The Prize (19 page)

"What about the men who are coming to challenge you at dawn?" Lawrence asked when Royce had finished giving his orders.

"I'll take care of that possible threat," Royce answered. "I hold little hope they'll actually show up, though. They used the old woman to give Nicholaa her duty and will now leave her to suffer the consequences on her own. It would be too dangerous for them to try to get to either one of us." He expelled a long breath. "God, I hope I'm wrong," he admitted. "I would like for them to try. I want a chance to kill the bastards. They frightened my wife."

Lawrence noticed that his baron seemed more furious over the fact that Nicholaa had been frightened than he did over the possibility that someone was trying to kill him. It was a telling reaction, to the vassal's way of thinking.

After bowing, Lawrence and the other soldiers left to carry out their assignments. Royce stood with his back protecting the door until two of the soldiers returned. He went back inside the chamber when the hallway was once again guarded by his trusted men.

Less than an hour later a knock sounded. Royce had the door open before Lawrence had let his hand drop back to his side.

The vassal moved out of the way so Royce could join him in the corridor. "We found the old woman," he announced in a low voice. "She's dead. Her neck was broken. Someone tossed her body behind a couple of crates. Do we round up all the Saxons in residence and question them?"

Royce shook his head. "The Saxon barons who have pledged their loyalty to William would be insulted by our distrust. That wouldn't matter to our king, of course, but it wouldn't serve our purposes. If there is a Saxon traitor in league with those who still resist the king, he certainly won't give us any answers. We'll have to find another way to ferret out the bastard."

Lawrence nodded agreement. "There are many people here, Baron," he said. "I don't recognize a fair number of them. The crowd will make it difficult for us to find the culprit."

"Damn, I wish we could set a trap now and be done with it," Royce muttered.

"A trap with you as the bait?" Lawrence asked. "It would be too difficult to control the outcome, my lord."

Royce shrugged. "It could be done," he countered. "Still, I won't take the chance. Nicholaa's safety comes first. I'm anxious to get her home. Once I'm certain no one can get to her, I can turn my attention to finding the bastard behind this scheme. This isn't finished, Lawrence. They'll try again. I'm sure of it."

"When do you wish to leave?"

"Tomorrow, by midday," Royce answered. "I'll talk to William in the morning."

Royce dismissed his vassal and went back inside the chamber. Nicholaa was sleeping soundly. The dark smudges under her eyes were still noticeable, and he wished he could let her stay in London a few more days, until she regained her strength.

There wasn't time, however. He wouldn't rest until he knew she was safe. His gentle wife didn't appear worried, though. She couldn't have slept so peacefully if she had been.

He tucked the covers around her shoulders. Wives were a damn nuisance, he decided. If a husband cared about his wife, the enemy could use her to get to him. They could, in effect, use her as a weapon to destroy him.

If a husband cared, he thought again.

He was desperate to get Nicholaa home to Rosewood where she would be safe. He shook his head. The evidence couldn't be denied. How in God's name had it happened? And so quickly, too? He thought about the week of hell she'd put him through on the journey to London, and had to shake his head again.

And then he grinned. He didn't understand how or why it had happened. Only one thing was certain: he cared.

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Chapter Eight

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The assassins didn't arrive at dawn.

Royce wasn't surprised. He was disappointed, though.

He let Nicholaa sleep several more hours before finally prodding her awake. She was pleased to hear that no one had tried to breach their quarters.

Baron Samuel arrived a few minutes later. Royce helped Nicholaa into her robe and stood like a sentry by her side while the healer looked at her injuries. As soon as Lawrence arrived, Royce took his leave to speak to the king.

Samuel wrapped fresh bandages around Nicholaa's hands and arms. The healer had promised to leave the bindings off, but since she was leaving for her home, he thought the raw skin should be protected from the brittle winter air. She didn't argue with him, however.

Samuel left her a small packet of herbs with instructions to mix a pinch with clear water to make a salve to apply to the injuries each morning.

Nicholaa thanked him profusely. Mary, the sweet-tempered serving girl, was waiting to help her mistress dress when Royce walked into the room and motioned to her to leave.

"I would like Mary to stay," Nicholaa said. "I need her assistance, Royce."

"I'll help you," Royce answered. "Lawrence, see to your duties now. We'll leave in one hour." He held up the packet of herbs. "What is this?" he demanded.

She told him. When she'd finished her explanation, Royce walked over to the hearth and tossed the packet into the fire. Nicholaa was too astonished to try to stop him.

"Why in heaven's name did you do that?"

He wouldn't answer her. His mood didn't improve, either. He finally allowed Mary to come back into the chamber, though, when Nicholaa asked him to braid her hair. He couldn't be bothered to perform such a menial task, of course, but he wouldn't leave the chamber, either. Poor Mary was so intimidated by his presence that she couldn't get the braid done. Her hands were shaking too much.

As soon as Nicholaa dismissed the servant, she turned to Royce. "What is the matter with you? Don't you trust me enough to let me have a few minutes alone with my servant to see to personal matters, husband? Do you still believe I would try to escape? Is that the reason for your irritable mood?"

He looked exasperated with her. "I'm thinking of your safety, wife," he announced. "I don't trust any of the servants. The sooner we leave for home, the better my mood will be."

She shook her head. "I'm not the one in danger, husband," she countered. "You are. Besides, the servants are in the king's employ. Surely none of them would try to harm me."

He clasped his hands behind his back and scowled at her. "Nicholaa, it's obvious that not all the servants are loyal to William. The old woman who came into our chamber last night to give you your assignment certainly wasn't loyal. There could be others. You're as much in jeopardy as I am," he added.

