Always

  Husband. She marveled at the title that now belonged to the stranger in whose arms she rode. A stranger who had many rights and privileges over her. Her husband. She had never thought to have one. Never even considered the possibility. Dear Lord. Her life had certainly taken a different path than she had expected. She pondered that rather dazedly and was still doing so when they stopped for the night some time later. It kept her quiet as she was lowered to the ground so that her husband could dismount.

  Without waiting to see what he would do, Rosamunde immediately moved to attend to her horse, automatically going through the grooming functions that were necessary even as the men began to tend to their own beasts. She had removed the mare's saddle and begun brushing her horse down when she noticed how skittish Robert's horse was.

  Appearing distracted, the man continued to wipe down the beast, then left it to graze, moving off to begin gathering wood for a fire. Aric finished with his own mount and went to help in making the preparations for the night ahead. But Rosamunde was working much more slowly, her attention divided between her task and Robert's horse. The steed was not eating, though he should have been hungry.

  Recalling her concern that the horse might have been favoring a leg earlier, Rosamunde finished with Marigold and moved to the other horse's side, soothing the creature with gentle words as she began to examine him.

  "Is something amiss, my lady?"

  Rosamunde paused at that curious question from Robert as he approached. He had stacked the firewood in the center of the spot they had chosen, but had not set it afire yet. There were still a few last dying rays of light left, and, as she had learned that morning, it was not safe to have a fire until darkness arrived. That helped hide the smoke it gave off.

  "Aye," Rosamunde murmured grimly, straightening from examining the horse's hind legs. "This horse is ill. He has the lockjaw, I think."

  Frowning, Robert peered at the animal, then raised a hand toward the beast's snout, his eyebrows rising when the horse immediately shook its head nervously and took a step back. Rosamunde tugged gently on the reins she held and murmured soothingly, caressing its powerful shoulders. She had been prepared for that reaction. It was the same one she had received on examining him.

  "I think you may be right," he agreed with amazement as he peered at the horse's tightly closed mouth. "Aric!" he called, as the second man returned to the clearing with more branches. "Come here. My horse is ailing."

  Setting the branches down by the others, Aric moved to join them. "What is it?"

  "Rosamunde thinks 'tis the lockjaw."

  His eyebrows rising, Aric performed the same action Robert had, and the animal pulled his head up and back at once. "It could be. What makes you think--?"

  "He shied away every time Robert got too close to his head while preparing him for the night, then would not eat or drink with your horse, though he must be starved."

  Aric peered at the horse consideringly. "Still, it could be--"

  "There is also a festering scratch on his hindquarters. And look at his eyes."

  Sighing, Aric grimaced. "The lockjaw."

  "Aye," Robert agreed unhappily. "I shall see to it."

  Taking the reins, he led the horse silently into the forest. Rosamunde watched them go silently, then turned to Marigold, giving her a soothing pat. Whether it was meant to soothe Marigold or herself, she was not sure. Robert was going to kill the horse. He had no choice. The lockjaw would kill the animal, but in its own good time, and not until after subjecting the poor beast to horrendously painful muscle spasms and starvation. It was cruel to do anything but put the animal down. She knew that. Still, it was hard to accept.

  "It looks as if Marigold will have a rider on the morrow."

  "Aye," Rosamunde murmured solemnly.

  Aric shifted slightly; he could see that she was upset about Robert's mount but knew not how to comfort her. "'Twill be for only a little ways."

  She glanced at him curiously, and he explained, "We are little more than half an hour from the village we first traded our mounts at. They are keeping them for us to collect on the way back. He will most likely ride his own mount from there."

  "I see."

  Nodding, Aric glanced away, then turned irritably toward the fire. "Come. I will build a fire; 'tis dark enough now and there is a chill in the air this night."

  Sighing, Rosamunde followed him back to the camp. Seating herself on a handy log, she reached automatically for the small sack that contained the last of the rabbit meat, bread, cheese, and fruit they had. Her ears straining to hear any telltale sounds from the woods around them, she began to unpack the meal as her husband started the promised fire.

