A Winter’s Rose Read online

  Apparently, the catskin cloak was no longer amidst their belongings, and later, Giles would tell her the sisters accepted the donation graciously. But, of course, they would; it was a beautiful cloak, if only one didn’t know what it was made of.

  Supper arrived after her bath, delivered by none other than Giles himself. Anticipating the moment of his arrival, Rosalynde received him dressed in one of her bright new gowns, hoping with all her heart that she’d chosen the one he preferred. After all, it would be their first night alone together and she wanted to thank him properly… and more, she wanted him to know how willingly she came to their union, even if he didn’t properly understand the gifts the Goddess had granted them.

  * * *

  Giles froze as he opened the door.

  Whatever he had expected to encounter upon returning to the room, he hadn’t expected such a brilliant transformation. But it was more than the dress. As a matter of confession, he had been anticipating seeing her again, dressed in something more appropriate to her station, but nothing could have prepared him for the smile she bestowed upon him as he entered the room. It glowed more brightly than his sword ever could, and, in response, like an untried youth, he nearly dropped the tray he held.

  Her hair was freshly washed and plaited, her skin translucent, and without the wimple, veil and filth, he could see every detail all-too clearly.

  She was… breathtaking.

  She was… precisely the woman he’d envisioned in his dreams. His siren…

  She was… heartrendingly beautiful… her nose pert and sweet. Her lips so full and rosy. Her hair full of shimmer, catching the copper gleam of firelight. And her eyes shone with the light of an inner flame.

  “You look… beautiful,” he said, averting his gaze, as he moved toward the room’s only table to set down the tray.

  “You are beautiful, my lord,” she said, with a tremble in her voice, and Giles chuckled softly, very swiftly losing all his good sense. God have mercy, it was all he could do not to strip the lady bare and lay her down upon that well-made bed, peel away her chainse and replace the garment with his burning lips… alas, he would not.

  No matter that they seemed to have formed some inexplicable bond, she was still a lady, whose honor must be defended… including from himself.

  Particularly from himself.

  Alas, he could not explain his sense of duty to her. But then, nothing about this past week was even remotely explicable. She was Morwen Pendragon’s daughter—a witch by her own admission. Giles was a Paladin, sworn to eradicate her kind from this earth.

  And yet… there was naught about Rosalynde Pendragon that was evil, and even now his sword lay silent against the wall where he’d put it… which was more than he could say about his other sword.

  Gods’ truth, if there was any witchery at play here, it was only this: His heart would not stop thumping in her presence and his lungs felt too constricted to breathe. His blood simmered through his veins and his cock stirred against his will.

  She was nervous, he could tell. He could see that she stood trembling, like a bride on her first night, with hands joined primly together, and her alabaster cheeks the color of a rose in bloom—a rose in winter.

  For all that he might be twice her age, he was nervous, too—a fact that bewildered him. What was she? Twenty perhaps? He was thirty-three, yet, through his service in the Guard, he felt twice that.

  Even when he’d first laid eyes upon her beautiful sister, he hadn’t felt this way—even knowing that she was meant to lie beneath him. He had never once looked at Seren Pendragon as anything more than Morwen spy—an agent for his ruin.

  Now, in truth, if he must confess this fact—if only to himself—he hadn’t felt this confused by any woman since his first blush—not since Lady Ayleth. And even then, he never felt this… overwhelming desire to claim her for his own… to put his seed in her belly. He wanted to imagine her with his daughters at her skirts, and his son suckling at her bosom…

  As profane as it might seem… he wanted to suckle there himself…

  And yet he was already betrothed, and this was no matter he could easily resolve—not when so many people depended upon the success of his charade.

  At least for the time being, he must not embrace the way he felt. Later perhaps… but only perhaps.

  And regardless, she must be famished—as famished as he was for the velvety sweetness of her skin.

  “Thank you,” she said, and he struggled to recover himself, removing the twin goblets from the tray he’d brought. Taking his time, settlings his thoughts, he placed them on the table, and then picked up the flagon, intending to indulge himself until his mutinous cock could no longer stir.

