Return of the Rose

by Theresa Ragan

  His chuckle made her realize she was staring at him as if she’d never laid eyes on a man before. She planted her arms across her chest. “What’s so funny?”

  He was becoming less god-like by the second. And if his dark eyes weren’t looking right through her, making her feel tingly and anxious beneath his gaze, she might have thought of something clever to say. But with him staring at her so intensely, it was impossible to think, let alone speak.

  Get a grip, she told herself, and as she shifted her weight, the stool toppled. She gasped as she fell, but he caught her in his arms and pulled her close. Close enough for her to feel the rise and fall of his chest and the heat of his body against hers. An eternity passed before she realized he wasn’t in any hurry to let go of her. She pushed at his chest. “Put me down!”

  Instead, he raised his foot to the fallen stool so she was straddled upon one very substantial thigh…her mouth mere inches from his brawny chest.

  “Let me go-or-or I will report you to your boss.”

  He looked amused by such a threat, but once again he failed to loosen his hold. Leaning forward, he covered her mouth with his as if it was his right to do so, as if he could do whatever he pleased, as if…

  His lips grazed over hers in a mere whisper, taking her breath away. Something stirred deep inside of her and heat spread through her like wildfire. His lips melded over hers and all thoughts of pushing him away evaporated. In that instant she knew that for this kiss alone she’d been sent to another century.

  He drew away too soon, prompting her to open her eyes. He stared down at her with dark, smoldering eyes…angry eyes, and then released his hold and dropped his foot to the floor.

  She staggered backward like a broken wind-up doll. Once she regained her balance, surprise turned to anger as she realized he’d dropped her on purpose.

  As his hands came to rest on his hips, his eyelids drooped lazily. “Now,” he said, his voice deep and rich with a full measure of conceit. “Perchance you have learned your lesson and will be more careful in the future as to where you wander without permission.”

  She clenched her teeth.

  “Unfortunately, I have important work to attend to,” he went on before she could reply. “Had you come at a more convenient time I would have been happy to further assist you in your schooling.”

  “In my schooling?”

  “Aye,” he said, examining his cuticles. “All new maidens who come to Braddock seek my instructions eventually. Though it would seem you are more eager than most. Perhaps another time.”

  “Of all the egotistical—” There he stood with that vainglorious smirk. “You think I came in here looking for you? Hoping to be trained?”

  He didn’t need to respond. She could see it in his eyes, in the way he stood, in his cocky grin. What an idiot she was to let him kiss her like that. What was wrong with her? “Listen here, Mister conceited, arrogant man. I happen to be engaged to a very important man at Braddock Castle. My name is Lady—”

  A thin dirt-stained man came rushing into the room just then, nearly bowling her over. “You must come quickly. There is trouble…in the village,” the man said between breaths. “A small band of men without colors or crest”—he inhaled—”was spotted moments before the village went up in flames.”

  Both men bolted from the room leaving Morgan standing there like a fool, pointing her finger at no one. One minute she was letting the big oaf have a piece of her mind and in the next he was gone. Dispiritedly she glanced around the sparsely decorated room. A draw-leaf table, serving as a desk, sat before the hearth. The walls were ornamented with tapestries depicting men hunting in the woods. The men were dressed exactly like Otgar and his entourage.

  Drawn to the writing desk, she headed that way and slid her fingertips over the burled oak. The papers strewn about were scribbled with numbers. Obviously the arrogant man had been having trouble with his math. Assuming he was the castle’s accountant, she scanned the document and smiled triumphantly when she easily figured out what the problem was.

  As if she’d been living in the fifteenth century all of her life, she took hold of the feathered quill, dabbed its fine point into the inkwell, and made the necessary adjustments. Plunking the quill back into its holder, she left the room with a smile on her face.

  Upon returning to the hall, pandemonium greeted her. She dodged out of the way as frantic people, young and old, grabbed buckets, bowls, pots and kettles, and whatever else they could find before running out the main entrance of the castle.

  Not one to be left behind, she grabbed an iron cauldron from the hearth and followed the crowd. Struggling to keep up, she realized the cauldron had to weigh at least fifty pounds. As she trailed behind an old woman and small children, the pain in her wrist slowed her. As the last of the castle folk disappeared around the bend, she stopped to catch her breath.

  Within seconds a heavily built man on a horse came barreling around that same curve and skidded to a stop in front of her. “Hugo!”

  He gave a small bow. “My lady.”

  She snorted. “You really don’t need to do that.”

  “What?”

  “You know, bow and call me your lady. It’s totally unnecessary. In fact, I was just looking for your boss before all hell broke loose.”

  His eyes widened.

  “Excuse my French,” she said, with another wave of her hand.

  He cocked a puzzled brow.

  An explosion and screams from the village broke into their exchange. Picking up the cauldron again, she started off, but Hugo leaned over and grasped her shoulder with his large hand. “I’ve been instructed to see that you stay in the castle, my lady.”

  “By who?”

  “By his lordship.”

  “Ridiculous,” she said. “I might be able to help.”