  It was quite a while before Robert returned. His expression was grim when he did. Rosamunde felt a twinge of sympathy. The task he had performed would not have been an easy one. She remained silent as they began to eat, but once finished, she began to get fidgety. The men were both silent, staring into the fire with similarly thoughtful expressions, but Rosamunde was ready to go insane from the lack of activity. First she'd bobbed quietly about on a horse's back all day, now this. It was drawing on her nerves.

  "What is the matter?"

  Rosamunde stiffened, her nervous shifting coming to a halt at her husband's rather annoyed question. Sneaking a quick peek at his face, she grimaced, then cleared her throat. "Not a thing, my lord. What would make you think that there was anything wrong?"

  "You keep sighing."

  "Do I?" Frowning slightly, she shifted and started to sigh again, then caught herself. "Where are we headed, my lord?" she blurted, almost desperate for conversation.

  "To Shambley."

  Rosamunde accepted those words with interest. "Why?"

  "To collect my men."

  "Oh," she murmured. "Then where shall we go?"

  "To Goodhall."

  "Is that where you live?"

  "'Tis where we shall live," he corrected. "It is your dower land."

  "It is?"

  "Aye."

  The silence closed in around them again and Rosamunde sighed. Her husband was the taciturn sort, it seemed. Wonderful. Glancing to the river that ran along the side of the clearing, she searched her mind for something to discuss. "Where is it you are from, my lord?"

  "Kinsley."

  "Where is that?"

  "Northern England."

  "Is that where your family lives?"

  "Aye."

  Rosamunde frowned at the answer. He wasn't very forthcoming with information. "Do your parents still live?"

  "My father does."

  Rosamunde waited for him to expound on that. When he remained silent, she asked, "Have you any brothers or sisters?"

  "One brother. Two sisters."

  "Older or younger?"

  "Older brother. Younger sisters."

  Rosamunde waited again, then decided to give up. His closemouthed behavior was very trying. Perhaps his brusqueness was because he was tired. Traveling was a bit wearying. It was annoying to her, at any rate. All that dusk kicking up at her. And after this second day of travel she felt as if she had rolled on the ground. Dirt and grit seemed melted into her very skin.

  Her gaze moved toward the river, this time with a touch of longing. All that water. It would have been nice to have a bath. Of course, that was impossible out in the open. There was no tub to fill, or even pails with which to fill one.

  Aric raised his eyebrows questioningly when Robert nudged him. When the other man gestured, he glanced toward his wife to see her staring at the river with yearning. His gaze took in the slow-moving water. He debated within himself briefly, then decided. "Would you like to bathe?"

  Rosamunde sat up straight at that question, her eyes widening. "Could I?"

  Aric shrugged. "I do not see why not."

  Her mouth widened into a glorious smile. She fairly beamed at him. "That would be lovely."

  Aric blinked and nearly smiled back, then caught himself and stood abruptly. "Come along then."


  Standing eagerly, Rosamunde followed him to the river's edge, then along it for a distance until they were out of sight of the camp they had made. When he stopped suddenly, she stopped as well. She peered at him questioningly.

  "Go ahead," Aric murmured, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the nearest tree to wait patiently.

  "Go ahead and what?" she asked slowly.

  "Go ahead and bathe."

  Rosamunde turned, surveying the area. "Where?" she asked with bewilderment.

  Aric frowned at her obtuse behavior. "In the river."

  "Outside? In the open?"

  His eyebrows lifted at her horrified expression; then he recalled that she had just come from an abbey full of nuns. Women had raised her, and he doubted very much if the good sisters were much into skinny-dipping. Proper baths were probably the only kind they had.

  Sighing, he straightened. "I would supply a tub if I could. Unfortunately, while traveling, one has to make do with what is available. The water will be colder than you are most likely used to, and you will have to use my cape for a towel, but there is no one to see, and you will be able to wash the dust away."

