Sheltered by the Warrior Read online

  “Stay with me. Together, we can help these villagers. We will find your attacker when we question them. Then I can take you to London. You would be a fine asset to the king.”

  “Nay! I’ve had my fill of intrigue! Why would I seek out more?”

  Stephen’s expression softened, though only a jot. “I am offering you a chance to move up from a peasant’s life. To know you will eat this winter!”

  “Oh, so you ply me with food, as Lord Taurin did to ensure my obedience!”

  He pointed to a nearby window. “There is a Saxon out there who wants you dead, woman. Don’t be a fool!”

  She stared hard at him. “There are many Saxons who know they cannot best the king but would hinder his reign at every turn. Who is to say that this is not the case here? Mayhap someone wants me so scared that I am forced to leave the village.”

  “Your departure will have no effect on the crown, Rowena. What could possibly happen should you leave?”

  Sighing, she shrugged. “What about you? Mayhap someone wants to hinder your rule here?”

  He had no answer, for he had not considered that line of reasoning. Surely, if ’twere so, that person would have acted before now.

  Rowena continued, “Regardless, milord, I refuse to bow to bullying. I have seen enough of it in my life, and my son will not be shamed by a weak mother!” She hefted up the child and her mending kit and tried her best to stand taller. Yet her eyes shone with unshed tears, and the small crease between her brows hinted at fear.

  He folded his arms. “You returned here tonight.”

  “Only because ’twas starting to rain, and ’twould be clear to my attacker that I was only sitting as bait.”

  Amazed, he just stared at her. A simple girl with the courage of the king and the mind of a tactician. From whom had she learned this ability? He said, “Do the right thing, Rowena. Stay a bit longer.”

  “Are you saying you will protect me for the rest of my time here? What happened to using me as bait?”

  Heat infused his neck. “I’m a soldier used to putting other soldiers in positions that give me a strategic advantage. I realize now that you are not a soldier, despite your courage. I shouldn’t have sent you out there alone.”

  A small smile crept onto her face. “I wasn’t alone. You posted a guard on me and you—”

  His brows shot up. “You saw him?”

  “Don’t punish him. He did a good job hiding.”

  “Not good enough, apparently.”

  “’Twas very good! But I knew you must have someone nearby, for what would be the point to have me as bait if there wasn’t anyone to shut the trapdoor as soon as the animal entered the cage?”

  Stephen grimaced. When he began again to speak, she held up her free hand. “Nay, I will return to my hut on the morrow. Surely ’twould not take too long to thatch my small roof.” Then, chin lifted, she added, “I will end this fear, milord! Once and for all!”

  Aye, they must end it. He’d planned to be there tonight, and he would plan for the same when the sun set on the morrow.

  Still, regardless of his decision, indignation pricked him. He would not be bested by a young maid who could think like a skilled warrior.

  But he did know one thing. Forcing Rowena to stay here would turn her against him, and oddly, that thought hurt more.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Her roof was done! Having just arrived despite the late hour, Rowena looked up with immense satisfaction. A thankful smile curled her mouth upward as she murmured a prayer of gratitude to God. She was home again. And as she looked around, she saw the new pallet Ellie had brought, one filled with fresh straw. ’Twasn’t as plump as the ones in the maids’ chamber, for straw was scarce this time of year. But still, ’twas a gift from Lady Josane, and ’twas thankfully received.

  Her smile sagged. Despite her delay at returning home, she knew why she was here. She’d asked Ellie to mind Andrew for one more night. As she sat on her single bench, she strained to hear the world outside. Only the lone call of some distant bird reached her.

  She lit both the lamp and a small fire from a spark box she’d found on the mantel.

  The bird called again, and the urge to return to the manor house reared up with the unfamiliar sound. She took her lamp and walked outside. The bird repeated its call. ’Twas closer, she was sure, and not a breed she recognized. Rowena rounded the back of her hut, where her retted stalks lay in the trough under the eaves. The past day had been warm and dry, and she noticed the level of water had dropped considerably.