"Why?"

He let out a sigh. "You're my wife now. The Saxons could use you to get to me. That's why. Now quit your questions. It's time we left."

"How could the enemy use me to get to you?" she asked, completely ignoring his order to stop questioning him.

He didn't answer her.

They left London a few minutes later. Nicholaa rode with Royce. She noticed that the soldiers who escorted them were older than the ones who'd accompanied them to London. The younger knights now rode at the back of the procession.

"How many ride with us?" she asked Royce.

"Enough."

Now what did that mean? Nicholaa decided against prodding her husband for an answer. The set of his jaw indicated he wasn't in the mood for conversation.

By the time they made camp for the night, Nicholaa was too exhausted to care about her husband's mood. She slept inside the small tent on a pallet of furs he'd fashioned for her, but when she awakened during the night she found herself snuggled up on Royce's lap. She didn't know how she'd gotten there.

Two days later, riding at breakneck pace, they arrived at the edge of Nicholaa's holding. They wouldn't reach the keep until the following morning, however, for the hills they still had to climb would make the journey arduous. They would have to slow their pace.

Nicholaa didn't mind. The weather had taken a turn for the better. The sun shone bright, and the breeze had lost a little of its winter sting. The scent of spring was in the air. Nicholaa's spirits lifted. She listed all the things she would do as soon as she arrived home. First she would change her clothes, and then she'd hurry over to the abbey to see Justin and Ulric.

She told Royce her intentions while they ate supper together.

"You aren't leaving Rosewood," he announced. He handed her a thick crust of bread. "Justin and Ulric will come to you."

She must have been overly tired from the long day's ride. Surely that was the reason she became so irritated with her husband now. "Why must you be so difficult to get along with?" she demanded.

He seemed genuinely surprised by her question. "I'm not difficult to get along with," he countered.

He suddenly reached out and pulled her onto his lap. He wrapped one arm around her waist. When she turned to protest, he shoved a bit of cheese into her mouth.

Neither said a word until the meal was finished. Then Nicholaa leaned back against Royce's shoulder and said, "Are you going to be pleasant once we reach home?"

That question was too foolish to answer. He was always pleasant—except, of course, when he was in battle. He wasn't pleasant then. Lord, he was too weary to think about such things now. "Are you ready to sleep?"

"I'm ready to talk to my husband," she muttered. "I would like to discuss our future."

She tilted her face up, and Royce leaned down and kissed her. Hard. He thought only to turn her thoughts away from nagging him into conversation, but the kiss quickly overshadowed all other motives.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hot, demanding, thoroughly arousing. He couldn't seem to get enough of her. His tongue swept inside to mate with hers. He let out a low growl that mingled with her sigh of pleasure.

In no time at all she forgot where they were. Royce didn't. He ended the kiss and pushed her head down on his shoulder.

"You will sleep now," he ordered.

She was too shaken to answer. Her face rested against his chest, and she could hear his heart racing. Nicholaa suddenly didn't mind his abruptness; her discovery was too pleasing. Royce might not want to admit it, but the kiss had affected him, too.

She let out a little sigh, closed her eyes, and yawned. She was just about to drift off to sleep when Royce whispered her name.

"Nicholaa?"

"Yes, Royce?"

"Your hands will be healed in two days."

His voice had turned hard, demanding. "They will?" she asked, wondering how he could make such a prophecy. What did it matter to him how long it took for the injuries to heal?

And then she remembered. He'd promised her he wouldn't bed her until the bandages were off. Nicholaa smiled.

He wanted her. She thought she should probably be a little frightened of the bedding to come, for the unknown was always worrisome. Her mother had told her only that it was a commonplace occurrence between husband and wife, necessary for the begetting of heirs, and fully approved by the church.

None of those reasons eased her worry as much as Royce's gentle touch did, though. He really wanted her. That was all that mattered to her now. Nicholaa suddenly needed to hear him tell her so. "Will you be pleased when my hands are healed?"

He didn't answer her for the longest while. He tightened his hold around her waist, rubbed his chin against the top of her head, and when she'd finally come to the conclusion that he wasn't going to say anything more, he spoke. "Yes, Nicholaa, I'll be pleased."

Her heartbeat quickened when she heard the caress in his voice.

She couldn't go to sleep for a long time. Her mind was racing with all the new responsibilities she now had to take on as wife and mistress of Rosewood.

Her mother had taught her all the gentle skills a lady should possess, but she hadn't said much about a wife's duties to her husband. Nicholaa did know, however, that as mistress of Rosewood, it would be up to her to create a happy, peaceful home.

Her mother had taught by example, not by lecture. Her father had liked order, Nicholaa remembered, and her mother had seen that he got it. She'd pampered him and, by her actions, taught him to pamper her. No matter what chaos ruled beyond the walls, when her father returned to his home, Nicholaa's mother would rush outside to greet him. Sometimes Nicholaa would stand by her mother's side on the top step of the castle. Her father, a fierce-looking man when dressed in battle gear, would usually be scowling and looking weary to his bones as he rode up the last hill. Nicholaa was never afraid of him, though. She knew her mother could cajole him out of his black mood, so magical was her smile.

It always worked. By the time her father reached the bottom step, he'd be smiling, too. He'd kiss his wife, hoist Nicholaa up on his shoulders, and then decree in a booming voice that he was a starving man in need of his supper.

Nicholaa was comforted by that memory from childhood. A man's home should be a sanctuary, she decided, a haven of peace and safety and—sometimes—love.

Making Royce's life a living hell wasn't a consideration now. She would only be hurting herself if she acted like a shrew. She was a grown woman now. It was time to behave like one.