  Rosamunde simply stood where she was, silent. She had never bathed in a river. She had never bathed outside the abbey at all. Once a month all the nuns took their turn in the tub the abbess had placed permanently in an empty cell. The rest of the time they made do with standing washes--unless they fell into the mud or a pile of dung, or somehow managed to make a mess of themselves. Usually, though, only Rosamunde and Eustice did that. They tended to end up having a bath once or twice a week due to one calamity or another. Still, she had never bathed out in the open before. The abbess would not think it was proper. It would be lovely to clean off all of the dust and dirt from their travels, though.

  When his wife continued simply to stand silent and still, contemplating the water, Aric shifted impatiently and turned back the way they had come. "Well, if you are not going to bathe, we may as well return to--"

  "Oh, no, wait. Please." Rosamunde grabbed his arm to stop him, then released it and stepped back shyly as he turned to face her. "I should like a bath."

  He was silent for a moment, then nodded and returned to the tree he had leaned against before. "Hurry up, then," he ordered gruffly, recrossing his arms.

  Rosamunde glanced from him to the water, then back. "Did you intend to watch, my lord?" she asked at last.

  "Of course. 'Tis my job to watch over you."

  "Aye, but--Well...You..."

  He arched one eyebrow, amusement tugging at his lips. "Shy?"

  Much to his fascination her whole face was transformed with the fire of sudden temper; then she turned her face away briefly. When she turned back, her expression was flat again. "Proper," she corrected him grimly. "I was raised properly, my lord. Proper does not include stripping down to bathe before strangers."

  "I am your husband."

  She stilled at that solemn and quiet reminder. He was her husband. He had every right to watch her bathe. He had a right to a lot more than that. Bathing suddenly seemed a lot less attractive. Perhaps she was not so dusty after all. "I will wait," she decided meekly.

  Shrugging, Aric turned back toward camp and led the way.

  Rosamunde cast one last longing look at the river, then followed him.

  Robert's eyebrows rose in surprise as they returned to camp. "What? Did you not take a bath after all?"

  Flushing, Rosamunde dropped onto the log she had occupied earlier. "I decided I was too tired to be bothered," she lied, too embarrassed to explain her own reticence. Realizing that Aric had not reclaimed his spot by the fire, Rosamunde glanced over her shoulder to see him spreading his cape out on the ground. Once it was spread to his satisfaction, he lay on the far edge of it and relaxed.

  "What are you doing?" she asked curiously.

  "Going to sleep."

  Rosamunde gaped at him. "Already?" she asked in dismay, too distressed to remember that she had just claimed to be too exhausted to bathe.

  Aric noticed and started to smile, but caught it back, keeping his expression solemn and his eyes closed as he answered. "We are setting out at dawn on the morrow."

  Her eyebrows rose at that. "Why so early?"

  Aric scowled. Wives were not to question husbands. Did she not know that? It would seem not, he decided when she repeated the question a little louder, as if he might not have heard her the first time. He supposed, should he not answer her, she would shout her words a third time.

  Opening his eyes, he lifted his head to give her a look. The expression was to inform her that he really need not explain himself, but was humoring her. He said, "Because."

  "Because why?" she persisted.

  Scowling, he closed his eyes and let his head drop back to the ground. "Because I just said so."

  Scowling, Rosamunde glanced toward Robert as he stood, stretched, then moved to lay out his own cape beside Aric's. "Are you going to sleep, too?" she asked with dismay.

  "Dawn comes early," he said with an apologetic smile.

  Rosamunde frowned at that, then glanced toward her husband as he spoke again.

  "Come to bed."

  She scowled at the order. The abbess was the only person who got away with such peremptory behavior. And her father, of course. "No, thank you. I am not yet tired."

  "Rosamunde."

  "Aye?"

  "It was not a request."

  She glared at him briefly, considering refusing to obey what had obviously been an order, but then sighed. He was her husband. And she had promised her father to try to obey him. Unfortunately.

