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  Spinning abruptly on his heel, the king moved back toward where he had left his daughter, leaving Aric to wonder what the "or else" entailed. It wasn't hard for him to figure out. Being drawn and quartered. Suffering the rack. Beheading. The options were endless. Dear God, Aric thought wearily. What had he gotten himself into?

  King Henry scowled as he approached the flock of women surrounding his daughter. His look was enough to send most of them scurrying away. Ignoring the abbess and Sister Eustice, who refused to be frightened from her side, Henry caught Rosamunde up in a quick, fierce hug, then set her away and smiled sadly. "You grow more like your mother every time I see you. Except for your hair. That is mine." He reached out to fondle a fiery tress briefly; then his gaze sharpened on her. "Do not take the temper that goes with it out on your husband. Try always to think before you speak or act. There is much my temper has done that I would have undone. Often, once words are spoken..." He let the tress drop and shrugged.

  "Father?" she murmured uncertainly.

  Forcing a smile, Henry hugged her again. "All will be well, little one. I have picked a fine man to husband you. He will be patient and kind and caring. Be a good wife for him in return, hmm?"

  "Aye, Papa."

  "There's my good girl." Patting her awkwardly, he nodded, then turned to walk away. Rosamunde had the oddest feeling that it was the last time she would see him. Spurred by that sudden fear, she chased after him, hugging him from behind before he mounted his horse.

  "I love you, Papa," she whispered.

  Henry paused and turned in her embrace, hugging her close as well. "I love you, too, child. And so shall your husband, but you must promise me to obey him. Always. Promise?"

  When he pulled back to look at her, Rosamunde nodded solemnly. "I promise, Papa."

  Nodding, the king set her aside again and mounted his horse. Rosamunde watched as he rode away through the gates with Bishop Shrewsbury. He looked straight ahead as he went, never looking back. Or at least, she didn't think he did, but her vision was rather blurred with tears as she watched.

  When the two horsemen finally disappeared from view over a rolling hill, she turned back to the convent yard to find only Sister Eustice and the abbess still present. The other nuns had returned to their duties, having already said their good-byes. As for the two men, she learned where they had gone the moment she paused before the abbess.

  "Your husband and Lord Shambley have gone to prepare the horses to leave."

  "Leave?" Rosamunde exclaimed with dismay.

  "Aye. I extended an invitation to them to spend the night here, but they refused."

  When Rosamunde merely stared at her with a lost expression, Adela reached out to hand her a small cloth sack. "These are your things. Eustice packed them for you. I had her put some cheese, fruit, and bread in there for the journey as well." Then she patted her hand gently. "'Twill be all right. You are frightened right now, I know, and that is to be expected, considering this abrupt change in your life, but all will be well."

  The clip-clop of horses' hooves drew their attention then as her husband and Lord Robert led three horses out of the stables. Rosamunde blinked in surprise at the sight of the third horse all saddled and ready to go.

  "Marigold is yours now," Sister Eustice murmured, noting her startled expression as she gazed at the horse. "A wedding gift from us. So you will not go off totally alone and friendless."

  Tears filling her eyes, Rosamunde swung around and hugged first one woman, then the other. "I will miss you," she said with a gasp, then whirled away and rushed blindly toward the men and waiting horses.

  Her husband quickly helped her to mount, then turned to get onto his own horse. Taking her reins in hand with his own, he nodded at the abbess and Sister Eustice, then urged his horse into a trot that took them quickly through the convent gate.

  Tears rolling down her cheeks, Rosamunde stared staunchly forward, unable to look back. She was leaving the only home she had ever known.

  The abbess and Sister Eustice watched them leave with tear-filled eyes. It was Adela who finally closed the convent gate on their departing figures and urged Eustice away from the door.

  "'Tis frightening sometimes, is it not?" she commented. They moved slowly back up the path.

  "What?" Sister Eustice asked, brushing her tears unhappily away.

  "Life," she answered solemnly. "This morning she was ours, and to be with us forever. Tonight she is gone."

  Eustice paused, her expression horrified. "Surely she will visit?"

  The abbess took her arm to get her walking again. "Mayhap, but she will not be our little Rosamunde now. She will be Lady Burkhart of Goodhall."

  "Goodhall." Eustice tried the name out, then smiled slightly. "'Tis a fitting place for our Rosamunde."

  "Aye. 'Tis fitting."

  "Mayhap this was God's plan for her, after all."

  "Of course it was. Everything comes about through God's plan," the abbess murmured quietly.

  "Your bride does not appear to be much of a rider."

  Eyebrows rising slightly, Aric peered over his shoulder at the woman trailing them. They had started out on either side of the young woman's horse. His mind awhirl with thoughts and worries about the marital state that had suddenly been thrust on him, Aric had quickly lost track of her. As soon as they had hit the trees, in fact, they had had to switch to riding single file and he had taken the lead, leaving Robert to take up the back behind his bride.

