He laughed. “My life is of utmost importance to me. So is my horse.”
He clasped on a wide leather belt as he watched her with a predatory readiness in his movements and smiled lightly as if she were a curiosity encased behind glass. It was an action borne of a man comfortable in his own skin no matter his faults or his sins. Or hers.
And for some reason his self-possession unsettled her more.
“His name is Loki,” Roxburghe said.
The meaning was not lost on Rose. Loki was the Norse God of destruction, an ironic name for the gentle horse she had briefly glimpsed last night, but not incongruous when one considered the stallion belonged to the Black Dragon.
“It is not safe to cross the bridge while the river is high,” she said, walking around the table to face him at the other end. “There is another rarely used crossing two miles west.The bridge is older but on higher ground. Only the locals use it. You should be able to cross unseen.”
He picked up two pistols and shoved them into his leather belt. He truly did look like a freebooter as he approached her from around the table’s head, his boot spurs jangling. “I am relieved,” he said.
Rose had always thought herself to be sensible and levelheaded, but this man had worn on her nerves. “For what?”
“You do not wish me to drown.”
“Do not be so confident of that. This is former reiver country. Lord Hereford’s men are not the only ones you should fear.” She straightened before she started retreating from his enormous presence. “I have no desire for anyone to learn you were here either. I would not wish them to steal your horse.”
Though it would be less costly to the abbey if someone should, she thought.
“Nor would I wish you to carelessly lose him.” Roxburghe reached around her and dropped a bag weighted with coins onto the table. “Tell Friar Tucker this gold is for the abbey’s trouble.”
Rose was speechless.
“And you, m’lady.” He tipped her chin with his cupped hand and traced her bottom lip with his thumb. “Stay away from men in dark corridors and dining halls. Unless you want someone to show you the not-so-proper way to eat on this table.”
Indignation surged through her, instantly dissipating any feelings of gratitude she had momentarily felt for his generosity. But before she realized she had no idea what he had just said, except to imply by his tone it must be carnal and therefore not fit for a lady, he grinned and strode from the room, his spurs jingling against the stonefloor. The sound followed him into the courtyard and left her prey to unproductive emotions, not the least of which was awareness of him as a man.
She traced a fingertip where his had caressed her sensitive bottom lip, and, even as she wondered how many women he had kissed to know just where to imprint his touch, she wondered more what it would have been like if he had put his mouth on hers instead.
You are a naive girl, Rose Lancaster.
A man like him would not have stopped with a kiss.
An hour later, Rose gave up working in the crypt and put away her books. She went upstairs to her room and changed into a woolen gown. After she dressed, she drew back the faded velvet curtains to let in the dreary, mist-soaked light of dawn and turned.
Her old box bed sat against the wall, the covers thrown over the mattress as if an effort had been made to leave the room as it had been found. The room was no bigger than a large closet but Rose loved the coziness, especially in winter. She had repaired cracks in the wall and along the window frame with plaster and painted the walls the color of sunshine. Though the color came out more like a toasted orange or an over-ripened pumpkin, Friar Tucker had smiled and told her he’d never seen such a unique shade. So she had kept the color.
Unique sounded nice, not ordinary ... or common. Lord Roxburghe had told her she wasn’t common.
Like her unique height and the color of her russet hair, once compared to the copper of a fresh-minted coin. At one time, she would have plucked every red strand from her head if someone could have assured her that her hair would come back blond. She had grown into her body and had come to accept her uniqueness as one acceptedan incurable ailment, with as much dignity as she could muster. But this morning, her uniqueness made her feel pretty.
She walked outside into the mist-shrouded courtyard still wet with rain and humidity. A brief lull in the clouds opened a patch of pearl-gray sky to her gaze, but the sky would not remain clear for long. She stepped through the gate.
Jack was already in the stable, diligently bent over a rake, mucking the stalls. With Friar Tucker gone, he had only the abbey’s two horses and now the stallion to tend.
A fine regal horse Loki was, too, of stellar bloodstock, with long legs, a full chest and glossy red coat. She leaned against the stall and made a visual inspection of the horse. He favored his right foreleg. She would make a special liniment with herbs grown from the abbey’s own hothouse.
The stallion bumped her arm, seeking a pet, and she moved nearer. To assess a horse’s personality one must look it in the eyes. Character and temperament were easy to read. Piggy little eyes were sure signs of an untrustworthy beast. Bold but kindly eyes, well proportioned, indicated a good temperament. “No fire-breathing beast are you, Sir Loki,” she said, raking her fingers gently through the horse’s mane. “You are a handsome devil,” she said. “Like your master.”
Chapter 3
The storm that had come with the unusual heat of summer rampaged for another day before easing into the steadier, slower rain that filled the rivers and streams and made all the roads around Castleton nearly impassable. As Rose guided the old mare and cart over the neatly manicured drive toward the back of Mrs. Simpson’s cottage, she peered up at the welcome break in the sky.
It had taken her over two hours to travel a mere four miles. Even wearing heavy boots, she could have walked the way faster. Once she reached the trough, she jumped out of the cart, careful to avoid the mud as Jack set the brake. Though her breeches and natty tweed jacket had not escaped mud splatter, her boots were not proof against mud, and her stockings were already as soggy as milk-soaked bread.
“Do ye want me to gather the eggs, Miss Rose?”