  Muttering under her breath, she stood and made her way resentfully to where the two men lay. Robert had overlapped Aric's cloak with his own and settled himself on the opposite edge of the two garments. He left the center space for her, she supposed. It was a very small space. They must think her tiny.

  Grimacing, she managed to wedge herself between the two knights. It helped when both of them shifted onto their sides, facing each other across her body, to give her more room. Stretching out as much as she could on her back, she stared up at the stars above.

  Aric felt the arm next to his own moving gently and frowned, his eyes opening to see that Robert, too, had noticed it. His eyes were open as well, and their gazes met across his wife's gently bobbing body, then they both glanced downward to see her right foot wagging away.

  They glanced at each other again, eyebrows arching, then to her scrunched-up face. She was squinting up at the sky with displeasure.

  Clearing his throat, Aric waited until Rosamunde glanced at him, then asked, "What are you doing?"

  "Looking at the stars."

  "No. With your foot. What are you doing with your foot?" he clarified.

  Rosamunde blinked, then glanced blankly down at her foot.

  "It was wagging," her husband explained dryly, aware that it had stopped as soon as she had turned to peer at him.

  "Oh." Rosamunde smiled at him meekly. "Sometimes it does that before I go to sleep," she murmured. It was something she did not even notice anymore. It was a habit she had seemed always to have had. The action tended to soothe her to sleep when she was not really tired. Like now. Despite having risen ere the dawn and ridden all day, she was not tired. Rosamunde tended to need little sleep. It was a trait she had inherited from her father. Four or five hours was all she needed a night.

  "Well, do not do it tonight," Aric ordered, then closed his eyes.

  Rosamunde made a face at him and stuck her tongue out. A movement from her other side made her glance toward Robert to see amusement on his face. He had obviously witnessed her childish actions. Feeling herself blush in the darkness, she quickly turned her face upward and peered once again at the sky. She was still staring at it several minutes later when the first snores disturbed the peaceful night.

  The first one to snore was her husband, the sound a loud, ominous rumble that made her stiffen where she lay. I
t seemed louder even than it had been that morning, but that might be because he was now lying on his side, facing her, his mouth only inches away, his breath tickling her ear with each exhalation. He followed the first snore with half a dozen or so more before Robert suddenly erupted into an answering rumble from her other side.

  Sighing, Rosamunde closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was deaf.

  Chapter Five

  "Is that Shambley?"

  Aric glanced irritably at the top of Rosamunde's head as she sat before him. Everything about her seemed to annoy him today. It had started that morning. Despite having awakened ere the dawn, as he had intended, his wife had already been up and gone.

  After rousing Robert, he had gotten to his feet and quickly reclaimed the sword that had lain at his side through the night, then had turned to survey the surrounding trees, trying to determine in which direction to look first. Before he could make up his mind, though, his wife had come sauntering into the clearing. Her face had been clean and glowed with good health. Her hair had still been damp from the bath she had obviously just taken. Her skirt had been raised slightly and held forward to make a temporary basket for some berries she had collected. Again, as on the last day, she had smiled at them with disgustingly good cheer and wished them good morn.

  Aric could not have said which annoyed him more: her good mood that early in the morning, the fact that she had awakened before him once more, or that she had taken a bath without him around to protect her. Recalling the way he had snarled and growled at her the morning before, and not wishing to repeat the activity, Aric kept the irate words that had trembled on the tip of his tongue to himself. He'd simply stomped off into the woods to attend to personal necessities, leaving her alone in the clearing.

  His mood had not improved much by the time he returned, nor had it since then. In contrast, she had been as cheerful as sin all morning, chattering happily away about what a lovely day it was as they had partaken of the berries she had picked, humming merry tunes under her breath as they had ridden along. She had greeted his horse and Robert's as if they were old friends when they had reclaimed them from the stable where they had been left, and chatted knowledgeably--and, in his eyes, in a far too friendly manner--with the owner of the stables. Aye, she was in rare form, and it was driving him crazy.

  "Aye. That is Shambley," his friend answered.