  The trees had thinned out somewhat, however, and Robert had just now moved up beside Aric to murmur his comment. To say she was not much of a rider, he saw now, could in no way be interpreted as an exaggeration. If anything, it was an understatement. The woman was bouncing around upon the back of her mare like a lumpy sack, going up as the horse was down, her bottom slamming down again as the horse's back came up. It seemed that, while she might have worked daily in the stables with the animals, exercising the horses by riding them had not been a part of her duties. He would bet Goodhall Castle that she had never before even been on horseback. And while he pitied the horse she rode, it was her he was more worried about. Or, to be more specific, her bottom. If it were not sore yet, it surely would be soon, and Aric could hardly make her ride while in pain.

  Noting the discomfort on her face, he frowned. He had set a mild pace at first, but had every intention of picking up the speed as soon as the trees thinned out a bit more. That was the fastest way for them to travel, since they did not yet have the benefit of his men accompanying them.

  Aric supposed that the three of them could have rested the night at the convent rather than setting out at once, but he had not missed Robert's discomfort there. He himself had not felt quite at home, either. There was nothing like an abbey full of holy brides of God to make a man feel an interloping sinner. Besides, he knew Robert was worried about his father. The man had been at death's door not long ago. He had seemed to improve just before the king's arrival, but had not yet been out of the woods long enough to make them comfortable. He knew his friend would prefer to return as promptly as possible.

  Of course, the distraction of traveling also helped Aric ignore the fact that his entire life had just taken a decided turn. For better or worse, he was not yet sure, and until he was, he was more than happy to delay having to face the fact. So he had decided upon an immediate return. Unfortunately, it was not to be a comfortable ride. Without their men, they had to depend on speed to make the trip safe. The roads were full of bandits and thieves who were more than happy to prey on the weak. Two men and a woman traveling alone would be attractive prey, especially nobles.

  He had intended to ride hard and fast, trading back at the stables for the horses they had exchanged on the way out and traveling through the night to reach Shambley the following morn. That was when he had assumed that his wife had been trained properly in all things. Now he realized that he had assumed too much. The girl had obviously not been taught to ride. He wondered briefly what other training had been
neglected, then shrugged such worries away. Her lack of skills would matter little if he did not get her home unscathed, which he might not do at this pace. Unfortunately, it was becoming obvious he could not force her to a faster gait. She would bounce right off her mount.

  But this would not do.

  Muttering under his breath, Aric reined his horse in and turned him back toward his wife. She hid her pain at once and sat up straighter in the saddle, doing her best to appear a proficient rider. Impossible, the way she was jostling about, Aric thought, but he merely nodded at her politely as he reached her side.

  Without a word, he reached out, hooked her around the waist, and scooped her off her mare with one hand, while taking the reins of her mount from her suddenly slack grip with the other. Urging his horse forward, he tossed the reins of the now riderless mare to Robert, then set off at a gallop. Rosamunde, emitting a surprised gasp, said nothing, much to his relief. He had no desire to make explanations or to argue. He was tired and likely to be much more so ere he reached Shambley.

  Rosamunde swallowed and shifted carefully within her husband's arms until she was comfortable. Part of her wanted to protest riding with him, wished to retain her mount, and with it her independence. The other part, mostly her bottom, was grateful. Her husband's horse seemed to have a much smoother gait. It seemed Marigold was a very poor mount. On top of that, the jostling just seemed to irritate the residual tenderness she was feeling between her legs.

  Recalling the promise to obey that she had made to her father, she decided that this was an instance where she should and relaxed, her back easing unconsciously against her new husband's chest. It was not yet the supper hour, yet she was already terribly drained. She was tired enough to sleep as they rode, she realized with surprise, then recalled that she had been up through the night midwifing a mare. That explained her exhaustion. She could only hope that they would stop soon for the night, else she very much feared that she might fall asleep where she sat.

  Aric slowed his horse at Robert's whistle and waited for him to catch up. The trio had been riding for many hours now, and it was well past the supper hour. The sun was setting, night creeping in. His wife had been asleep since shortly after he had taken her onto his horse. She lay nestled in his arms, her head resting beneath his chin, her hands tangling themselves in his cloak. The dying rays of daylight were dancing in her fiery tresses, casting shadows on her ivory skin. She felt warm, like sunshine in his arms, though, and smelled faintly of roses.

  "She did not last long."

  Robert's words drew Aric's gaze to his friend. Weariness rimmed the man's eyes and had brought a pallor to his face. Still, he smiled slightly as he commented, "If possible, she seems more exhausted than we are."

  "So it would seem," Aric agreed, glancing down at Rosamunde's slumbering face. Even their voices were not making her stir. She was as still as death. If it were not for the fact that he could feel the heat of her, he might have feared for her life. "It would seem that she has not inherited her father's energetic fortitude."

  "Mayhap," Robert murmured, then added, "But as I recall, she did tell our king that the mare had been in labor for two days and a night. Mayhap she was up through the night in attendance."

  Aric nodded thoughtfully. That was quite possible, and would explain both her weariness and the costume she'd been wearing when first he'd seen her.

  "Think you we should stop for the night?"

  Aric glanced at his friend sharply, startled by the question. He had expected to ride out the night. His bride could sleep in his arms the entire way, if necessary. He knew Robert wished to return as swiftly as possible.

