Free The Rose and The Warrior by Karyn Monk

fretful mothering from the time she was seventeen, when her own mother died. Although Colin found Beatrice’s fussing tiresome, Melantha secretly enjoyed it. The burden upon Melantha’s young shoulders had grown even heavier when her father was killed the previous autumn, and she often felt impossibly overwhelmed. It was nice to come home and have Beatrice worry about whether she had eaten enough or felt tired.
    â€œ ’Tis just these shapeless garments that make me look thin,” Melantha protested.
    â€œ ’Tis your face I was looking at,” objected Beatrice, impatiently dismissing her explanation. She planted her work-reddened hands on her hips and stared at Melantha and Colin with maternal disapproval. “Obviously you two children cannot be trusted to feed yourselves once you’re out of my sight.”
    â€œI have just the thing for them,” announced an attractive, silver-haired woman who appeared from behind the wooden screen leading to the kitchen. “A nice warm cup of my special posset.” She smiled, then looked expectantly back at the screen. “Come, now, Gillian, don’t be shy.”
    A pretty girl of about nineteen tentatively emerged, carefully carrying a heavy tray. She kept her gaze fastened on her burden, as if she feared she might spill a precious drop from one of the many cups balanced upon it, but even with this limited view it was obvious to Roarke that the girl was exceptionally lovely. Her skin was as pale as fresh milk, and her features were small and delicate. Her hair was neatly combed and woven into a soft, loose braid, which shone of copper and coral in the flickering torchlight.
    â€œI—I helped Edwina make it,” she stammered shyly.
    â€œDid you, now?” said Hagar. “Well, daughter, that’s a fine accomplishment indeed. ’Tis not every day a man gets to enjoy a tasty cup of warm posset, now, is it, Colin?”
    â€œNo,” Colin agreed, smiling at his sister.
    â€œBless my eyes, Edwina,” burst out Magnus, “I swear ye’re more beautiful than when I left!”
    A rosy flush colored Edwina’s wrinkled cheeks. “Foolish talk from a foolish man,” she chided, giving Magnus an exasperated look.
    â€œHere, now, I want ye to meet our prisoners,” said Magnus, taking no mind of her embarrassment. “This is Donald, that’s Myles, and that tall, scowling fellow with the pretty hair is called Eric. And this great big chap is Roarke, who was unlucky enough to receive one of my arrows in his backside. I did a fine job of stitching him closed, though,” he boasted, slapping Roarke amiably on the back. “Lift his plaid and look for yerself.”
    â€œYou’ve no business stitching with those feeble old eyes of yours,” scolded Edwina. “You’ll ruin what little sight you have left. Come, lad,” she said, sighing. “Let’s have a look and see if I need to fix it.” She reached for Roarke’s plaid.
    â€œPerhaps later,” said Roarke, dodging her grasp.
    Edwina chuckled. “Ye needn’t be shy with me, my lad. I’m too old for such nonsense. Try my posset,” she invited, offering him a cup from Gillian’s tray. “It will slay your hunger and heal whatever ails you in the bargain.”
    Roarke obligingly accepted the goblet with his bound hands. “Thank you.” He tilted his head politely at Gillian.
    Gillian blushed to the roots of her hair.
    â€œYe’re best to toss it down in one gulp,” advised Magnus surreptitiously as Edwina offered her posset to Roarke’s men.
    Roarke frowned at the foamy brew. “Isn’t it just warm milk curdled with ale?”
    â€œ ’Tis my own special recipe,” boasted Edwina, smiling as she distributed the milky concoction among the rest of the group. “I’m teaching Gillian how to make it, so the secret is not lost after I’m