‘What about your father?’
The muscles of Alex’s face stiffened, remembering as a boy asking his grandparents about his father. They had told him that Christian Nilsson had been a mighty soldier, killed in a battle with the Danes before Alex was born. He had grown up, believing himself to be the son of a Swedish soldier hero, and was proud of the fact. He had been devastated when he had discovered that he was Earl Douglas’s bastard instead of the son of the Swedish hero.
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Rosamund softly. She had been watching his expression and hazarded that his thoughts were not happy ones.
‘My father had naught to do with my upbringing,’ he said tersely. ‘I was reared by my grandparents in Sweden.’
‘So you are Swedish,’ said Rosamund, satisfied that she now knew where he came from. ‘I have heard that the sun scarcely rises there in the winter.’
Alex made no comment, only saying, ‘You can go inside now. I’ll only be a moment here. Perhaps you can carry the saddlebags.’
She was disappointed that he was not prepared to tell her more about his country. She hastened to pick up the saddlebags and managed to sling them over her shoulder in what she deemed a manly fashion.
Alex rolled his eyes and picked up the saddle. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished, Master Wood.’
She agreed that she was hungry and followed him out and remained hard on his heels as they crossed the darkened stable yard. Alex had a word with the innkeeper before leading the way upstairs.
The sleeping chamber was not as large as she had imagined and the air was exceeding chilly. She soon discovered that the pallet and blanket were damp, but did not comment, unlike Alex. ‘This will not do,’ he muttered, bundling pallets and blankets beneath his arm and leaving her alone in the darkened bedchamber. She would have followed him, but the thought of facing the raucous crowd downstairs was enough for her to stay put. She perched on his saddle and hoped he would not be too long.
Rosamund had no idea how long she was there before she heard someone coming upstairs. Instantly, she rose to her feet and went to open the door. A buxom woman stood there, carrying a lantern in one hand and a pitcher in the other. ‘Here you are, young master.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rosamund gruffly, taking both from her.
The woman entered the sleeping chamber. ‘Your mate is making a right fuss downstairs. Yer’d think he owned the bloody place. A furriner, too. He wants to watch his step.’
‘The pallets and blankets were damp,’ said Rosamund, placing the lantern and pitcher on the floor. ‘He paid good money for hiring this chamber.’
The woman sniggered and brushed against her. ‘There’s more than one way of keeping warm, young master.’ She placed a hand on Rosamund’s thigh.
Shocked, Rosamund reacted by pushing her away. ‘Get out of here,’ she said roughly.
‘Oh, we’ve a haughty one here, have we? Or are yer one of them?’ She placed a hand on her hip and swayed about the room.
Rosamund watched her uneasily. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Will you leave!’
The woman ignored her and went over to the saddlebags on the floor. ‘What have we in here?’
Rosamund rushed over to her. ‘Leave them alone! They’re not your property.’
‘What is going on here?’ said Alex.
Rosamund felt a rush of relief as she whirled round to see him standing in the doorway. She noticed that he had slung the bedding over his shoulder and carried a tray. ‘This woman is being offensive,’ she said stiffly.
He thrust the tray at Rosamund, but before he could lay a hand on the woman she scuttled past him and out of the door. Alex slammed it behind her and locked it. He dropped the bedding on the floor and stared at Rosamund. ‘What did she do?’
Her cheeks reddened. ‘I’d rather not say.’ She breathed in the appetising smell of the broth and placed the tray on the floor. ‘Now you’re here, she’ll not come back.’
Alex had some idea of what the serving wench might have said to her and thought that must have given Master Wood a fright. ‘I had the innkeeper’s wife air the bedding in front of her fire. She was willing to do so for an extra penny.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Rosamund. ‘One can buy a lot for a penny.’
Alex realised he had made a mistake by revealing he was not short of money. ‘I deemed it worth it and we did not have to pay for our shelter last night. As for that wench, she was no one of importance, so you can forget aught that she said.’ He took off his hat and his fair hair seemed to glow in the lantern light.
Her breath caught in her throat and for a moment she could only stare at that handsome leonine head. Then she pulled herself together and went over to the pallets and rolled them out several feet from each other on each side of the tray.
Alex picked up the lantern and pitcher and put them close by so they could see what they were eating and removed his gloves. ‘The broth smells good,’ he said.
She agreed and removed her own gloves, but decided against taking off her hat. She lowered herself on to the pallet and eased off her boots before reaching for one of the bowls. She placed it at her side on the wooden floor.
Alex glanced her way and noticed that the lantern cast light on her weary face with its delicate nose and generously curved lips. He considered how not a word of complaint had escaped her that day and could not help but admire her stamina. He reached for the jug of mulled wine and poured her a drink and decided to test her further.
‘Have you ever paid court to a woman, Master Wood?’ he asked casually.
Rosamund was in the act of tearing bread from the loaf and almost dropped it. She paused. ‘No. I do not have the means to support a wife…and besides, I doubt a woman would find me to her taste.’
‘Why? You’ve a handsome face,’ said Alex, pushing the cup across the floor to her.
Rosamund looked at him in astonishment before picking up the cup and taking a thirsty gulp of the warm liquid. ‘My stepbrothers told me I was ugly. I confess I am not in the habit of gazing at myself in a looking glass.’
‘You are an extremely modest young man if you can resist preening in front of a mirror. Most youths of your age are obsessed by the growth on their faces.’ He dipped his spoon into the bowl of barley broth and waited for her reaction.
Rosamund’s stomach clenched. She had given no thought to the male need to shave. ‘I am not most youths,’ she muttered.
‘I would agree,’ said Alex smoothly. ‘How old are you?’
She hesitated and decided it would serve her best to not give her proper age. ‘I have seen eighteen summers.’
‘Then you are young to know much about women or to have a beard.’
‘I know enough about them to know what they want from a man,’ she retorted without thinking.
Her reply amused him and he gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Your confidence amazes me. I am twenty-eight years old and I reckon I will find women difficult to understand till the day I die.’
Rosamund realised her mistake in giving such a confident answer. She picked up her spoon with unsteady fingers. ‘You don’t have a wife?’
‘No. I enjoy travelling too much to give much thought to marriage. Although, one day I will need to settle down, for I would like to have children. But not yet.’
‘Tell