  "I, too, am tired," his friend explained wryly. "Too many nights spent by my father's sickbed, or worrying the twilight hours away pacing below stairs, combined with the two-day ride to the abbey, are beginning to wear on me. I am ready to drop off in my saddle as well, and I know I am not as alert as I should be to guard against attack."

  Aric glanced down at his bride once more. Truth be told, he, too, was exhausted, and he supposed that he was not very alert either. A night of rest might be better than risking being attacked while they were both in such a depleted state. Glancing back at his friend, he nodded. "We shall stop at the first spot that looks a likely haven."

  Smiling wearily, Robert urged his horse out in front and took over the lead, his eyes eagerly scanning the land they crossed. A little more than an hour later they had reached a good site, a clearing on the edge of the river.

  Rosamunde did not awake. Not when Aric drew his mount to a halt; not when he passed her gently down into Robert's waiting arms so that he himself could dismount; nor when he took her back and laid her gently on the cloak Robert hurriedly whipped off and spread on the ground.

  The two knights did not bother with food. After tending the horses, they took the time only to get a small fire going, working together to accomplish the deed. Then, with silent, but mutual consent, they moved to lie down, one on either side of Rosamunde. Both were asleep almost at once.

  It was a terrible storm. Rosamunde could tell that before she even opened her eyes. The thunder was rumbling, snorting, and grunting with deafening loudness. She had never heard it so, and was amazed when she opened her eyes and it was not already raining. She herself was as dry as dust where she lay. Where was she?

  Not in her bed.

  Not in the convent.

  On the ground.

  With a roof of trees overhead, their leaves and branches black against the slightly lighter sky.

  A rustle from somewhere to her right drew her suddenly wary gaze, and she peered past the body beside her into the darkness beyond. Nothing moved that she could tell, but then no matter how she strained her eyes in an effort to see, she could not make out much, only still black shapes that may have been bushes and trees.

  The resounding roll of thunder came again, and Rosamunde gave a start where she lay, her attention drawn to the source of the sound: the body on her right. Her husband! Or was it his friend? She could not be sure in this light. The body was just a great hulk of blackness in the night as he snuffled and snorted and shifted restlessly in sleep.

  She hoped it was her husband's friend, for if it was her husband, she could foresee a future of restless nights. Used to having her own bed--not to mention her own room, no matter how small it had been--Rosamunde did not think she could tolerate such raucous noise in her marriage bed.

  Snnrrr-kgle!

  She nearly jumped out of her skin when those first thunderous snores from her right were echoed, this time from her left. Her head swiveling on the ground, she peered wide-eyed with horror at the body lying there, another hulk of darkness. It was almost indistinguishable from the first. She had noticed at the convent that the two friends were of a similar size. She signed. It seemed they also had a similar inclination to snuffle in their sleep like pigs nosing in the dirt for food.

  Sighing, Rosamunde closed her eyes and begged the good Lord for patience. Her inclination, as the men again began their thunderous snores, was to sit up and sock them both. But she tempered that instinct. Such was not the way of a nun. And while she had not taken the veil, she would be as good, patient, and pious as if she had. Was that not what a man wished for in a bride? According to Father Abernott, it was the kind of bride God preferred, and surely what was good enough for God was good enough for her snorting husband. Whichever one he was.

  She had just come to that conclusion when the man on her right suddenly shifted about in his deep sleep and tossed one heavy leg over her. It was followed by an arm snaking out to catch her at the waist and cuddle her closer. Its owner muttered something that ended with "lovey."

  For a moment she did not even breathe. She was almost afraid to. She had no idea which of the two men was presently mauling her, but she hoped to God it was her husband, for whoever it was had his hand firmly closed over one of her breasts. His face was nestled against the other.

  This would not do. This would not do
at all.

  Discomfort in her chest made her realize that she was well on the way to suffocating herself, and Rosamunde forced herself to release the breath she had been holding and suck in fresh air.

  Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear. What to do?

  If she were sure it was her husband, she supposed she would not have to do anything except to continue to lie here, uncomfortably still, and wait for him to remove himself. Even if he was doing what Sister Eustice had warned her against. However, she was not sure it was her husband, and there was no way for her to be sure in the darkness that enveloped them.

  How would it look if it were Robert and her husband awoke to discover them in such a state? Nay. This would not do at all. Biting her lip, she peered over at the dark shape that was his face. He was nuzzling her breast through her gown in a distressingly familiar fashion. It was terribly discomforting for her.

  Easing her arm out from where he lay up on it, she raised it awkwardly around his back and tickled with a feathery touch at what she guessed to be the back of his neck.

  The man stirred slightly, releasing her breast to brush irritably at his neck.

  Rosamunde was able to remove her hand in time to avoid the swat, but repeated the action as soon as he returned his hand to her chest. He immediately swatted at his neck again, but this time followed by rolling away from her.

  Rosamunde heaved a sigh, but quickly realized that her relief may have been premature. He was off of her chest, which was grand, but he was now lying flat-backed across her arm, covering it from just below her shoulder to her fingertips. She was trapped.

  Muttering one of Sister Eustice's favorite expletives, she turned onto her side and slowly, gently, carefully eased her arm out from beneath, managing to do so without waking the man.