A lone knight approached the ivy-covered walls of Lock Rose Abbey.
Dismounting from his horse, he raised a mailed fist to pull on the bell rope, remembering the day over a decade before when he'd done the same. The low, rolling sound of the tolling bell rumbled through the abbey, reverberating through the silent forest.
Moments later, the robed figure of an old woman, stooped and slow, approached the gate. "Yes?"
"I bring word to Anne de Belgrume that her husband is dead."
There was a pause, then the gate swung open silently, belying its age and the rust-colored bars. "You may wait here."
He took a seat on the bench in the center of a rose garden, after tying his mount to an oak tree.
When Anne de Belgrume stepped into his line of vision moments later, his heart stopped. She was as beautiful as he remembered-moreso, for the years had been gentle with her. He still could not believe that she was alive...having heard the story of her death when Madelyne went to court.
"Anne." He rose and reached his hands out toward her.
"Seton?" Gladness overwhelmed her voice and she rushed toward him.
Nothing had ever felt so good as when he folded her into his arms, heedless of the chain mail that that pressed into her. "Anne...oh, my beautiful one...I did not know if I'd ever hold you thus again."
She pulled back to look up at him. "Is Fantin truly dead? Am I free?"
He nodded. "Aye, struck down by the husband of your daughter. Our daughter." He looked closely at her. "You did not tell her."
"Nay. I did not wish to burden her with that knowledge. Mayhap 'twas wrong, but I believed if Fantin should have learned it, he would have killed her. At the least, if he believed she was his daughter, he wouldn't harm her." She reached to touch his face, and the warmth of her hand stopped his heart.
"Aye. Our child...wed with a good man, safe now from your husband...and you are set free from this...sanctuary...should you wish to leave." His words were a question that he'd waited a lifetime to have answered.
"Leave? With you?" Anne breathed. "Aye, Seton. Always. Forever."
Read on for a sneak peek of Colleen Gleason's A Whisper of Rosemary,
featuring Bernard's brother Dirick and Lady Maris of Langumont...
Lord Merle nodded at his guest, then turned to his daughter. "Maris, will you not show Sir Dirick where the men-at-arms lay their pallets? And any other comforts he may need."
Maris stood reluctantly, dismay by her father's innocent command. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with Sir Dirick. She'd felt his attention returning to her again and again during the evening, and had been unable to ignore the interest in his stare. Try as she might, she'd been unable to keep her mouth closed and her mind on her food-as her mother had admonished her many a time. Nay, if the man was to wed her, he'd know from the beginning that she had her own thoughts and opinions, and an interest in the world beyond Langumont's walls.
"Of course, Papa," she said in a voice that disguised her discomfort.
Obviously, Sir Dirick did not miss her mislike of the situation, for as soon as Merle and Allegra were out of earshot, he said, "Lady Maris, I am perfectly able to find my own pallet."
"Nay, 'tis my father's wish. I should not put a guest out," she smiled at him, swallowing the resentment she felt for being pressed into a marriage she did not want. In all honesty, it was not this man's fault-and he seemed pleasant enough now that he was not ahorse. "Have you bathed?"
"Nay," he shook his head, surprise flashing in his gray-blue eyes.
"May I offer you a warm bath before I direct you to your pallet?" she asked. "Gustave will bring the water. I won't take long, and you will soon be for bed."
"You?" Those eyes turned on her with a sudden intensity, and he looked at her for a moment, a very faint smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.
Maris's throat went dry and she nearly stepped away from him and the unexpected stirrings in her middle. The sudden image of this man, devoid of his chausses and tunic, settled into a tub that would hardly fit his large body, filled her mind. His dark hair, which now curled wildly about his face and jaw, would be sleek and dripping, his broad shoulders bare and steam rising from dark skin-
Maris bit her lip as her cheeks flushed with warmth. What was wrong with her? She'd never had lewd thoughts over such a mundane chore. "Aye, of course," she managed to say in response to the question she'd nearly forgotten.
"Nay," Sir Dirick rumbled after what seemed like forever. His smooth, low voice carried easily to her ears, even over the noise of the servants as they cleared off the tables and stacked the benches. "I do not believe I should put myself through such torture."
Her heart in her throat and her mind whirling-unsure as to what he meant by such a comment-Maris spun away to hide her discomfiture. "Then if you would follow me," she murmured and blindly began to make her way between the nearly empty tables, anxious to be rid of her charge.
As they approached a group of rowdy knights, Maris paused, resting her hand on the shoulder of a burly, red headed one. They quieted almost as if she'd commanded it. "Sir Raymond, how fares your shoulder? Is the pain lessening?"
The man's face nearly matched the color of his hair when he turned it up to look at her. "Aye, my lady. The pain is nearly gone." He moved his arm as if to demonstrate.
"You will come to the herbary on the morrow and I will check it again," she ordered. It wouldn't do for her father's best man to have an injured arm. "The last I dressed a wound for you, 'twas only once that you came to me-and look what has happened to it because of your carelessness!"
He grinned up at her, "Aye, my lady. On the morrow, I will allow you to torture me yet again. 'Tis only because your touch is so sweet that I can sit through the pain," he teased in the manner of a big brother.
Maris, who'd grown up with Raymond pulling at her pigtails and chasing her through the keep with spiders, planted hands on her hips as the other men laughed. "Aye, and you should keep such sweetness on your tongue, or I will put you through more tortures if you spread tales. Did I not warn you that some day you would pay for the frog in my bed?"
There wasn't a hint of guile in her actions, Dirick thought as he watched. She had no concept of what she did to a man, with those teasing golden green eyes and vibrant smile-particularly the red-headed knight, whose besotted expression was not quite brotherly. Whatever reason she'd been in the village at night, it hadn't been for a tryst-he was now certain of it.
Dirick's skin still prickled at the memory of her innocent offer to bathe him, and he wondered if her father knew she'd made such a gesture. A sudden streak of heat shot through him at the thought of her scratched and stained hands soaping his body...but he thrust the thought away immediately. He'd do well to find a woman anight. Mayhaps one of the maidservants would oblige him.
Not for the first time that evening, he wondered why he'd heard nothing of the beautiful heiress of Langumont-from either Bernard or the court. Certainly a well landed maid as comely as Maris Lareux wouldn't escape the notice of the unmarried, land-greedy barons at court.
Lady Maris's voice broke into Dirick's thoughts as she led him around into the area reserved for the men-at-arms and other important visitors. It was a large room, cordoned off from the rest of the hall by a heavy oaken door-much nicer than many of the men's quarters he'd slept in throughout England and France. A fire roared in the corner, and a serf slumped against the wall, snoring, with a stack of wood within reach.
"You may place your pallet anywhere you like, Sir Dirick," Maris offered. She handed him a pile of blankets, more than generous enough to keep one warm-especially with a blazing fire in the same room.
"Thank you, my lady." He took the bundle.
She paused for a moment as if contemplating her next words, and when she spoke, a small grin tickled the corner of her enticing mouth.
Her words, however, when they came, eliminated any hint of innocence. "Papa bade me see to your comforts. If your need is as great as 'twas yestereve, I will send a woman to you."
Dirick felt his face flush hot as he ground his teeth together in an attempt to maintain his dignity. Words escaped him, and before he could gather his wits, the little minx took his silence for dissent and whirled away down the dark corridor.
He could only stare after her, trying to decide whether he wanted to murder her or kiss her.