The Viking's Heart - Jacqueline Navin Mills & Boon Historical

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we seem to have nothing else to say to one another.”

      He narrowed his eyes with ill intent. “Mayhap a return to our earlier topic of how you are more than you seem.”

      “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

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