  At any rate, his mouth felt entirely too parched…

  * * *

  “Would you like some vin?” he asked, clearing his throat, and when Rosalynde didn’t immediately reply, he gestured toward the goblets.

  “Yeah… please… thank you, my lord.”

  My lord… the words sounded oddly formal in this richly adorned bower, when all week long he had been merely Giles, and they’d slept scandalously close, even sharing one blanket. And yet, in all that time, it had never once occurred to Rose to be embarrassed by their proximity—not even with her ruined gown. It wasn’t in her nature to be self-conscious. Only now, she felt painfully shy for the first time in her life, and she averted her gaze, examining the room.

  Unlike the rest of the nunnery, the guest rooms were well fitted, if modestly so, with soft linens and sapphire blue curtains hanging from irons above a small, high window.

  It wasn’t particularly a surprise, for despite that these nuns created such beautiful fabrics and gowns, Sister Emma herself had worn the simplest of dresses. The priory was the same—humble for the women who dwelt here, but snug and fit for their guests.

  It was late now; the sun was already setting. Its rays impaled the leaded glass—not so fine as the waldglas at Llanthony, and yet beautiful anyway, separating the sun’s hues over the white-sheeted bed—violet, blue, red, green, gold.

  Beside the simple canopy, a small brazier burned very low, but still hot enough to warm the room. Alas, to Rosalynde’s dismay, it seemed that all its warmth crept into her cheeks.

  Freshly scrubbed from her bath, she felt naked, exposed, even despite the lovely gown she wore. There was no wimple to hide the red of her hair, no veil to hide the trembling of her lips—nor, for that matter, any glamour spell to hide her true face. She was precisely who—and what—she was, and if she must be judged by her looks alone, she would never, ever measure up to her sister.

  And still, she dared to hope… if only because of the look Giles gave her as he came through the door… as though she must be the most beautiful maiden in all the realm. He was still gazing at her that way…

  His gaze never left her as he poured the vin in both their goblets, and then he set the flagon down again, and once he was through, he lifted one goblet for Rosalynde to take. He gave her a heart-tripping smile, as he said, in jest, “To our continued ability to breathe.”

  “I suppose tis one way to put it,” Rosalynde said, laughing softly, taking the goblet.

  “And how else would you put it, Sister Rosalynde?”

  Sister Rosalynde.

  Her gaze shot up, only to realize he must be teasing her—for the first time ever, and now that he dared to her cheeks grew warmer still. Embarrassed, because she had ever meant to deceive him, Rosalynde lifted her glass, returning his smile. “Alas,” she protested. “I haven’t a gift for words, my lord.”

  He lifted a golden brow, his lips curving ever-so slyly. “To my knowledge, Lady Rosalynde, you’ve never had a loss for any words,” he said, and her face burned hotter, until she felt the flush ignite her bosom. “And nevertheless,” he said. “Never fear, as it seems to me you have more than your share of gifts already—not the least of which is your smile.”

  Rosalynde’s heart tripped wildly.

  Very shyly, sh
e lifted her goblet to her lips, grateful for the sweet elixir to calm her nerves—and Goddess please, she planned to drink a lot tonight, if only so she could forget that she meant to lie with her sister’s intended.

  And no matter… she knew in her heart that Seren would be the first to sanction this union. Seren was not capable of envy, and neither could she possibly have any affection for Giles de Vere—not like Rose did. After all, how could anyone endure such trials and not be bonded?

  Unbidden, the Goddess’s words came back to tease her, and she flushed hotly, because if those words were not imagined… if, in truth, they were to be believed… they must already be wed in the eyes of the Goddess… and still… not once had Giles dared to acknowledge what happened.

  Rose understood that he must not have experienced them. Such things were not meant for the ears of common men—and yet, he was hardly, in the true sense of the word… common.