  Setting her lamp on the trough’s corner, she peered into it. Along the side where she’d smeared the tow fibers up and out of the way was now a layer of something grayish and cloth-like. She carefully peeled it from the wood. ’Twas barely wet, thanks to the dry day.

  It looked like bumpy parchment, a sheet of something upon which one would write a missive. Intrigued, and glad for the diversion, Rowena returned to her hut. She smoothed it out on the table and, finding a stick of charcoal from the cool edge of her little fire, drew a line along the driest corner.

  Oh, if she only knew her letters, this strange parchment would be perfect. Allowing her mind to wander, she began a simple sketch. Around and up again she drew, wondering if making this parchment could become a source of income. Mayhap she could sell the sheets, with quill-like bits of charcoal, or exchange them for reading and writing lessons for her son.

  Rowena stopped her sketching. She’d drawn a profile of a man. Of Stephen. Setting it away, she swallowed, then lifted the sheet again. She could draw? Who would have guessed?

  A noise sounded outside. She froze. ’Twas not that odd bird she’d heard earlier. Taking her lamp, she eased open her door and peeked out, hoping only an animal had brushed against her hut. Somewhere out in her yard came the quiet clucking of her now-freed hen. Rowena stood still as stone, listening, but her heart thumped so loud she was sure the whole village could hear it. To her left, above the distant manor house, the full moon had risen. ’Twas large and a brilliant yellow and—

  At the next noise, she spun, as if her hearing were connected directly to her body. A man lunged at her. Rowena threw up her arms as the man shoved her hard over her threshold and into her hut. Then he fell on her, his hands wrapping around her wimple and veil and squeezing her throat.

  * * *

  Stephen vaulted over the short fence in one single, sweeping movement and quickly reached the door of the hut. His blade arced downward, but the man shifted suddenly and kicked it from his grasp.

  He jumped onto the man, who swung his fist into Stephen’s midriff as he turned. Stephen staggered but caught his balance quickly. He plowed into the attacker, knocking him to the ground. In the next movement, he caught the cur’s arm and pinned it to his back. While the man cried out, Stephen hauled him up to face Rowena’s door.

  The guard rushed from around the hut, drawing his sword as he raced closer. But the man was just as quick, bracing himself against Stephen and pumping his legs in and out to connect with the guard’s chest. All three men fell, with Stephen losing his grip on the man’s arm as he broke their falls.

  Catching his balance first, the man sprinted away, loping over the short fence and disappearing into the night.

  “After him!” Stephen ordered as he and the guard leaped to their feet. Then he noticed the lamp, knocked from Rowena’s hand and still burning near the doorway. Immediately he strode over and ground both the flame and the pottery into the dirt with far more force than necessary.

  A groan, soft and weak and gasping, brushed past his ear and he spun. Rowena lay beyond the threshold, propped up on one elbow, touching her head with the other hand. Her wimple and veil were strewn on the dirt floor, obviously torn from her when the man turned to fight off Stephen.

  Stephen glanced toward the west, wher
e both men had vanished. His guard was fast, but Stephen knew it would take two of them to catch the culprit.

  Collapsing, Rowena moaned again and Stephen immediately abandoned the other option. He dropped to his knees before her. “Stay still. You’ve had the wind knocked out of you.”

  Indeed she had. She struggled to inhale. He lifted her up and set her on her pallet. Then, feeling its thinness, he grimaced. “I will carry you back to the manor.”

  She held up her hand and he waited a moment before she rasped out, “Nay, milord. I’m better now. ’Twas no worse than when a cow once kicked me.”

  She could talk. ’Twas a good sign. After retrieving his sword, Stephen rose and rekindled the fire, hoping that ’twould light the hut sufficiently, for he’d ground her lamp to pieces in his zeal to prevent another fire.

