Chapter 5
Goosebumps persisted along Rosamund’s arms and legs even after she entered the chilly, damp hut, but there was a small pile of cured logs tucked next to the hearth, and Leo soon had a fire burning in the grate.
Her escort dumped the saddlebags next to her. ‘Get some dry clothes on,’ he said curtly before going outside to settle the horses under the meagre shelter. She bit back a cry when her shoulder protested as she shrugged out of her riding doublet, and that was as far as she got. When Leo came back to find her still in her wet undershirt, he strode over to stand directly in front of her and scowled.
‘Why aren’t you changed yet?’ he bit out.
‘Because all of my clothes are wet!’
‘What? Why?’
Rosamund drew a long breath, teeth chattering. ‘The rope you used was in the saddlebag with my clothes. The rain is heavy, and the bag was left open, so everything in there is now wet. Not the documents!’ she added hastily, as Leo blanched. ‘They were in another bag, and well wrapped against water in any case. But . . .’ She gestured helplessly at a length of soggy green velvet which was her usual formal daywear. ‘The rest of my clothes are no better than my current set.’
His lips tightened. Rosamund tensed for a shouting match.
But instead, Leo knelt down to rummage in his own bags. A few moments later he thrust a white linen shirt, a pair of dark trousers, and a clean drying cloth into her hands. ‘Here.’
She took them wordlessly, and he turned his back, shaking out another clean shirt for himself.
‘You’re not even tempted to look?’ Caroline enquired sweetly.
Leo swallowed. ‘Please don’t ask me that.’
The compulsion to look and see if Lady Rosamund was all right was stronger than it really should have been. But he was responsible for this woman, which meant watching out for her wellbeing. And he had been. Although given the ring of bruises on her neck, the stiffness in her posture, the raw red colour of her palms and fingers from the rope . . . maybe he hadn’t watched carefully enough.
Still, he’d noticed her reciting the Litany for the Dead under her breath at midday every day since they’d left the capital. He’d noticed the soft look she got on her face when her thoughts were wandering. He’d noticed that she had dimples on the rare occasions that she smiled.
He’d noticed a lot of things.
He really wished he hadn’t.
Leo shook himself and pulled out some bread and cheese to slice for dinner, slowly counting in his head. When he reached fifty-five, Lady Rosamund coughed politely, and he turned around. Her teeth were no longer chattering, and she was squeezing water out of her hair with the drying cloth. His clothes were hopelessly big on her, but at least they weren’t soaked . . . and the opening at the front of his shirt extended much further down her chest than it did his.
His thoughts in that direction were cut short when he saw what hung around her neck. He had previously caught flashes of a slim silver chain at her collar — even when the bruising from the bandit attack would have made it uncomfortable to wear — but it had always been tucked under her clothes. A ring hung from the necklace, just above her heart. A ring too big for any of Rosamund’s fingers, but the right size for a man.
Leo turned away.
Their lodgings were small, but they boasted a well (the river water being of variable quality), an ancient cooking pot and kettle in the fireplace, and a long, narrow box full of hay, which presumably passed for a bed.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Caroline. ‘There’s only one bed!’
Leo did not reply.
The bed was not particularly near the fire, which did make sense given the risk of its going up in flames in the middle of the night, but was not ideal for one who had recently been immersed in cold water. Lady Rosamund consequently declared her intention to sleep by the fire and leave the bed to him.
‘As you wish, my lady.’
‘Shouldn’t you offer her the bed? As a gentleman?’ Caroline smiled encouragingly.
‘She’s right to stay warm. By the fire is the best place for her.’ Leo’s brow knotted. ‘And I’m a commoner, not a gentleman.’
‘But — ’
‘Leave her alone, Caroline.’
Once they had eaten, Rosamund busied herself with hanging her clothes in front of the fire. Arranging heavy wet velvet with only one good arm was a tedious business, but she managed. It was a small mercy that her bedroll was still dry, and she shook it out near the hearth, trying to judge how close she could get without being in danger of errant sparks.
She cringed as she ran her good hand through her hair, snagging it on multiple tangles. Her hair fell to her waist when loose, which, combined with its thickness, meant it was still so drenched that it dripped onto the floor. Sighing, Rosamund attempted to divide the sodden mess into sections to comb it.
‘You could ask Leo to help you wash it?’ Caroline suggested.
‘No, thank you. I’ll just . . . comb it out and braid it.’