  Whatever the case, she had no compunction about what she was about to do—none at all. She had been taught to revel in all that made her a woman. Her ancestors had been pagans, who, instead of being ashamed of the act of procreation had been taught that the creation of life was the greatest gift to be bestowed upon the world, and if she could thank Giles, she would thank him with her body and her soul.

  Only what she felt for him was more than gratitude. She felt something deeper. She felt… love, for what was love after all, but a higher form of magik born of faith, trust and devotion?

  When all was said and done, it wasn’t just that Giles was the first man she’d ever known so intimately. It wasn’t merely that he was also the most beautiful man she’d ever known. Nor was it only that she’d spent so many hours reveling in the warmth of his embrace. And nay, it wasn’t because he’d saved her life. She liked him, truly. She liked everything about him. She liked the way he ate. She loved his smile. She loved the way he walked and talked. She loved the quiet strength and power he wielded so easily. She loved the patience he showed his brother, and most of all, she loved the way he made her feel…

  He gestured toward the table, and Rosalynde’s knees buckled as she moved closer to discover that he’d brought her a bit of mutton, cheese and bread. In truth, she wasn’t very hungry, but she knew she must try—else the vin would go straight to her head, and she wanted desperately that tonight should be divine…

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I ate. All save the vin is for you.”

  Rose’s hand fluttered to her breast. “For me?”

  She was overcome with emotion. It wasn’t enough that he would buy her gowns and then deign to serve her, but not even at Westminster had she dined so finely. Not for one minute was her mother ever concerned about how her daughters filled their bellies, much less what they ate. And so much as they had been surrounded by opulence at the palace, they would have preferred Llanthony with their crude dirt floors. At least then they could have eaten from their garden. But this—she swept her hand reverently over the laden tray. It was too much to eat alone, and what was worse, as famished as she should have been, she had inexplicably lost her appetite. There was a fluttering her belly, like a hundred thousand angels flittering all at once.

  Retrieving her hand, she put it about her cup, bringing the goblet slowly to her lips. “I shall eat later,” she promised with a smile, as he watched her, all the while twirling his own cup in his hand.

  What should she do now?

  Rosalynde turned to regard the bed, wondering what should come next… the room was so warm now that she could easily undress… and rush into the bed.

  “How is your wound?” he asked.

  “Healed,” she reassured him. “But… I do have scars.” And her blush returned as she considered that she must now reveal all her imperfections.

  And yet—she furrowed her brow—she was quite puzzled, because, truly, she had never known a healing spell not to remove wound marks as well. She now had eight hideous black pocks that were clearly visible, even after a week—not unlike the darkening scars that Wilhelm now wore on his face.

  “And this surprises you?”

  Rosalynde nodded. “Perhaps,” she confessed, but then… she didn’t know what else to say.

  Now should she undress and get into the bed?

  What must he think of her compared to her sister?

  Behind her, Giles sank into one of the chairs. And then he sat for such an excruciatingly long while, facing the bed. In fact, he waited so long to speak that, outside, full darkness descended, bathing the room in shadows. On the bed, the rainbow prism vanished, and still, he sipped quietly at his vin…

  What if, after all, he didn’t want her? What if, in truth, Rose imagined everything? What if the bond she felt was nothing more than a heartfelt wish?

  Feeling compelled to, she now returned to the table, forcing herself to pick up a piece of the bread, taking a nibble. “Tis good,” she said, and thanked him again, acutely aware that his eyes never left her, until, at long last, he broached the subject they’d been so studiously avoiding all week long, and she felt a terrible prick of dread.

  “You must know, Rose… I am betrothed to your sister?”

  “I-I do, my lord.” Rosalynde’s heart thudded to a halt.

  A deeper silence fell between them… a silence that brought the sizzling inside the brazier to a roar, and Rosalynde forced herself to take another bite of the bread, making herself to chew.

  “As God is my witness, I do not care about the title, and yet… if I do not honor my contract with Stephen, I stand to lose Warkworth.”

  Rosalynde’s throat constricted. The bread inside her mouth turned to paste, and her heart squeezed painfully.