  Another man on a horse appeared around the same curve in the road. Morgan cursed her bad luck when she saw it was Emmon, the man-boy who thought she’d stolen his horse.

  “Gustaf and his boy are trapped beneath the stables,” Emmon said to Hugo. “We need your help.”

  Morgan gestured toward them both as if she were shooing away a couple of flies. “Go on, I’ll be right behind you two.”

  Hugo smiled broadly as he leaned over and took the heavy cauldron from her. Emmon leaned low, too, a scowl on his face as he plucked her from the ground and grunted as if she weighed two hundred pounds.

  “I’d rather walk,” she protested, but Emmon ignored her, clicking his heels into the animal’s sides. The horse raised its front hooves before taking off, leaving her no choice but to clutch onto the boy for dear life.

  As the village came into view and the animal slowed, Morgan jumped from the horse, although she could have sworn she was half pushed. Emmon, she thought sourly, had an attitude problem.

  “Stay put, my lady!” Hugo ordered before they rode off, blending into the chaos and taking her cauldron with them.

  “Will do,” she muttered. Then she marched off in the opposite direction.

  Dozens of people ran back and forth between the river and the burning homes, throwing water on dwellings still in flames. Horses, oxen, goats, and chickens ran loose, adding to the madness. Pitiful cries of children and animals blended together with the sounds of crackling fire.

  She approached a group of people huddled in a circle. They all seemed to be talking at once, gesturing and pointing at something on the ground. The horror and panic covering their faces caused Morgan to push her way through the crowd until she saw what the commotion was about. Lying in a woman’s arms was a small boy she guessed to be hardly a year old. He had a bluish-gray tinge to his face and he wasn’t moving.

  A movement to her right caught her attention. She looked up, surprised to see the same obnoxious man who’d kissed her in the castle. He carried a small girl, seemingly from the same fiery cottage the baby had come from. The child was a few years older than the boy. Her cry was piercing.

  He quickly placed the lit
tle girl in a woman’s arms and then disappeared into the thick smoke before Morgan could ask him to help with the baby.

  Nobody was doing anything. The baby’s face had turned purple. He was dying right before their eyes. Morgan’s heart lodged in her throat. She bit at her lip, and tried to remember her babysitter’s CPR course from when she was twelve.

  Realizing she might be the baby’s only hope, she seized the baby from the helpless woman’s arms and quickly laid the infant on the ground. She tilted his head back and carefully inserted her finger to make sure his tongue wasn’t lodged in his throat. Next, she gave him four quick breaths of air before listening for a pulse.

  Nothing. The boy didn’t stir.

  “He’s dead!” someone shrieked.

  “She killed him!” another wailed.

  Ignoring the protests, Morgan proceeded to breathe air into the boy’s lungs. She’d only taken two CPR classes in her entire life but she wasn’t ready to give up. She blew four short breaths into the baby’s nose and mouth. Using two fingers from both hands she gently, yet firmly, pressed two times into his chest beneath his tiny ribs. Another four breaths…massage…four breaths…massage.

  It had to work. The baby couldn’t die. She listened for a pulse and prayed to God for help. Four more breaths…massage.

  The child’s face wrinkled as he turned bright red. Then he let out a piercing wail, stinging her ears and filling her heart with joy. Tears fell from her cheeks as relief flooded her insides. Never had she been so relieved to hear a baby cry. As she cradled the small boy in her arms, a firm, gentle hand framed her shoulder. She looked up into the brown eyes of the man she’d kissed earlier, and the elation she felt from having saved the boy caused her to smile at the man. He smiled back and the crowd cried out in approval.

  ~~~~

  Hours later when the fire was out and the people without homes had found lodging, Lord Vanguard found himself once again face to face with the maid who had saved the small boy from certain death. “Come,” he said to the maid. “There is not much more we can do here.”

  He had no idea why he felt inclined to invite the woman to join him but inclined was putting it mildly. Earlier in his study, he’d been absorbed in his work when she’d entered. But that failed to stop him from becoming mesmerized by the way her eyes lit up at his collection of books. Knowing of no woman who could read or write, he had determined she had come looking for much more than a good read. But it was he who had been taken aback when he kissed her earlier. His chest had grown tight with desire. The fact that this woman gave him even the slightest pause made him uncomfortable. Women were trouble. They had the characteristics of spiders: spinning their webs, waiting for a clumsy fool to fall within their net. He’d seen it happen to too many men: strong warriors transformed overnight, lured into a life of deception and turmoil.

  The maid stopped short, tugging her arm free as they approached his mount.

  “I don’t like horses,” she said stubbornly. “And I can’t believe you’d think I’d come with you after the way you treated me in the castle.”

  He shrugged. Any fool could see that the maid was playing hard to get. An intriguing game, he mused, considering it had been years since any woman had bothered. As he murmured soothing words to his stallion, he decided he had not the time for games. Without giving her another thought, he untied his horse and walked off, leaving her behind.

  “Hey!” the annoying wench shouted after him.

  Impatiently, he glanced over his shoulder, promptly drawn to the curve of her hips within the absurdly snug breeches she wore. A ponderous sigh erupted as he wondered when he’d started getting soft in the head. “Are you coming, or not?” he asked.

  “I don’t even know you.” She plunked a hand on her hip.

  “Nor I you,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “But you’re a man.”

  “Aye,” he said, his gaze caressing every inch of her. “And you are very much a woman.”

  Her cheeks blossomed with color, surprising him, for it was usually the inexperienced maidens who blushed, not brazen wenches such as she. He was due to leave shortly to visit the king’s holdings and this wench tempted him sorely. But he wasn’t about to play the fool simply because her eyes sparkled like rare jewels and her silken hair made his palms itch. Frowning, he gripped the leather reins and yanked his horse onward, reminding himself that he cared not whether she followed. He was tired and he needed a rest.

