Колин Глисон - Sanctuary of Roses

Mal Verne turned when he reached one of the larger, more spirited stallions, and frowned when he saw her standing aback. “Come, my lady,” he bid her impatiently as he struggled to calm the vigorous horse. “You ride with me.”

Madelyne’s throat dried, and she didn’t know if ’twas more from fear of getting close enough to the ferocious creature to sit upon it, or that she would be in such proximity to Mal Verne. It took every ounce of will to force to take a step forward, and then another, before the destrier reared slightly. His hooves slammed into the ground with a hollow sound, and Madelyne jerked backward, hand clutching at her throat.

“What ails you, lady?” Annoyance strained Mal Verne’s voice as he gave off the reins to one of his companions and started toward her.

“I…do not ride, my lord,” she managed to say steadily as he approached her.

“I did not think that you did,” he said dismissively, continuing to look at her as if she were daft.

Madelyne felt the necessity to explain further. “I…do not like horses,” she managed to say just before he wrapped one powerful arm around her waist, lifting her easily into the air. A faint shriek emitted from her mouth, surprising her before she pulled herself under control. “There is no need—”

Her words were stopped as he set her none-too-gently on the back of the dancing stallion. Before she could gather her bearings, she felt him leap into the saddle behind her. Suddenly, a long, firm thigh slid along her legs, which rested over one side of the saddle, and two hard arms enclosed her on either side. Madelyne fought to control a whimper of nervousness as the horse responded to the command of Mal Verne’s legs, nearly leaping forward in its impatience to be off.

As the destrier stepped eagerly into a fast trot, Madelyne was jostled backward by the momentum, back against the hard wall of man. Her breath caught in her throat as she became aware that she was completely enclosed by Gavin of Mal Verne, completely in his arms and completely in his power…and they rode from the gates of Lock Rose Abbey.

The abbey was hours behind them and the sun dropping in the west before Gavin spoke directly to Madelyne. She seemed to have overcome, or at least concealed, her mislike and fear of riding.

When he leaned forward to speak into her ear, she straightened as if startled. “Tell me, Lady Madelyne, how did you come to the abbey, and leave your father to believe you and your mother drowned?”

She was quiet for a moment, in a silence he had come to expect from her—as if she took the time to carefully measure her words in response to certain questions. Her hands, stained from the boiled rose petals, clutched the pommel in front of her, and the corner of her veil flapped in his face as they jounced along at a brisk trot.

“I do not know how that particular story came about—I was only ten summers, and there was much my mother did not tell me. ’Tis likely the man-at-arms who helped us to escape created the tale of our drowning.”

“Escape?”

“Aye, ’twas an escape from my father.” He felt her move against him as she drew in a deep breath. “My father would fly into obscene rages when he prayed, and when he did, he oft beat and whipped my mother. One can understand why she would seek to escape him and that life…and of course, she would not leave me behind.”

Gavin fought back a resurgence of loathing for Fantin de Belgrume as he raked a hand through his shaggy, overlong hair. Any man who would hit a woman was a coward, though verily there were many who did. There was no law against a man beating his wife—she was his property and his to do with as he wished—but Gavin could not stomach the thought of raising a hand to a weaker being.

Regardless, de Belgrume must have struck out at his wife once too often. Yet, ’twas not a common thing, women leaving their husbands—for there were few places for a gentlelady to go. And if a woman did leave her husband, she could be rightfully returned to him.

And, Gavin reminded himself ruefully, what was seen through the eyes of a ten-year-old girl could be misconstrued and misunderstood. If there was a man-at-arms who dared to assist in their escape, likely that man had a deeper, more intimate involvement with the lady of Tricourten than he should.

Gavin’s mouth twisted and his chin jutted forward in remembrance of how it felt to be a husband who had been betrayed. ’Twas not any mean feat to comprehend how a man could be driven to such rage as to hit his wife.

But how did they come to the abbey, and what of the mother?

He leaned forward again in order to speak over the sound of thumping hooves and the ebullient conversations of his men. Her veil slapped into his face again, and he had the urge to yank it from her head so that his vision would not be obscured…and so that he could see the color of her hair.

Gavin sat back, upright, without asking his question. The color of her hair ? From where had that thought come?

Then, as if that wayward notion suddenly opened a gate of awareness, he became conscious that her round bottom was nestled between the juncture of his legs…and that her breasts rose and fell with the rhythm of her breathing just above where his arms enclosed her slim body…and that if he were to move his leg, it would brush against her thighs.

Jesù , the woman was a nun! He scowled, annoyed with his wandering thoughts, and spoke to Lady Madelyne—Sister Madelyne, he’d best remember—this time without leaning forward. “And your mother? What befell her?”

“Mama died from a fever two autumns after we arrived at the abbey.” He felt the slightest shift in her, a tensing, almost imperceptible.

“Where do we travel?” Madelyne’s question, her first words to him that were unprompted, was so unexpected that he answered without thinking about why she changed the subject.

“We are a day’s journey from my holdings at Mal Verne. Anight we shall sleep at a monastery near York.” Though he had used the king’s name to impress upon Madelyne the importance of her compliance, Gavin did not plan to make haste to Henry’s side. In fact, the king had planned to leave Westminster in the week since Gavin himself took his leave. Knowing that the royal party traveled quickly and often unexpectedly, Gavin knew ’twas more efficient to send word to Henry and await his instructions, rather than attempt to track him down. As well, he’d not been to Mal Verne for nearly five moons, and ’twas nigh time he stayed there for a fortnight or more to see how his steward fared.

“Will we arrive anon? I fear my maid is becoming weary.” Madelyne pointed with a black-stained hand to the pair on the destrier that rode just in front of them.

Gavin looked and saw that the young woman called Patricka had slumped to one side in Clem’s arms, and that he looked as uncomfortable as she did. Urging Rule forward with his knees, he approached them and called to his man. “Do you wish to put her with someone else for a spell?” He looked closer at the young woman, whose face was upturned and her neck propped on Clem’s meaty arm.

Patricka’s round, cheery face was slackened in sleep, and her apple cheeks jounced slightly with each pace of the stallion. Her mouth, pursed into a berry-like swell of pink, parted just enough for a low snore to come forth, and her tip-tilted nose flared with each audible breath.

“Nay, my lord. There is no need to awaken the maid.” Clem responded with a note of indignance, as if his vanity had been bruised by Gavin’s suggestion that he could not manage the young woman.

“As you wish.” Gavin raised an eyebrow, but forbore to comment further. “The monastery is no more than a half league ahead, and we will soon find our beds.”