  Leaning small sticks over the flame, he realized his hands were shaking. He set them down on the cold flat stones of the hearth to still them as he turned to face her. “I knew you’d protest my carrying you to the manor anyway.”

  Her gaze was wide with emotion. “You and your guard were close, weren’t you?”

  Stephen could not tear his eyes from her. His palms chilling as they lay sealed to the stone, his knees aching from his prayerful position, he could do nothing but stare into her pale eyes.

  What had he been thinking, using her as bait? ’Twas risky enough for a soldier, let alone a woman. His chest felt tight, and a cold wash shivered through him.

  “Do you think I would simply leave you alone out here?” he finally whispered, not fully trusting his voice. “You said yourself that only a fool would bait a trap and abandon it.”

  “But—” She stopped as understanding blossomed on her face. “Those bird calls! From no night bird I had ever heard before. You two? What were you saying?”

  “We signaled each other when we were in position.” He hastily finished his task, then rose and sat on the bench beside her. The fire grew and warmed her hut. He wanted to promise her that his guard would catch her attacker, but he wasn’t sure ’twould happen.

  She looked past him into the dark night. “Your guard is wasting his time. ’Twas a Saxon and they are good at disappearing into the woods.”

  “How did you know he was Saxon? Did you see his face?”

  “I saw everything. He is Saxon.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  Rowena shut her eyes, and Stephen knew she was recalling the face. When she opened them again, she shook her head. “Nay.”

  “He wasn’t one of the villagers?” She hadn’t been here that long. ’Twas quite possible she had not seen them all yet.

  A thought struck him. What if the attacker was a Norman, someone from a nearby holding? Dressed as a Saxon, he could easily skulk around the village unnoticed. This man who’d attacked her was strong, used to fighting, for he employed the tactics of close combat. Stephen kept his own soldiers in as good a condition as possible, and the very way the man fought had been practiced in the yard behind the manor.

  He’d been such a fool not to realize how much danger Rowena was in. If he hadn’t been here, she would have died.

  He needed more soldiers. This cowardly act would not have happened if he had more guards. A good show of force did wonders to deter violence. But to acquire more soldiers meant a trip to London, and that would mean leaving Rowena alone.

  “I know what he looks like. His face is burned into my mind,” Rowena whispered, touching her throat. “I watched him as he grabbed my neck.”

  Stephen took her shoulders and turned her toward the growing firelight. His gut clenched. Aye, welts were forming on her neck. “That cur! I should have gone after him myself and throttled him.”

  Her hand reached to cover his. He could feel it shaking. “I much prefer you here. I saw how he fought you. He could easily lie in ambush to kill you.”

  “Nay, I’m not that foolish to chase blindly after him, and my guard will be careful, also. But that man needs to pay for his crimes.”

  “He will.” She leaned forward, thankfulness evident on her face as she searched his expression. She gripped his arms. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  She slid her cool hands up to his neck. He felt them shake as they caressed his jaw. He’d chosen a plain, dark tunic to blend into the night. He’d left his cloak back at the manor for ease of travel but now wished he’d brought it to wrap around her.

  With the veil and wimple torn from her head, the firelight danced off her hair, giving it unexpected warmth.

  He watched her, awed by her maturity. Most villagers saw her full of folly. He saw something in her he never expected: inner strength.

  She was determined to live. Nay, not just live, but thrive. It burned in her expression.

  Incredibly, she still smelled of those roses beside the chapel. Their scent filled his head, dried his mouth and caused his heart to pound.

  She caught and held his gaze. Her voice was as soft as summer rain. “Please don’t leave me. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

  She whispered her soft supplication, slurring the words as he strained to hear them. How could he leave her? He didn’t want to be alone, either. All his life, he’d been by himself. Even in platoons of soldiers, or halls filled with women vying for his attention, he’d felt keenly alone.

  Not tonight, not in this rude hut after that ugly attack. He was sharing a moment like no other with a woman like no other.