  ~~~~

  Morgan hurried to catch up to him. If she were in her own time she might think twice before going into the woods with a stranger, but she’d seen firsthand how the people in the village respected him and how he risked his life to save those children. Besides, he was an accountant, and he wasn’t exactly begging her to come with him. “Where are we going?”

  “There is a lake close by,” he said without glancing her way, “and I am hungry. I thought to share my food and drink but if you have training to get to, perhaps you should be on your way.”

  “My afternoon’s pretty clear,” she said, struggling to keep up with his long strides. “And if you don’t mind my asking, what kind of training are you referring to?”

  “Your womanly duties at Braddock, of course. Perhaps Matti will start you off with needle or shuttle, though it would depend on your age and other such things.”

  She lifted both brows. “Like?”

  “For example, how many children do you have…five, ten?”

  She snorted. “I’m twenty-four. I don’t have any children.”

  His eyes widened. “Most women, assuming they have survived the dangers of childbirth, have had more than a dozen by the time they reach four and twenty.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Are you married? Widowed?”

  “Neither.”

  He stopped in his tracks and looked her over with growing speculation.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Four and twenty and you have not married? Perhaps you are flawed in some way. Let me see your teeth.”

  She shooed him away. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m in great shape. I do aerobics twice a week and I eat plenty of fruit and vegetables.”

  He winced as if her words pained him. “It is a strange French accent you have?”

  “More like a new-old sort of English.”

  “Hmm. I would appreciate your use of intelligible English when in my presence. Now then, do as I say and reveal your teeth to me.”

  Morgan rolled her eyes before impatiently flashing him a glimpse of her pearly whites.

  He merely grunted before starting off again, following a worn path through patches of dogtooth violets and tall broadleaf trees.

  “Wait up,” she called before she caught up to him and walked briskly at his side. “So? What did you think?”

  He gave a noncommittal shrug. “I have seen better.”

  “Just like a man,” she muttered.

  “What is that?”

  “Stubborn…hard to please,” she said.

  He huffed and said over his shoulder, “It is women who cannot be relied upon, who say one thing yet mean another.”

  “Men don’t know how to listen,” she shot back.

  “Women talk too much—”

  “Men talk with their—”

  He glanced back at her when she failed to finish her sentence.

  “Oh never mind,” she said, waving him onward, “you win.”

  He shook his head, once again fixating his gaze on the beaten path as he kept a steady onward pace.

  The man was tough to figure out, Morgan decided. Although he walked and talked with the confidence of a dozen men, he seemed at a loss whenever he looked into her eyes. Maybe he wasn’t as harsh as he liked to appear. That had to be it. Her instincts told her he possessed an inner gentleness that made her soften towards him. “You wouldn’t happen to know Lord Vanguard, would you?” she asked after a few moments of silence passed between them.

  “Why do y
ou ask?”

  Because she was curious as to whether her head was going to be cut off by the ugly troll. Instead she said, “Because rumors have it that the man’s nasty temper nearly matches his repulsive face.”

  He laughed, but said no more. Morgan didn’t know whether that meant the stories were true, or not, but she decided to leave it at that since she would be meeting the hideously ugly lord soon enough. “Do you believe in miracles?” she asked next, filling gaps of silence with questions, something she did out of habit, especially when she was nervous.

  “Nay.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I believe truth and logic are always involved in occurrences others are quick to call a miracle.”

  “What about the birth of a baby? Don’t you think that’s a miracle?”

  “Nay. God has created women for such purpose.”

  Maybe, she thought, that inner gentleness she’d sensed was a fluke. Either he was preoccupied or he wasn’t used to revealing any sort of emotion. It was hard to tell. But she wasn’t exactly a psychiatrist and she certainly didn’t plan on being here long enough to help this man with his inner self.

  As she struggled to keep up with him, she said, “I guess it would be safe to bet then that you didn’t believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus when you were a boy?”

  They arrived at their destination. He turned and looked down at her, making her feel four feet tall. “You speak in riddles,” he said. “But I can tell you that I believe in naught that I cannot see with my own two eyes.” With that said, he led his horse to the nearest tree and proceeded to tie the leather reins to a low branch.

  As she watched him fiddle with his horse, she found herself admiring his iron-muscled physique. She decided to enjoy the moment along with the view and try to think of her time in this new world as an adventure. Until she figured out why she was here and how she was going to get home, it wouldn’t do her any good to panic.