The Viking's Heart. Jacqueline Navin
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her ripe form swelling before her. Her hands laid over it, folded, as if to protect the wee life within. Turning now to Rosamund, her lips parting as she said…
Alayna held her out at arm’s length with a smile ready, then frowned. “What has happened? Was there some mishap?”
Thank goodness, Alayna was in no way similar to Rosamund’s mother’s ethereal golden beauty. This woman was strong featured, with dark hair and blue eyes. The lack of resemblance brought Rosamund back to herself quickly.
“Some highwaymen, I am afraid,” Rosamund supplied in a voice still a tad shaky in reaction. “We had a chase. Or two.”
Alayna’s eyes widened. “Lucien, how did this happen?” she demanded, whirling to face her husband, who had come up behind them.
A tiny tick showed at his temple as he ground his teeth together. “We shall discuss this later. Privately.”
Rosamund’s heart skipped a beat at the low sound of the warning in his voice. “All is well, cousin,” she said, placing a restraining hand on Alayna’s shoulder.
Alayna ignored the plea in Rosamund’s tone. “Did I not ask you to ride this day to the edge of your lands to see my cousin safe? Did you not promise you would?”
“’Tis my fault,” Agravar said, coming to his lord’s side.
“Oh, hush, you overgrown Viking. My husband hardly needs you to defend him.”
Rosamund covered her mouth to keep from crying out in alarm. But Agravar only tucked his chin to his chest. She noticed his shoulders were shaking.
“Well?” Alayna demanded, once again facing Lucien.
“I did forget my promise, Alayna.” The words were nearly choked, as if they cost him much to say. Rosamund’s heart raced as she waited for the explosion to come. Yet, he continued, apparently remorseful. “Forgive me.” He paused and then nearly growled. “Please.”
“I want to hear what happened before I grant my pardon. Honestly, Lucien. Do you think I make idle requests…ah!” Placing her hand over her belly, she stopped.
Lucien turned pale and was upon her in a flash. “What is it? Is it the pains? Oh, Jesu! Pelly, call the apothecary! Call the midwife!”
Alayna slapped him away. “Nay, nay, you madman, stop hovering over me. ’Tis only a twinge. You shall not escape the questioning I have planned for you. Come.” She whirled and moved with ponderous steps toward the studded oaken portal to the hall.
Lucien raked his hand through his hair a few times and glared after her with a murderous scowl. Softly, and to no one in particular, he muttered, “More likely ’tis the gibbet you’ll have me dangling from if the whim suits you.”
Rosamund cringed at his angry words. She nearly fainted with alarm when Alayna whirled and narrowed her eyes at her disgruntled husband. “Did you say something, Lucien?”
“Nothing of import,” Lucien called back. Casting a dark look about that dared anyone to snicker, he fell into stride behind the stately lady.
“Come, Lady Rosamund,” a soft voice said at her side. She recognized it as Agravar’s.
“Will he beat her?” Rosamund cried, whirling to face him. She forgot herself enough to place a hand against his massive chest.
He appeared taken aback. “Beat her?”
“Oh, please stop him—” She snapped her mouth shut when she saw the look on his face. “She meant no harm,” she finished lamely.
“Rosamund, Lord Lucien would never lift a hand against his lady wife. She is beloved to him. Why, he would cut off his right arm for her. He would never do anything to cause her the slightest pain.”
Wrapping her arms about herself, she turned her face away from him. She was suddenly chilled.
He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. No one had known about Cyrus, either.
She could never make him see. “I would like to freshen up,” she murmured.
“Go with Margaret. She will show you where Alayna has arranged for you to sleep. I shall see you at supper, Rosamund.”
“Aye.” She almost said thank you, then thought better of it. He had robbed her of freedom and delivered her to this, the next step closer to a dreaded destiny. She had little to thank him for.
She followed the servant he had indicated. As she passed a small gathering of women, she caught one—a buxom lass with hollows under her cheekbones and a bright head of pale hair spilling about her shoulders—staring at her. With a hand on one jutting hip, she regarded Rosamund over her shoulder with a sneer curled on her bee-stung lips.
One of the two others with whom she was standing said something and there was a chorus of laughter. The woman smiled coldly and turned around with an arrogant sniff.
“My lady, this way,” Margaret said politely.
“Oh, aye.” Dutifully, Rosamund fell into step.
Lady Veronica of Avenford, an older, slightly shorter, and perhaps less spectacular version of her daughter Alayna, smoothed the last of Rosamund’s garments and handed it to Hilde to place in the trunk. “There,” she pronounced with a flash of a smile. “Everything seems to be in order. After all of that jostling, they just needed to be refolded and laid again.”
“It is kind of you to help,” Rosamund replied.
Hilde said, “I’ll take out your green gown for you to wear to supper.”
It was Veronica who replied, “Nay, Hilde. She is to rest this night. Was a difficult day for your mistress, and you, I imagine. Let her have her supper on a tray in here, and then you both can find your rest early.”
Rosamund drifted to the window. “You need not trouble yourself, Hilde. I am not very hungry.”
“Go fetch it,” Veronica said in a tone that was gentle but commanding. Hilde—who had a tendency to be bossy herself and was never docile—shocked Rosamund when she muttered, “Yes, my lady,” and scurried out the door.
Veronica had a manner about her, Rosamund considered. One simply didn’t disobey her. “Rosamund, come here. You are restless.”
“My thoughts disturb me,” Rosamund admitted. She sat in the seat indicated.
“I know it has been a trying day,” Veronica said. “Your maid is busy with setting your clothing to rights and fetching your supper. Let me brush your hair for you and you will be ready all the earlier for bed.”
On the small table, Hilde had set out her silver brush and a matched set of pearl-encrusted combs. Veronica picked up the brush and admired it. “Lovely,” she commented, then came behind Rosamund and began to stroke her hair.
“’Twas a gift from my stepfather,” Rosamund said stiffly.
“Ah. It must be a beloved memento.”
Rosamund did not reply.
After a while, Veronica chuckled softly. “I hope my daughter has not given you a poor view of our home here at Gastonbury.”
“Alayna? Why ever would that be so?”
“She is not herself. Lucien is worried sick over it. Oh, he would never admit it, but he fears for her. I can see it in his eyes, the anxious way he watches her. And she makes it not one whit easier with her disposition so sour and her reasoning utterly gone. Bless him, he tolerates much. Even Alayna knows it, yet she says she cannot stop herself from some of the most obnoxious fits of temper I have ever witnessed. And I am her mother!”
They laughed together, then Rosamund asked, “Are you worried about her?”
“Aye. Nay. Oh, I suppose. A mother always worries, but I know ’tis merely the heat and the heavy weight of the babe that makes