But Rosamund sounded less sure of herself than usual, and after watching her glacial progress for a minute or so, Caroline understood why.
Rosamund froze while Caroline addressed Leo. ‘Rosamund is having trouble.’
Leo, in the middle of repacking his saddlebag, looked over. ‘With her hair?’
Caroline tutted. ‘With her shoulder.’
Leo wished he hadn’t noticed that.
One minute and eight seconds turned out to be as long as Leo could stand watching Lady Rosamund struggle.
‘My lady?’ he ventured. Rosamund started.
‘Yes, Captain?’ Her voice was bright, but with a strained, brittle quality that wasn’t entirely due to her bruised throat.
It was for the mission, he told himself firmly. If she caught a chill, then she was going to be unbearable at best and dead at worst. He needed her alive. And capable of diplomacy.
‘Would you like some help with your hair?’ He studied her reaction. Her breathing quickened — was that nervousness? He offered a mild smile. ‘I’m going to need some assistance with my leg. It seems a fair trade.’
There was a pause. He thought she was going to decline, but then . . .
‘Shall we start with you, then?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m fine for the moment. Ladies first.’
She stared up at him, face uncertain, but then she handed him the comb.
Leo’s mother and sister both had very long, thick hair, and though it had been a while, he soon remembered the knack of combing it out without causing agony. The fire was warm on his side, and Lady Rosamund had stopped shivering. Small victories.
She sat quite still, staring at the wall in front of her. Her whole body was tense, and she hunched her shoulders as if trying to make herself smaller. Leo tried not to touch her more than necessary. Or to think about the other implications of a woman wearing his shirt. Instead, he thought about her hair, which there was much more of than he had expected, having heretofore only seen it bound up or bedraggled.
It was, he had to admit, pretty hair, curlier than his sister’s. Juniper’s hair had always been as straight as their father’s, though a different colour, while Leo had Aldous Collins’s fair hair and dark green eyes. Juniper had liked to make fun of him for trying to emulate his father’s neat blond tail, plaited and tied with black ribbon. But that, a tidy beard, and the smell of mint were the only things he really remembered of Lieutenant Collins, who had died some twenty years ago, when Leo was ten years old.
That was still a more comfortable thing to think about than being alone with an attractive woman who was wearing his shirt and letting him touch her hair.
‘Attractive, is she?’ Caroline sounded smug again.
He needed to think about something else.
Tangles. Tangles were like knots. How many kinds of knots did he know how to tie and untie? Overhand, clove hitch, bowline . . . these were just dozens of tiny knots. He was good at unravelling knots.
After a few minutes, Rosamund started to relax.
‘Are you perhaps realising that it’s nice to be cared for, Rosamund?’ Caroline offered.
Rosamund, unable to move without tearing her hair out of the comb currently frozen halfway down her back, narrowed her eyes. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s nice to have people taking care of you, even when it’s your Hot Enemy, hmm?’
‘I have people who care about me, thank you very much,’ Rosamund snapped.
‘That’s not the same as people who can look after you.’
‘I — ’ Rosamund stopped short, wet her lips, then began again. ‘I have my children. I have a house full of servants. I have a life outside this contrived journey you’ve sent me on!’
‘Well, yes, but it’s not the same, is it?’
Rosamund opened her mouth furiously, then checked herself and clamped it shut. Caroline was suddenly worried that her character was going to cry. But instead, Rosamund continued, a little shakily: ‘No. It’s not the same. But that’s not important right now. Just like it wasn’t important to send me on this mission with an adequate number of guards. Please, just let the man fix my hair in peace.’
‘But — ’
‘Leave me alone, Caroline.’
It took some time for Captain Collins to braid Rosamund’s hair, and, truthfully, it was pleasant to have someone else do it. How many days had it been since she’d had a maid to tend her? Her shoulder still ached, but she hoped a night of rest would put it right, and by the time Leo had finished combing, she had shaken off her feeling of melancholy. Regardless of what had brought it on, she mustn’t show weakness. They had a job to do, and he didn’t need her being a burden. The mission was dangerous enough as it was.
When he tied off the end of her hair with a bow and apologised that her braid was so messy, she managed to laugh. ‘You’ve never seen my hair when Charlotte has decided it needs a restyle.’ They smiled at each other for a moment. Then Rosamund remembered where they were and what they were doing. ‘Shall I take a look at your leg, Captain?’
