Free The Rose of Blacksword by Rexanne Becnel

understanding of his meaning, his face descended over hers, and she was abruptly bent back over his arm in a harsh, impersonal kiss.
    The wild cheering of the crowd echoed faintly in her ears. In some vague portion of her mind she even recognized that this too was just something he did to court the spectators’ goodwill. But then logic fled and she was left conscious only of the hard forcefulness of his mouth, and how his lips gradually became softer and his tongue probed between her lips. As he’d ordered, she tried to play her role, but she was too undone by the sudden rush of blood to her head to clearly figure out her part. Should she protest? Should she succumb? No maiden would countenance such a public manhandling, would she? But that might not be true of a woman who would be handfasted to a condemned man.
    Before she was able to make up her mind, he pulled back from her and gave her a quick and curious glance.
    “Next time open your mouth,” he mocked softly. Then he straightened her on his lap.
    Rosalynde was breathless and weak, and completely befuddledby this strange turn of events. She was unsure now just what she was to do at all. It was the lord mayor, however, who decided for her.
    “We have here the man known as Blacksword. And here the maiden called Rose.” He strutted before them, stumbling from too much drink as he sought now to bring his performance to a triumphant conclusion. “They shall be handfast—wed in the old way—for a year and a day.” He belched and stumbled to a halt. “First the hangin’s. Then the handfastin’!”
    What followed was grisly beyond Rosalynde’s worst nightmares. She still sat on Blacksword’s lap, held immobile as much by her revulsion of the goings on around them as by his taut grasp. She refused to look behind them as the other two prisoners were forced to stand on boxes while the nooses were slipped over their heads and then tightened about their necks. But she was horribly aware of their helpless struggles and their pitiful pleading. She bowed her head, squeezing her eyes tightly as she prayed for this not to be happening. Around her the fierce Blacksword’s grip tensed, and she was suddenly aware of his heart thudding in his chest, pounding against her back as he too tensed in awful anticipation. Then with a sinister scrape the boxes were pulled out from under the two hapless men’s feet and she heard the sickening cries as they fell, the sound changing from wretched sobbing to abrupt choking.
    Rosalynde was never to be sure whether it was she or Blacksword who jumped at the grotesque sound. Beyond them the crowd let out a hoarse cheer, but it quickly turned to an ominous quiet until nothing but the strangling, jerking sounds of the doomed men behind them could be heard. It was not until the silence was broken only by the rhythmic creaking of the stout ropes as theytwisted and swayed with their heavy loads that the crowd began to shift and buzz with returning conversation. But it was not nearly as animated as before.
    As for Rosalynde, she was trembling in violent agitation, tears brimming in her eyes. The man who held her seemed almost as affected as she. She heard his heartfelt “Thank you, Mistress Rose,” whispered so quietly she was hardly sure he said it at all. But she had no chance to respond, for the mayor, who was clearly unmoved by the deaths he’d just witnessed, addressed the gathered throng once more.
    “We’ve had the hangin’s. Now fer the handfastin’.”
    In short order she and the man Blacksword were stood on either side of the chair. At the mayor’s impatient gesture they joined hands across the chair, to the enormous approval of the waiting horde. Her hand felt small and cold when his larger one enveloped it. He held it firmly, although not painfully, and when they were declared wed she felt his short sigh of relief. But he did not look at her nor did he say a word.
    The next two hours were a living hell for Rosalynde. Reseated