Читать книгу The Viking's Heart - Jacqueline Navin - Страница 15

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 speak first.”

“I thought…it could have been anyone.”

The challenging spitfire from the other day was gone. Here again was the cringing waif. He said, “Surely you know you are safe. Who would harm you here in your cousin’s home?”

She tucked her chin into her shoulder. “Do you think there are only certain places where evil can reign? It can enter anywhere. It resides in homes like this one, I can tell you.”

“Are you an expert on evil, Rosamund?”

When she turned back to him, her eyes were a bit wild—large and round, lost in that pretty face. They startled him. So did her answer. “Aye. Of a sorts, I am.”

He blinked, trying to absorb it, trying to think what it meant. In the end, he only held out his hand. “Come. Let us back to the hall.”

She was so artless, so utterly transparent. Casting a look up the stairs, into the rising treads that disappeared into darkness where the weakening strains of daylight could not penetrate, she hesitated. “I…I thought I might roam a bit. Get to know the castle.”

“What a poor liar you are.”

Her head whipped around. She was all fire again. “What an insulting man you are! What reason have you to question me?”

What reason had he? Only that every inch of his flesh screamed with instinctive uncertainty whenever she was in sight, only that something deep down in his gut seemed somehow connected to this woman—a woman he had known but a sennight. Only that his soul spoke to him of her, and it told him disturbing things.

It was true he didn’t seem to know what he was about when with her. But it was hardly seemly to tell her this, so he only smiled and shook his head. “I can take you on a tour. Shall we go to the top of the turret and see what we find?”

Suddenly she was all nerves again. “Nay. We have been overlong on these stairs. The air is stale. Let us to fresher areas. Perhaps outdoors.”

“But I insist, my lady. You should not change your plans for me.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her along up to the top of the tower. “We will go together to conquer the challenge of the turret.”

She resisted a bit, but it did not impede their swift progress up the stairs. The small chamber at the top was empty.

“See,” she said, but her voice trembled. “The air is close in here. ’Tis unhealthy. Let us to the garden, or better yet, the grove. ’Twill refresh us.”

Agravar let his eyes travel about the small chamber, quickly assessing there was no place for anyone to hide.

What was he thinking? It was ridiculous to suspect Rosamund had been sneaking off to some kind of secret assignation. To what purpose? And who would she know here at Gastonbury whom she could not speak to out in the open?

And yet…

There were so many doors leading into the turret. The top chamber may not have been her destination at all. Or, perhaps, if there had been someone waiting, they could have easily slipped away without anyone the wiser.

She took his proffered arm stiffly and they descended the steps. Bypassing the hall entrance, they went down one flight farther and then out the doorway that led into a small enclosed yard.

The sun was low, stretching long, cool shadows that made the little area pleasant. Rows of vines clamored over one another, bare now of their spring fruit. Trees clustered in uneven groves laden with apples and pears. They stood hunched against the sun, weighted by their burdens, like sentinels to guard and protect.

’Twas only an illusion, he knew. At Gastonbury, he was the captain of the guard. He protected. If need be, even from unlikely threats in the form of shapely maidens with cascades of golden hair and eyes of soft, pale brown.

She moved idly, lost in her own thoughts. He trailed behind, keeping a seemly distance. His body still felt singed where he had brushed up against her on the stairs.

“The grove is cool,” she stated.

“Aye.” There was a pause. “’Tis pleasant.”

She bowed her head, silent for a space. “Our grove at home was not so sheltered as this, and not nearly so comforting. I like it here.”

“Do you mean the grove, or Gastonbury?”

“I like Gastonbury. I have found kindness here—in Alayna and her mother. The Lady Veronica is patient with me.” Her hands fluttered, betraying her nervousness. “I shall hate to leave it.”

The statement jarred him. He had nearly forgotten. Lord Robert would soon bring her to live with him at Berendsfore. A strange sensation of loss twinged the edges of his awareness.

She said, “Have you kin here at Gastonbury? You are not from Denmark, you told me.”

“My brother lives in this castle.”

“Brother? I have seen no other Vikings here.”

“Yet you have met him. I do not think you are fond of him, however. ’Tis Lucien who I call brother, and he is the only family I acknowledge.”

“No others?”

“None.”

She paced off a few steps and lifted her head to the lurid sky. The colors of sunset cast her fair aspect in bronze. “I, too, am alone.”

It was the last thing they said that night. They stayed together for a bit more before she wandered back inside. He remained until dusk had settled in full, and her words stayed with him.