be, even from unlikely threats in the form of shapely maidens with cascades of golden hair and eyes of soft, pale brown.

  She moved idly, lost in her own thoughts. He trailed behind, keeping a seemly distance. His body still felt singed where he had brushed up against her on the stairs.

  “The grove is cool,” she stated.

  “Aye.” There was a pause. “’Tis pleasant.”

  She bowed her head, silent for a space. “Our grove at home was not so sheltered as this, and not nearly so comforting. I like it here.”

  “Do you mean the grove, or Gastonbury?”

  “I like Gastonbury. I have found kindness here—in Alayna and her mother. The Lady Veronica is patient with me.” Her hands fluttered, betraying her nervousness. “I shall hate to leave it.”

  The statement jarred him. He had nearly forgotten. Lord Robert would soon bring her to live with him at Berendsfore. A strange sensation of loss twinged the edges of his awareness.

  She said, “Have you kin here at Gastonbury? You are not from Denmark, you told me.”

  “My brother lives in this castle.”

  “Brother? I have seen no other Vikings here.”

  “Yet you have met him. I do not think you are fond of him, however. ’Tis Lucien who I call brother, and he is the only family I acknowledge.”

  “No others?”

  “None.”

  She paced off a few steps and lifted her head to the lurid sky. The colors of sunset cast her fair aspect in bronze. “I, too, am alone.”

  It was the last thing they said that night. They stayed together for a bit more before she wandered back inside. He remained until dusk had settled in full, and her words stayed with him.

  Chapter Eight

  Gastonbury must be a place of enchantment, Rosamund thought. It had done the impossible.

  She had forgotten.

  Life seemed to have been given to her anew and her past…her past was somehow irrelevant. Comfortable and safe this last fortnight, she hardly recognized herself any longer.

  For the first time, she knew deep contentment and she was happy.

  In the ladies’ solar with Alayna one afternoon, she sat on the floor with Leanna, who was just shy of her second year and as placid and pleasant as her brother, Aric, was brash. Lucien and Alayna’s second child was doted on by her parents, and was her grandmother’s delight. Veronica sat on a cushioned chair, smiling indulgently as her granddaughter built tiny towers with the colored blocks Rosamund handed her.

  “She is an angel,” Veronica mused. “Though I am sure I do not know from where she gets it. Her mother was a handful, always tearing in my embroidery basket and unraveling my loom. She never sat still, not for an instant, that one. As for her father, I have little doubt he was a full-fledged terror.”

  Rosamund stayed wisely silent. Her own opinion of Lucien was hardly flattering. The fearsome lord of Gastonbury’s visage set her to quaking even now, a full month after being welcomed to his home.

  Veronica continued, “I shall have to ask his mother when next she visits. She comes every Easter, a week as uneasy as you are like to find in this castle. The rest of the year she spends in a convent.”

  “How odd.” Rosamund looked up at Veronica. “Why is it she only comes for such a short time? Is she unpleasant?”

  “Not at all. She is very polite, but a bit cold. When one understands her past, one can see why. She made many mistakes in her life. What a wretched fate it is to have to live with the fruits of one’s labors when they are fraught with mistakes and folly. Ah, Rosamund, when you are old like she and I, and realize much of your life is behind you…sometimes it weighs heavy on you.”

  Rosamund’s brows rose. “Surely you have no regrets, my lady.”

  “Regrets? Nay, not exactly. Yet we all have things we would do differently. Say what was in our heart more often. Perhaps not have bothered with a quarrel.”

  “You think of your husband. Do you still miss him?”

  Veronica smiled slightly. “Oh, aye. And I always shall. He was a great, great man. I loved him.” She shook her head and let the matter drop.

  “I lost a brother when I was ten. He took ill and passed away. And, of course, I shall always miss my mother,” Rosamund said quietly. “’Tis a very sad thing to lose someone you love so much.”

  Veronica placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Of course ’tis so, child.”

  It was an invitation, such a gentle segue for Rosamund to confide in her. And strangely, Rosamund found she wanted to.

  “I was only twelve when she died. The night it happened, she came into my room and sat by my bed. I was sleepy, not yet dreaming but not awake, either. I felt her hand on my brow, brushing away my hair as she often did. Her touch was always cool and soothing. She wished me pleasant dreams, just as she did every night. She said good-night.” And something else. Something she couldn’t quite remember; didn’t want to remember. It was always there in her dreams, the unknown…the threat of what she might recall if she thought long enough….

  “Rosamund, dear, do not speak of it if it troubles you.”

  “Nay, ’tis not difficult.”

  “Of course it is. But sometimes memories are like poisons in an old injury. They fester if we don’t lance the wound. As pa
inful as that is, it is the only way we can heal it.”

  Yes. It was like that. Poison inside, eating at her.

  “She died from a fall from the ramparts. She must have gone up to gaze at the night sky. She sometimes did that, when her mind was restless. Somehow, she leaned too far out and fell.” Or was pushed. Rosamund studied her hands, clasped together. The knuckles were white. “I do not suppose I will ever know what happened.”

  Liar.

  “Poor child.” Veronica leaned forward and clasped Rosamund’s locked hands in hers, stroking them until the tension eased.

  Rosamund bowed her head, fighting the tide of emotion. Her eyes were squeezed tight. Wetness spiked her lashes, making them hot against her cheeks. She could cry right now, if she would let herself. She could weep for ages.

  She pulled her hands away with a deep, halting breath. “Thank you, my lady. You are kind to indulge me.”

  Veronica smiled, reaching out to touch her fingers to Rosamund’s forehead, smoothing aside a twisted tendril. “You may find there are more words after these have settled. When they come, seek me out, child. Sit at my knee and I shall listen.”

  Rosamund only nodded. Leanna toppled another tower and the two of them turned their attention back to the pretty babe.

  Lucien sat by the corner hearth in the hall, clutching a pewter cup in both his hands. Agravar sat on a stool, hunching toward the cold grate, his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling limp.

  “You look like hell,” Lucien said, and drank. “Did the trio of trollops finally get their hands on you?”

  “Who? Oh, those three. God, is there no way you can banish them or something?”

  “Can’t do it. They’ve committed no crime. We’ve had common law in England for two kings now.” He took another drink.

  “Is Alayna in bad spirits?”

  “She’s…she’s weeping. I have no idea why. I do not think she has any idea why. I think…” He stopped, clenching his teeth until the tick showed in his temple. His next words were whispered. “Something is wrong, Agravar. She was never like this before. Something ails her and it goes beyond the babe inside her.”