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“Aye,” Lily said, not noticing the wicked way his mouth curled at the corners. “Sometimes I have seen them, hugging or stealing a kiss, and it seems to make them unaccountably jolly.”
“Positively shocking,” Rogan commented. “And what do you think of such adventures?”
“Well, they are acceptable for servants. They are of a different sort than noble folk.”
“And you, Lily? May I call you Lily?” To this, she nodded, a bit bemused but agreeing all the same. “Then, Lily, do you have cause to be jolly?”
What a strange question. “There is much that is expected of me, I suppose. I certainly have nothing to complain about. I have everything I can desire.”
“How fortunate for you.”
She was lying, and he knew it. She blushed, then confessed, “Well, part of the problem is that I do not know what it is I desire. Catherine always wished for a grand marriage, and Elspeth wants to go to the convent but Father is reluctant to let her. He says he will miss her, and he has been putting it off.”
A short, comfortable silence stretched between them. She looked up into the heavens, alive with a host of lights winking brilliantly like a handful of diamonds strewn carelessly across black velvet. After a while, Rogan ventured, “Perhaps you will find happiness with your betrothed. Is he a man of your pleasing?”
Lily answered, “My parents promised me at birth, but he was slain in the Holy Land. I never met him. The same with Catherine. That is why Father had to find a husband for her now. He has not yet begun for me.”
“What was his name? Perhaps I knew him.”
“Were you on Crusade?” she gasped.
She saw his eyes darken, felt something shift between them. “Yes. I only returned last year.”
“Was it glorious? What of the Saracens, are they truly barbaric heathens?” Her enthusiasm dwindled quickly at his solemn look. “I am sorry,” she said. “I had not thought it would be painful to speak of.”
“No, not painful really. But it was not glorious, Lily. Taking a life never is, even the life of a Saracen. It may be heresy to say this, but they are not all evil. From what I observed, they are much like us in many respects. Their religion and culture are different, and they speak a different tongue, but they love their families and would die to protect their children. Some behaved more nobly than my fellow knights.” He fell silent, as if lost in some long-ago moment, then shook off the mood. “Forgive me. I do not often speak of it”
“Oh, no,” she breathed, fascinated. “I do not mind at all. If ever you would like to tell me more, I would be honored.”
One side of his mouth quirked up. “I shall keep that in mind.”
They talked amiably until the moon began to wane and Lily was reminded of the lateness of the hour. “I should be going inside,” she said reluctantly.
Rogan nodded, but did not move.
“Really, should Catherine learn I was here with you, she would be most displeased.”
“Why are you so afraid of Catherine?”
Lily paused. How could she explain the subtle threat Catherine exuded? Since their mother’s death, she ruled as somewhat of a tyrant at Charolais, over the servants and her sisters. Though Lily was not precisely afraid of her, she had a healthy dread of the trouble she could sow.
“Catherine is rather strong willed,” Lily stated. “She has a way of making it distinctly uncomfortable for those who disobey her.”
“I should think you would not care,” Rogan observed.
True enough. It was merely an excuse for Lily’s own growing feeling that she had overstepped the bounds of propriety far too much, even for her free spirit.
“Yes. But I really need to go in now.”
“You seem reluctant to go,” Rogan said, seeming to read her mind. Then, with a gleam in his eye, he asked, “I was intrigued by what you were saying about the servants. Being jolly. Do you remember?”
“Aye,” she answered, puzzled.
“When they kiss, you said.”
She blushed and lowered her eyes to her hands clasped tightly on her lap. When she looked back up, Rogan’s eyes shone with a strange light, making them appear silver. He leaned slightly forward. “Have you ever been kissed?”
Lily felt as if a tankard of ice-cold ale had been splashed in her face. Her mouth dropped open in shock and her back went rigid. “That,” she said with emphasis, “is a very rude question for a gently bred lord to ask a lady!”
She stood up. Her skirts were still somewhat wet, and they clung unbecomingly to her. But she was too angry to care. “I was wrong to tarry with you. Now, I really must go inside.”
With that she whirled about and stomped as gracefully as she could manage to the door, which was not much with her gown flapping heavily about her legs.
Rogan had to bite his lips to keep from laughing out loud at her magnificent exit, at least until she was out of earshot. But he was soon sorry for his impulsive question. The enchantment of the garden shriveled into the shadows, deserting him and leaving the orchard lonely.
He raked his hand through his hair. Now what had made him say such a thing? he wondered.