‘Thank you, my lady.’
She tutted as he removed the bandages, revealing the fresh blood. She wiped it away and dabbed a fresh layer of the sticky, pearlescent caladrius glue onto his leg, grimacing when she used her right arm by accident.
‘I’m sorry about your shoulder, my lady.’
Rosamund shrugged, only to wince again. ‘These things happen.’
‘I’m sorry anyway.’
She looked up at his face, braced for insincerity, but his green eyes were warm and serious, and she found herself soothed by his concern.
‘I’m fine,’ she said at last. ‘But thank you.’
And even though she was sharing a room with him again, sleep came more easily that night, and Rosamund dropped off to the memory of a candlelit ballroom, a deep red curtain, and a chance encounter.
Nineteen-year-old Rosamund Page pushed the heavy velvet aside, cursing wide-skirted ballgowns as she tried to flatten herself against the wall behind the draped fabric, safely out of sight.
There was a solid obstacle in the way.
‘Oof,’ said the obstacle, and Rosamund jumped, the curtain falling from her hands. There was not a lot of space behind it, and most of it was occupied by a dark-haired man in his early twenties who looked both aggrieved and somewhat panicked.
‘Are you all right?’ Rosamund whispered in Bevorian, conscious of voices approaching.
He grimaced. ‘Madam, I am hiding behind a curtain in a ballroom. What do you think?’
At least she’d guessed the right language in which to address him. Abrenian men didn’t tend to wear so much lace at their cuffs, so it had seemed a reasonable surmise. That said, he didn’t look like the sort who would voluntarily don eveningwear in the first place. ‘It seems safe to assume that your night isn’t going well,’ replied Rosamund, ‘but perhaps you just really wanted some peace and quiet?’
The man gave her a tiny, fleeting smile, then bowed slightly. Which was fortunate; they were standing so close together that a full bow would have turned into a headbutt. ‘I confess: I really, desperately wanted to be alone. Hugo Hawkhurst, misanthrope, at your service.’
‘Rosamund Page. Sorry to interrupt your solitude, but . . .’ She paused, then continued carefully, ‘I also needed some peace and quiet.’
‘Do you make frequent recourse to ballroom curtains for this purpose, Miss Page?’
It was Rosamund’s turn to grimace. ‘Usually not. But sometimes sacrifices must be made.’
A hint of curiosity broke through the stiffness of his expression. ‘From whom are you hiding?’
Rosamund hesitated. Hugo frowned, and the silence that fell was made rather more awkward than normal by how close they were standing. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘even if you wish to keep your secrets, I will further confess that I am back here to avoid making more intimate acquaintance of one Lady Cecilia, who . . . er . . .’
Rosamund had met Lady Cecilia before. ‘Who was perhaps keen on making your slightly too intimate acquaintance?’
‘She was more friendly than I had anticipated.’
Rosamund’s lips twitched as she fought down a smile, trying to look suitably sympathetic. Hugo sighed. ‘This is the part where you tell me that she’s your cousin, isn’t it?’
She giggled, then remembered that they were trying to be quiet and shook her head. ‘I claim no kinship with Lady Cecilia, and she would not welcome the inference. But since you have been so honest, I am hiding from one Weston Mabry: apparently the second son of a baron, but also the sort of man who shakes hands like it’s a competition and doesn’t bother to apologise if he treads on your toes while dancing.’
HBWalker: Shaking hands as a form of greeting? Really?
CSLindley: My fantasy world is not representative of any particular historical period, thank you very much!
Rosamund gave Hugo a lopsided smile. ‘This is where you tell me he’s your cousin?’
‘Mercifully, no,’ Hugo said dryly, ‘but he is my neighbour, and his father is our liege lord.’
‘Are bad dancing and competitive hand-shaking geographical traits?’ She held out her hand. It didn’t have to go very far. He discreetly wiped his palm on his coat before taking hers. Hugo, at least, could shake hands perfectly well, and she told him so.
‘I’m gratified to hear it, since I’m a very bad dancer,’ he replied. ‘But I would at least be certain to apologise if I stepped on your feet. Which I’d do my best to avoid, but . . . well . . .’
‘You can’t be that bad at dancing.’
Hugo shrugged. ‘Haven’t really had much practice.’
‘Too busy hunting, shooting, and/or fishing, Mr. Hawkhurst?’
‘I prefer reading, honestly.’