  Somehow, she had not considered him in this, but… yeah, of course. He stood to lose everything… and why did she think he was only here to serve the will of Goddess?

  “I made a bargain,” he said. “My fealty to Stephen for the chance to rebuild… and… to seal our deal, I accepted your sister’s hand. Our wedding is to be six months hence.”

  “I wouldst…” Rosalynde shook her head, setting the rest of the bread down, losing what little appetite she had mustered. She lifted her hand to her mouth, perhaps to keep herself from retching, and with much, much effort, she managed to swallow what she had in her mouth, then, she lifted her goblet, along with the flagon, pouring from its contents until her goblet was full to the brim. “I… I do… not… wish to see you lose Warkworth… my lord.” She set the flagon down, very quietly.

  “If it were only me…”

  Rosalynde would have lifted a hand if she could, but both of them were strangling her goblet. “You need not explain,” she said, tipping the goblet to her lips, draining the contents. “So, then… you would still wed my sister, Seren?”

  “That… is the plan,” he said, and Rose’s eyes filled with hot tears she daren’t shed. With shaking hands, she poured another goblet full and then once again tipped it to her lips, gulping until she was no longer in danger of weeping. “My sister… Seren is wonderful,” she said, swallowing her grief. “You will love her.”

  He said naught to that, and until that instant, Rosalynde hadn’t ever dared begrudge her sisters aught. Only now that she knew Giles… now that they had shared so much together… the very thought of Seren wedding him seemed a sore, sore lack of grace on the part of the Goddess.

  Something like anger ignited in her breast, for how could she provide Rosalynde a champion, only to wrest him away and return him to her beautiful sister?

  It wasn’t fair.

  “You mustn’t worry, Rose. I gave you my word to see you safely to Aldergh, and this I’ll do. As luck would have it, whilst I’m there, I have business to address with your sister’s husband.”

  Rosalynde nodded once, wanting to ask what business a dutiful Earl could have with a traitor to the crown, but her tongue was too thick to speak. Swallowing her grief, she turned away, refusing to meet his gaze. “I… I am not hungry, after all,” she said as she moved toward the bed, sudde
nly, feeling more enervated than she had even on the day she’d faced Mordecai.

  Goddess help her, for all that she’d felt a sense of purpose in regard to the grimoire, it suddenly seemed a terrible, terrible waste—not for the rest of the realm perhaps, but, for her. Without Giles, it felt as though her world had already ended. But how could that be so? “Thank you… so much… for all you’ve done, my lord. If you would pardon me now, I should desperately like to sleep.”

  “I understand,” he said, watching her tear down the bedding. “Don’t worry, my lady,” he said formally. “I intended to sleep in this chair.”

  Rose’s brows slanted sadly. “Of course,” she said, and crawled into the bed, pulling the covers high over her head, not caring that she might wrinkle her fabulous new gown. She didn’t want Giles to see her tear-stricken face, and she wished so much that she still had her wimple and veil.

  Yeah, she was angry, embarrassed, disappointed. Sad. And all these things shouldn’t have mattered, because, after all, he was still helping her with the one thing she most needed… getting the grimoire to Elspeth.

  Everything else was all but fantasy.

  It didn’t matter, she told herself.

  Nothing mattered.

  She didn’t need him.

  And yet, she did.

  * * *

  Giles tossed down another gulp of the vin, and sweet as the taste might be, it was bitter on his tongue.

  Rosalynde’s emotions were honest and without guile. He could tell that he had hurt her, and it sorely aggrieved him.

  They had been inseparable since the ordeal in the glade, but he was losing his resolve, as swiftly as he was losing his religion. Rosalynde Pendragon was not for him, and he mustn’t confuse the mission he’d embarked upon. His sword belonged to the Church, even if his heart now belonged to a beauteous witch… a witch, in truth.

  And that, too, was a cross to be borne… because he no more intended to kill the lady, than he meant to bed her. Instead, he would be her advocate to the Church. He would make certain they understood she was not her mother.