Chapter Four (#ulink_7296b6b6-d4fb-5658-abac-6e9bc09bdd97)
Rogan reentered the castle, relieved that Andrew was no longer about. He was not in the mood to discuss much of anything right now, let alone endure another lecture on the perils of an overdeveloped sense of responsibility. Interestingly—considering the critical circumstances—Rogan felt good and his mind was full of the delightful interlude with Lily. The little flower, as Andrew called her.
A sleepy page intercepted him and said he would show Rogan to his quarters. Following the boy, he climbed the great stone staircase that wound around the inside wall of the keep, then into a vaulted corridor lit with an abundance of torches. The lad led him to a chamber that was rather small, though nicely appointed. It held a good-sized bed, a stool and a shuttered window. The fire had been lit and there was a steaming tub by it. He was surprised by this hospitality, then thought that these amenities perhaps reflected the Marshands’ goodwill. His mood improved even more at this observance.
The servant left him and Rogan was about to undress when his door opened. Surprised, he turned. Catherine Marshand came into the room.
“Good eve to you,” she said as she moved toward him. “I have come to help you with your bath.”
It was common custom that visitors be offered such service, but it was usually the married women who performed the honor of undressing and washing their guests. In the absence of such a person, it was conceivable that the eldest daughter would offer. However, Rogan’s instincts were instantly alerted.
He did not stop her when she placed her hands on the thick band of leather at his waist. He experienced a distinct revulsion at her touch, but he was wary. He had dealt this proud woman a crushing blow today, and he did not want to lose what ground he had gained toward keeping peace.
Her slim hands did their work and his belt came undone. She laid it carefully on the back of a chair by the tub. When she turned back to him, he saw the burning in her dark eyes and a tight smile played on her face.
Rogan groaned inwardly. There was no way for him to stop this without appearing rude. It was ironic that an able-bodied man such as himself would feel these trepidations with a mere woman, but there was something about this one that made his flesh crawl.
“I am relieved you and your family have chosen not to take exception to my brother’s brutish behavior.”
“What’s done is done.” Catherine pulled off his tunic and untied his undershirt. She was close to him and he could smell her cloying scent. It was making him mildly ill.
Her hands went to the ties of his leggings.
“Do you not think it would be best to remove my boots first?” he asked. Verily, was this woman so anxious to get into his braes she would leave him standing with them caught up around his knees?
She knelt to perform the duty, then stood to address the leggings once again. He was not a modest man, but he found he had an aversion to being viewed intimately by Catherine’s devouring eyes. When he was naked, he quickly stepped into the tub and picked up the soap.
“Nay, I shall do that for you, Lord Rogan.”
With a shrug, he handed it to her and she lathered up her hands and began to rub his chest.
Rogan pretended to relax, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “What can you tell me of your sister, Lily?”
The stroking stopped for a moment, then resumed. “Why do you ask about Lily?”
“I was curious. Has your family chosen someone for her to wed?”
“Lily is a pleasant girl. But she is young, and still unrefined. I have done my best with her, but she can be headstrong. As to her marriage prospects, I am sure my father shall have no difficulty finding someone suitable. When the time comes. It is traditional for the eldest to marry first. And it may be difficult to find someone after this scandal.”
“Rich enough.”
“Pardon me?”
“I said, rich enough. Certainly with a prize such as yourself, you would want to make the best possible liaison, am I correct? Another duke, perhaps?”
Catherine shrugged mildly. “I do not know. Certainly someone of good family. But I only received the news today of my betrothed…that the duke married another. But these are matters for my father.”
Her hands trailed down his chest. She rubbed his legs, stroking the washing rag over them each in turn.
“I tell you, I am most impressed with her,” he continued, pretending to be unperturbed by her ministrations.
Her voice betrayed her tension. “Let us not talk of her. Surely we can find something else more amusing for our conversation?” She was not going to be dissuaded by his lofty praise of her sister. “May I speak plainly, Lord Rogan?” she asked.
He was never to know what plain conversation she had planned, for it was then his chamber door opened. Andrew stood at the threshold.
“Ro—” he started, then stopped just inside the doorway, visibly taken aback by the scene before him.
Rogan called out to him pleasantly. “Come, Andrew, for I was just speaking to the Lady Catherine on her future prospects of marriage. Did you get a chance to discuss our family’s concerns with her when she attended you at your bath?”
There was a short silence, then Andrew said, “Ah, the Lady Catherine did not attend me in my bath—eh, that is to say, I had no bath.”
Catherine stood, finally flustered. “Well, there is only one tub, and you must understand that Lord Rogan, being the elder, was chosen to—”
“Nonsense, think nothing of it,” Andrew said, waving his hand nonchalantly. “I rarely bathe anyway.”
Catherine hurriedly brought forth the drying linen when she saw Andrew settle into a chair, apparently determined to stay.
