Free The Rose of Blacksword by Rexanne Becnel Page B

forbearance.
    “Who is it you fear?” he muttered, eyeing her suspiciously.
    “No one … everyone.” She shook her head then straightened up and wiped her tears away with the back of one hand. “I need to get somewhere and … and I thought … I want you to take me there.”
    “I cannot,” he answered curtly. “There is an urgent matter I must pursue. A matter of vengeance—”
    “You owe me this!” she interrupted him furiously, then ducked her head as a drunken couple looked over at them and began to giggle. “You owe me this much,” she hissed.
    “I owe—” He stopped and sighed. Then he gave her a disgruntled glance before he stared around at the lengthening shadows of approaching dusk. “If you want to follow me, so be it. That’s as much as I can offer you. But you’ll have to keep up. I’ll not slow my pace for you.” With that grudging offer he turned and headed past two stone cottages and toward an orchard beyond.
    Rosalynde did not know whether to be infuriated with his callous indifference or relieved that he at least was not abandoning her entirely. But as she followed him, running to keep up with his ground-eating stride, she cast him more than one vituperative glance and silently cursed him for the black-hearted villainous reprobate he clearly was. His back was broad and inflexible as he strode through the shadowy orchard; his head was held high, like that of a fearless warrior as he proceeded on without so much as a glance behind him. In both his stride and his ease of movement he struck her as a man of incredible power and considerable pride. But he was a blackguard nonetheless, she fumed.
    When they reached the edge of the orchard, he paused and Rosalynde collapsed onto a stone wall, gasping for breath. The vegetables she’d tucked into her tunic clustered in uncomfortable lumps at her waist, and she squirmed to find them a better resting place as she slowly caught her breath. When he turned to stare at her she met his gaze with an icy glare, but when his eyes did not waver, she began to feel uncomfortable. For all her frantic need to find help, for all her tears and demands that he notabandon her, as she faced that hard, assessing gaze, a tremor of fear slithered up her spine. She had thought he would be grateful enough to help her, but he clearly was not. Was he cold-hearted enough now to harm her?
    When he took a step toward her, she let out a squeak of alarm and scrambled down from the rock wall.
    “Have you any weapon?” His eyes ran down her dirty, lumpy form then up again to her face. “A dagger, perhaps?”
    Rosalynde froze in indecision. Should she pretend to be weaponless—and thereby appear completely at his mercy? Or admit to having Cleve’s small knife and perhaps have him take it from her? She hesitated and tried to break the hold of his perceptive gaze, but before she could formulate a reply, he gave her a cold smile.
    “You have one,” he stated knowingly. “Come, give it to me.”
    “No.” Rosalynde backed away from him warily. “You may not have it.”
    “I can just as easily take it from you. Come now. Just hand it over.”
    As best she could, Rosalynde affected a measure of calm as she removed the meager weapon from the strap that held it to her leg. But she was shaking with fear and dread. Then, when he started toward her to retrieve it, she swiftly lifted it up and pointed it at him threateningly.
    “Stay away from me!”
    Her whispered warning slowed his pace, but a smirk curved his mouth into a half smile, and he looked at her in amusement.
    “How now, wife?” The smirk grew broader as she stiffened at his use of that turn. “Is this any way to greet your new husband?”
    “You’re not my husband!” she hissed. “I only went along with that pagan ritual to get your help.”
    “You married a condemned murderer expecting his help?” He shook his head in mock disbelief even as he took another step closer. “It seems much wiser to ask the