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

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angel who just coos the sweetest song. Bah! What a foolish woman I am to go on so.”

      “Nay, my lady. ’Tis pleasant to hear the pride and delight in your voice.”

      “You indulge an old woman.”

      “’Tis not true. ’Tis I who benefit from your great kindnesses, and I am grateful for your attentions.”

      “If my daughter were feeling better, she would be seeing to you and trying to comfort you after your terrible day. I know she feels dreadfully responsible.”

      “Nay, my lady, she must not. I cast no blame.”

      “Lucien has sent word to Lord Robert. He wishes you to stay with us until we receive a reply.”

      “Oh.” The mention of Robert of Berendsfore set Rosamund’s pulse thumping a bit harder.

      Veronica twisted the dark blond tresses into a thick braid and fastened the end with a leather thong. “There, now I shall leave you to your supper and your rest.”

      “Thank you, good lady.”

      Veronica smiled down at her, touching her slim hand to Rosamund’s cheek. A look of uncertainty passed over her features, then was gone. “Rest,” she said with a renewed pleasantness.

      “I shall.”

      “And eat!” she called over her shoulder.

      Rosamund laughed despite her distractions. “I shall try.”

      The darkness was absolute when she awoke, panting and sweating from the dream. Her mother falling…

      She shook her head, refusing the wispy ghost of memory. Sitting up, she pushed her hair out of her eyes. Tendrils had sneaked out of the braid and stuck to the thin sheen of sweat along her brow and cheeks.

      At the washstand was fresh water and a towel for the morning. She wet the linen and rubbed it over her face and neck, down her arms, until gooseflesh pricked her skin.

      The night was warm but there was a sweet breeze, and now that she had cooled herself down, it was quite pleasant. She wrapped a sheet about her and went to the window, pulling up a small stool so that she could lean out and listen to the night sounds. The pleasant chorus soothed her. She folded her arms on the windowsill and rested her chin on her crossed wrists.

      The dream was gone now, but she was wakeful and troubled. She thought of Alayna, who had been so upset on Rosamund’s behalf. Alayna’s mother, the Lady Veronica, had also touched Rosamund’s heart with her kindness and solicitude. In some ways she reminded Rosamund of her own mother. There was nothing overtly similar save those things common to all mothers. The phrases they are apt to say, a look, a smile—all full of nurturing warmth.

      Rosamund thought of Lucien and his terrible scowls, and Agravar and the surprising gentleness of his hands when they had touched her.

      She wondered where Davey was, and when he would find her. And she wondered what she would do if he did not.

      Chapter Six

      There was a break in the heat, and the denizens of Gastonbury came forth from the shuttered dark coolness of the castle where they had dwelled in exhausted and sweltering stillness for the past fortnight. A large tent was spread out in the meadow just outside the curtain wall. Alayna brought her small children to play there, under the fond regard of her mother and the silent companionship of her cousin.

      The outing was treated with all the celebration of a high feast day. Veronica, Alayna and Rosamund reclined on cushions under the canopy, the men lounged nearby. Couples wandered off together, or gathered under shade trees for more intimate conversation. Spirits were high and musicians played gentle, lilting music, which drifted on the refreshing breeze to mingle with laughter.

      “Margaret, sing us a song!” a man cried out.

      “My lady?” Margaret asked her mistress, eager to comply with her admirer’s request.

      Alayna nodded. Despite the lessening in the heat, she still seemed rather wan. “Yes, go ahead.”

      Margaret scrambled up off the cushions to stand primly beside a grinning lyre player. She muttered something and he began to strum.

      Her song was lovely. Rosamund smiled and closed her eyes, leaning back against the soft pallet upon which she reclined and let the peace of the day seep into her.

      “She sings like a lark,” Veronica whispered in her ear. “But the chit is insufferably vain about it.”

      Another voice, harsher, brimming with violence, spoke from somewhere deep in Rosamund’s memory. Vain harlot!

      Her eyes flew open and locked with the steady, placid orbs of her companion. Veronica smiled and the flash dissipated, leaving only the steady thud of her heart pounding in her ears. Then that steadied as well.

      She made some reply and they fell silent again.

      Rosamund rubbed her temple. Sometimes she feared madness. But the pain was fleeting, like a streak of lightning that is brilliant and stark in the darkened sky, filling the watcher with awe and terror, but when its brief moment of glory is spent, so is its threat. All it leaves behind is the strange scent that curls one’s nostrils and the dread that it could happen again and that harm might not be avoided.

      Her past was like that.

      “Rosamund?”

      “Aye? Oh, aye, my lady.”

      “Are you unwell?”

      “Nay. Not at all.”

      Forcing a smile, she lifted her gaze and attended the song. But her feelings of disquiet returned. She caught Agravar’s eyes on her. That Viking seemed always to be watching her with more than passing interest in his eyes.

      The knowledge terrified her and thrilled her at the same time, the latter of which she understood not at all. She looked away, feeling an overwhelming self-consciousness all of a sudden, as if that white-hot gaze could see inside her. And know all her secrets…

      A wicked whack on her shin brought her out of her thoughts in a snap. She yelped, “Ah!”

      Young Aric de Montregnier, who was four years old, stood before her with wide eyes and gaping mouth. His was the panic-stricken face of a child who knows he has gone too far.

      “Uh-oh,” he said simply.

      “Aric!” Alayna exclaimed.

      “I am sorry! I am sorry!” Alayna’s son exclaimed. “I did not mean it, Mother. I was fighting the infidels. Bryan was Saladin and I King Richard and I missed and—”

      “Lucien,” Alayna said calmly, slipping the wooden sword out of her son’s hand, “have you been telling Aric tales of the Crusades?”

      Lucien managed to look wary and stern at the same time as he sputtered some sounds that were neither denials nor confirmation.

      Looking at Aric, Rosamund had never seen so small a face beset with such misery and she was overcome with sympathy. The poor lad had simply gotten carried away with his game, and although she understood his mother’s annoyance, the boy’s gorgeous countenance undid her.

      She found herself moving before she even thought. She came to her feet and put her arms around the boy. “Pardon the child, Alayna. Aric knows how I love to play soldier.” Aric looked up at her as if she had sprouted horns from her brow. She continued, “We both have a fascination for the great Crusades and the grand adventures of the knights who undertake the holy quest.”

      The child knew lying when he heard it, but he had also been taught to respect his elders. The resultant turmoil—should he agree to her fibs or denounce her for honesty’s sake?—was apparent in his trembling grimace. Rosamund had to smile, and stroked his small cheek, touched by his distress. “Oh, we have never spoken of it, I admit, but kindred spirits know these things about

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