“If you will not be needing me any further this eve, I will see you on the morrow,” she said stiffly, and exited the room before Rogan could reply.
When the door had shut behind her, Rogan grunted, “That was close.”
“Afraid the lady would compromise your reputation, were you?” Andrew teased. “I must say that I am more than passing insulted. I would have very much liked a bath and a brisk rub!”
“It is cruel to tease me,” Rogan said dangerously. “I could barely stand the feel of those bony hands on my flesh with that feral gleam in her eye.”
“I will be glad to be away from this place. Enguerrand seems to have recovered well. But that woman. Do you think you can escape the attentions of Lady Catherine?”
Rogan didn’t answer. He climbed in bed and pulled the furs up over him. “I shall be safe. Douse the candle on your way out, will you? And relax, brother. If all else fails, I do have my sword.”
“My good fellow, it is something of a sword the woman is after!”
After breaking their fast the next morning, Rogan and Andrew were invited to accompany their host to the practice field where, he boasted, he would show them a fine display of fighting prowess.
Rogan stood quietly as he watched Enguerrand’s men go through their drills, working with swords and maces. Andrew, who was off a little ways behind Marshand, amused himself by rolling his eyes at the stumbling maneuverings of the soldiers, then offering facetious compliments. Rogan scowled in mute warning for him to stop, but Andrew merely smirked.
His mind wandered to Catherine. Andrew had been right when he had said that her obvious interest in him could be a problem. And there was Lily. Thoughts of their meeting last evening in the garden still made him smile. She was a strange girl. She was beautiful and proud and yet unassuming, so unlike her elder sister.
“What say you, Rogan?” Enguerrand said, and Rogan snapped back into awareness. He glanced over at Andrew who was wearing his usual expression of ill-concealed mockery, brows raised in expectation.
“What was that? I am afraid I was distracted for a moment.”
“Thinking twice, eh, St. Cyr?” Enguerrand hooted.
Andrew leaned forward. “He wants to know if you want to take a chance with one of his men.” He rolled his eyes. “Damn daunting challenge.”
Rogan ignored Andrew’s jest and considered the invitation. With all of this pent-up tension, swinging a sword would feel wonderful right now.
“Very good,” he said, and Enguerrand announced the match.
Rogan doffed his jerkin and shirt, surprising his host when he strolled onto the field bare chested.
“No chain mail?” Enguerrand asked Andrew.
Andrew shrugged. “Too hot. Rogan despises the heat.”
“But without the protection…”
Andrew smiled. “Not to worry. He’ll not receive a mark.”
Enguerrand frowned, a bit insulted.
Behind a large piling of crates and barrels at the edge of the practice field, Lily hunkered down out of sight. She peered around the comrnr of her hiding place, trying to keep herself concealed and at the same time get a clear view of the goings-on.
She must be mad, she told herself. If her father saw her he would be furious. Worse, if Rogan spied her scampering about like an urchin, she knew she would never survive the humiliation.
But she had to see him again.
She had not been able to stop thinking of him all last night. She had been sorely disappointed this morn when she had found her father had taken him off so early. When she learned he was to fight one of her father’s men, she could not have stayed away for all the riches of the Holy See.
As Rogan walked onto the field, stripped to the waist as he was, Lily dove deeper under cover. Her heart thundered in her chest as panic arose. He was half-naked!
Oh, she should run back while she still had the chance, steal into the solar where she was supposed to be, quietly sewing and gossiping with the other women. Aye, most certainly she had been foolish to give in to her impulses. She stood, firmly resolved.
But somehow, instead of going back to the keep, she crept closer, slipping behind a cart nearer to the perimeter of the field.
From here she could view everything much better. She was close enough to see the movement of muscle as Rogan swung the broadsword over his head to limber up. Fascinated, she noted the slight beading of perspiration glisten on bare flesh. She felt faint, closing her eyes to steady herself.
He was magnificent, more physically glorious than any hero of a bard’s tale. His arms were thick with sinewed definition, sculpted as perfectly as the god Hermes in the garden, and his chest was broad with a light furring of auburn to match his wild mane of hair. It spread across his skin, tapering to a trail over the flat stomach. He turned, his back flexing with each of his powerful movements. Bracing himself, legs apart, he nodded to his opponent that he was ready.
Lily almost gave away her hiding place when she saw who it was her father had chosen to face Rogan. Latvar the Dane—a huge, ugly monster of a man. He was by far her father’s most accomplished warrior, held in awe among the men for both his skill and merciless strength. As he approached, swinging his spiked mace, Rogan only waited with deadly calm.