HBWalker: Novels are a very Regency thing.
CSLindley: The printing press was invented in 1439, if I want novels in my novel, I am having them!
Hmm. ‘Favourite book?’
‘In what genre, Miss Page?’
‘Poetry.’
‘The Epic of Fernisal. Yours?’
Rosamund was startled into a grin. ‘The same, actually.’
Hugo offered a tentative smile in return. ‘Ah, but perhaps you are just saying that to entrap me with your feminine wiles. Though, if you are, at least you’re being more subtle and thus more successful than Lady Cecilia.’
They were silent a moment. Hugo’s face read like someone who hadn’t quite meant to say that aloud. Rosamund’s cheeks warmed. ‘Well then,’ she said, more lightly than she felt, ‘perhaps you should ask me my favourite book in some other genre, and then we will be even.’
‘Romance,’ said Hugo, and now his face was pink as well.
‘Eye of the Moon.’
Hugo blinked. ‘One of mine as well. Did you enjoy the sequel?’
Rosamund wrinkled her nose. ‘Entertaining, but not a patch on the original.’ The conversation continued along similar lines for some time until Rosamund remembered where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. ‘Mr. Hawkhurst.’
‘Miss Page?’
‘We are at a ball.’
He nodded with mock-seriousness. ‘I commend your powers of observation.’
Rosamund grimaced. ‘We are supposed to be meeting people. Specifically, we are supposed to be behaving like good little girls and boys and — ’
‘ — finding a suitable marriage partner from the correct country? Yes, but it’s so boring, not to mention loud. Besides, my Abrenian has rather gone by the wayside since I finished my education, and my accent was always atrocious.’
‘Many of the Abrenian ladies here were educated in both languages,’ said Rosamund. ‘So as you see, we are generally fluent enough in Bevorian not to embarrass ourselves.’
Hugo blinked. ‘I wondered if I recognised you from school.’
‘I don’t think I recognise you, but I’m not the best at faces.’ Rosamund shifted her weight a little, leaning back against the wall. ‘If you’re neighbours with Weston Mabry, we might be sitting near each other at dinner.’
‘Really?’
She nodded. ‘I saw the plan for the place cards.’
‘How?’
‘Never you mind.’
He grinned.
‘That said,’ Rosamund continued, ‘if I am sitting next to him, I may end up resorting to murder, which would not be conducive to a pleasant evening. So . . .’ Her eyes lit up. ‘I think a little creative rearrangement might be in order.’
‘Wait — ’ Hugo began, but she’d already twitched the curtain aside and slipped out, heading past the dance floor to the doors of the Great Hall.
Once there, Rosamund made quick work of finding the place cards, which merely confirmed her worst fears. She returned to the curtain and checked to see that no one was watching, then pulled Hugo out, slipping her arm into his. ‘Mr. Hawkhurst,’ she said softly, now steering him past the dance floor, ‘if you’re willing to take a quick walk with me, I think you’ll find it to our mutual benefit.’
‘Pray explain, Miss Page.’
‘Well,’ she whispered as they continued their circuit of the palace ballroom, ‘I have just been into the Great Hall, and I have good news and bad news.’
Hugo braced himself.
‘The good news: we are sitting near each other. The bad news: I’m sitting next to Weston Mabry, and you are sitting next to Lady Cecilia.’
‘Do you have a proposed solution to this horrendous problem?’
She winked at him. ‘Come with me.’ And with that, she slipped through the half-open door to the Great Hall, pulling him along with her.
The room was currently empty and much darker than the ballroom. The fireplaces threw off some light, but as Rosamund led Hugo down the side of the table nearest the east wall, deep shadow lingered in every niche they passed. They reached their places, and Rosamund dispatched Hugo to move Weston Mabry’s card down the table while she took Lady Cecilia’s in the other direction. Spotting a card for a “Cecily”, whom she thought she remembered from school, Rosamund swapped it with Cecilia’s and returned to Hugo, flush with success.
‘We don’t want to move them too far,’ she whispered, ‘in case we get the serving staff in trouble. But I swapped Cecilia with a Cecily.’
‘Great minds,’ he whispered back. ‘I swapped Weston with a Madeley. But we need to get out of here before someone spots us.’
HBWalker: Why didn’t Rosamund just . . . move them herself?
CSLindley: Because that’s no fun!
