Rosalin hadn’t expected women. But no sooner had they stopped and the men dismounted than she understood their purpose at camp, when the women ran forward to greet some of the men in a particularly friendly manner.
As no one seemed inclined to help her dismount, Rosalin was about to attempt to do so on her own, when she glanced at Boyd. One of the women had launched herself into his arms and was plastered to his chest. Her long, wavy pitch-black hair hung loose down her back as her head tilted back invitingly.
Rosalin must have made some kind of sound, because Boyd’s eyes found hers right before he accepted the woman’s welcoming kiss. Her quite thorough welcoming kiss.
Rosalin felt as if a horse had kicked her in the chest.No!she wanted to shout.Don’t.You can’t.
But he could. She held no claim on him, a fact he was making perfectly clear.
His arm was wrapped around the woman’s waist loosely, as if it had been there many times before. The kiss also had a lazy familiarity that spoke of…
Oh God!The bottom dropped from Rosalin’s stomach. She knew. They were lovers.
She turned away, fighting the suffocating stabs of pain through her heart that made her want to do something ridiculous like cry. A hot ball pressed its way up her throat and to the back of her eyes. But she blinked back the tears as she slid her foot into the stirrup and attempted to get down without her skirts tangling around her feet.
She would have fallen had someone not caught her around the waist from behind. Nay, not someone. She stiffened at his touch, knowing exactly who it was. His big hands nearly spanned her waist, closing around her like a warm vise, as he lifted her down effortlessly. Even without their bodies touching, she could feel the broad shield of his chest behind her and smell the warm scent of leather and spice that had become so familiar.
“Thank you,” she said, not daring to look at him for fear that he might see how much his display with the woman had affected her. “I’m surprised you did not let me fall.”
“As you are our only hostage now, that wasn’t an option.”
Her eyes narrowed, meeting the ice-blue gaze that riveted them. “Aye, my brother will not pay your blackmail if I am harmed—you might remember that.”
His mouth tightened at the not-so-subtle reference to his earlier threat. “I think he’ll pay to get you back whatever state you are in. You might remember that, mylady.” He slurred the last word with obvious sarcasm.
She bristled. “You are wrong about what happened. For all your knowledge ofexperiencedwomen, you should know the difference between practiced and not.”
He smiled, and Rosalin immediately regretted her churlish words. By remarking upon the woman who’d just kissed him, she’d let him know that it had bothered her.
“This way, Princess,” he said with a mock flourish. “Your palace awaits.”
He started away, and with no choice but to follow, Rosalin ignored the curious stares cast in her direction and hurried after him.
At first she thought he meant to take her to the big longhouse, which she assumed served as their hall, but then he led her past the building to where there were a few more tents set up. Slightly larger than the others, she realized these most likely housed the king’s lieutenants—perhaps even the king himself when he was present.
He stopped at the first tent. It was perhaps twelve feet square, with the middle of the pitched roof at least that high. Although the original natural wool would have been a brownish off-white, a protective coating of oil or wax to keep out the water had stained it yellow, and in places a dark-brownish black. Over a dozen hemp ropes supported the canopy from the outside, driven into the ground with large wooden pegs. Passing through the flaps that had been tied back, she saw the numerous wooden tent poles that gave the tent its structure.
Despite the afternoon light, it was fairly dark inside. But after Boyd lit the tall torches that flanked the entrance, she could better make out the interior.
Caesar was reputed to have traveled with his own mosaic tile floor in sections, and English kings had been known to outfit their tents as if they were a room in a palace with woven rugs, fine furniture, and silver and gold household plate. This tent was not so fine, but neither was it a crude hovel.
Her first impression was of well-tended orderliness. It might have been split down the middle with the two sides mirroring one another. They held box beds with some kind of mattress, probably made from straw, numerous wool blankets and a few furs, two wooden trunks for storage and extra seating, two tables, two stools, and two small braziers for warmth. The floor was covered in woven rushes. Other than a stray shield with a blue background and a band of red and white checks across it, a few candles, a pitcher, and a bowl for washing, there did not appear to be any personal items lying about that might give a hint about its occupants.
But she knew.
It was a warrior’s tent, and the spartan, no-frills, nothing-to-distract-from-war interior fit Boyd perfectly.
“You can sleep there,” he said, pointing to the bed on the left.
Since he threw down his plaid and helm on the other bed, she assumed it was his. Good God, he couldn’t mean to sleep in the same room with her?
“Is there not somewhere else I might stay?”
“There is not. As you might have noticed, we are in the middle of the forest. I’m afraid accommodation is limited.”
That wasn’t what she meant and he knew it. He just enjoyed making her feel like a spoiled, cosseted princess. That was what he’d called her. She lifted her chin, glaring at him defiantly. “I just do not wish to displace anyone from their bed.”
“If you are that worried, you can always share mine.”