  Her gaze dipped slightly, glancing off his lips before rising again to his eyes, capturing them and pleading something he wasn’t sure he understood. Something he didn’t dare to believe for fear it would vanish like morning mist.

  He tilted his head to one side and eased toward her, still watching her. Her eyes drifted shut, her lips parted farther, and he was sure her breath, like his, had stalled in her lungs.

  They met, lips barely brushing. Stephen wrapped his arms around her, enticing her to close the space between them. Molded around each other, they continued to kiss, deepening the moment of intimacy as they forsook the events that drew them together.

  She filled his senses. He could smell those roses, feel her warmth, see her, taste her. Her fingers plowed into his hair and gripped his curls, for he’d abandoned the Norman fashion of shaving the back of his head. Rowena was as she should be to him—strong, yet all woman, vulnerable, but only to him, trusting that he would be all she needed. Aye, he would be. She needed someone strong to be there for her.

  He stalled. That wasn’t him. And he couldn’t do that. He hadn’t even been able to stop the sword that pierced his brother’s mail, and look at him tonight. He’d plunked her down as bait because he was a soldier who used people for his own benefit. And he’d failed to capture the man who’d taken that bait. He didn’t have just one good reason to prove he wasn’t good for Rowena. He had two.

  He would not fail again.

  You will if you’re not careful.

  Holding Rowena close, reveling in her kiss like a boy on the cusp of manhood, Stephen was putting them both at risk should that cur backtrack. One swing of a sword could silence them both forever.

  He had to pull away. He could not, nay, should not, have this moment with Rowena. Hating this, he peeled her from him and set her back, his lips the last to release her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “We must focus on the situation,” he told her, his voice husky.

  “Aye, but there is something more. Something terribly sad.”

  Ah, that natural sense she had. “I don’t want to be distracted. It happened once before.”

  “Your brother, Corvin? You were fighting for your life.”

  “I should have been protecting him.”

  She sat back. “If you continue to blame yourself, ’tis as bad as keeping bitterness in your heart.�
� Her voice dropped. “I know.”

  He stood, needing to focus on the situation and not on their foolish emotions. “’Tis time to turn the tables and start fighting back.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You said his face was burned into your mind. You would know him if you saw him again?” Stephen asked, looking down at her.

  Rowena blinked and swallowed as she wet her lips. She struggled to fight the fog that wrapped around her mind the way his arms had wrapped around her body. What did he say? Would she know her attacker if she saw him again? “Aye. I saw him clearly.”

  She shook off the mists of their intimacy and suddenly straightened. “I can do more than recognize him. I can draw him!”

  She faced the table, then gasped. Her drawing of Stephen! It lay between them. Quickly, she flipped the sheet.

  “What’s that?” Stephen turned over the parchment.

  Heat flooded into her cheeks as he tilted the paper to catch the dim light. His eyebrows flew up. “’Tis of me!”

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “I have not seen my reflection in some time, but I know ’tis me.”

  “Aye,” she recanted.

  “Remarkable. ’Tis excellent! I didn’t know you could draw.”

  “I didn’t, either, until I picked up the charcoal stick and began.”

  He flipped the sheet, examining it with his fingertips. “What is this? I’ve not seen anything like it before.”

  “’Tis from the tow fibers I smeared on the side of the water trough. They’re short and don’t make good threads. My mother would soak them in water and feed them to the animals.”

  He looked at her, compassion warming his expression. “Was she also cruel to you?” he asked.

  Rowena’s mouth tightened. “She didn’t do anything to help me, if that’s what you are asking. My sisters would sometimes give me food, but our father would tell them he’d send them out to the barn, too, if he caught them. That would mean no food for them, either.” She went silent for a moment. “I suppose he said the same thing to my mother. He was always talking about losing his land to the king, and how he would never have enough coinage to purchase it back because of all the girls my mother gave him.” She looked down at her hands. “She felt guilty for it.”