They made their way back down the table and had nearly reached the ballroom when a door on the west side of the hall opened with a creak. Rosamund squeaked as Hugo dragged her into one of the unlit niches, manoeuvering her behind a pillar to get her out of sight.
Rosamund was quite aware that her pale skin, red hair, and bright red gown would be extremely conspicuous, even in the dim light. Hugo seemed to have realised it too. He pressed her into the corner of the niche, attempting to flatten her unwieldy skirts and cover her body with his own. His green court dress and brown hair blended seamlessly into the dark, and she breathed out, trying to make herself smaller.
His mouth was right by her ear. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, and she shivered, her pulse suddenly hammering in her ears. Not just because they’d nearly been caught. The ridiculousness of the whole situation struck her then, and she stifled a giggle.
‘Miss Page?’ Hugo sounded uncertain.
She smiled, though she wasn’t sure if he could see it. ‘I was just thinking that this is a very particular way to make friends at a ball. And that Lady Cecilia must never know.’
‘If someone finds us in this, ah . . . compromising position,’ he said quietly, ‘we’ll probably have to get married for decency’s sake.’
She laughed gently. ‘I am very sorry for you, sir, if that is the case.’
‘Why for me?’ They both froze at a noise from the south end of the hall. But then they heard a door creak, and silence fell again.
‘I regret to inform you that the Page family is not highly thought of in Abrenia. We’re really just peasants in fancy dress.’
HBWalker: And yet her sister marries the heir to the throne?
CSLindley: Yes, and the only reason it’s not an absolute scandal when Roland falls in love with Catherine is that Rosamund’s marriage has given them such a leg up on the social ladder.
‘I’m really only here to make up the numbers.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll probably end up married to whoever’s left over from Bevoria. I hear a lot of the matches have been decided upon behind closed doors already. Which makes sense, I suppose. A situation in which aristocrats can marry off their children to other aristocrats in an act of selfless diplomacy won’t stop them from seeking other more tangible benefits from the arrangement.’ She sighed. ‘I should be out there dancing and flirting and trying to figure out who my best option is, but . . .’
‘You’re stuck in a dark corner with me?’
‘You’re not so bad, even if I can’t marry you.’
Hugo pulled his head back to look at her. ‘Why not?’
‘You . . .’ She blinked up at him. ‘You were hiding behind a curtain. I assumed you had been matched with Lady Cecilia and were hoping that if you disappeared, she might catch someone else’s eye before you had to announce it.’
‘A reasonable assumption, but no. I have no prior arrangement.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Rosamund said slowly, ‘that you have spent the last hour talking about books and rearranging place cards with me . . . and you haven’t even got a wife in mind?’
‘Yes.’
‘You — ’ idiot was on the tip of her tongue, but instead she tried, ‘ — don’t want to choose your own wife instead of being left with one of the brides nobody wants?’
He looked back at her, then, something sympathetic in his expression. ‘I’m told,’ he said gently, ‘by an impeccable source, that Miss Rosamund Page is among the “brides nobody wants”. Which leads me to believe that everyone here is a fool, since she is quite the most charming woman I’ve ever met.’
Oh.
There was another noise behind them, but neither of them paid much attention. ‘You know . . .’ Rosamund said, edging towards him a little, ‘you had a point earlier.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes. When you said that if we were found in a . . . compromising position . . .’ She was radiating warmth now; he could probably feel her blushing from here. ‘Then it would probably be required that we marry.’
There was a long silence. ‘That being the case, Miss Page,’ he said at last, ‘may . . . er . . . may I kiss you?’
‘I think I’d like that.’
They pressed their lips together, and it was tentative, and warm, and sweet.
When they broke apart, Rosamund frowned slightly, and Hugo winced. ‘Are you . . . all right, Miss Page?’
‘Well, first,’ she said slowly, ‘if there’s going to be kissing going on, you should probably call me Rosamund. And second,’ she said as she put her arms around his neck — and the smile she gave him was wicked — ‘while I’m not what you’d call experienced at this kissing business, I think we can do better.’
And then his hands were in her hair, and her body was pressed up against his, and it turned out that they could, in fact, do better.
Of course, that was the moment one of the servants came into the niche to light the lamp.
Neither of them noticed.
But as Rosamund drifted into deeper slumber, the memory turned on its head. Now she was holding her husband’s body, trying to stop Charlotte from seeing, desperate to find the red curtain so that she could hide Hugo from view . . .
She woke up screaming.