Chapter Twelve #4
Xante paused a moment before answering, his jaw working. “You are not needed. Your sister has sent you food and clothing for Jura.” He raised an eyebrow at Rowan. “She seemed to think Jura’s clothing would not last the night.” Xante gave a big smile at the reddening of Rowan’s face.
Rowan cursed his fair skin and the Lanconian smugness as he took the baskets from Xante. “Brita is all right? She is not angered because I was not with her last night?”
“Young Geralt entered her tent last night and has not yet come out. We Lanconians seem able to do some things on our own, brother.”
“Brother?” Rowan asked.
Xante’s face turned hard, as if preparing for Rowan’s disapproval. “I married your sister last night,” he said almost defiantly.
Rowan’s grin almost split his face. “It seems we English are not so incompetent. She has you delivering goods and messages the morning after your marriage. Could you not keep her in bed this morning?”
It was Xante’s turn to look sheepish, then he smiled.
“There is enough food there for two days and there is no need for you to come back. Everyone is…interested in each other. There will be many children nine months from today. I bid you good morning, for I have my own children to beget.” He waved his hand in farewell and turned his horse away.
Jura came out of the tent wearing Rowan’s tunic, a small eating knife in her hand. “So now you have the captain of the guard on your side,” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder if Geralt knows of this.”
Rowan put two fingers to her lips. “Peace for as long as possible, remember? Do not speak of your brother today, please. Let us eat and make love and swim and sing.”
Jura smiled at this. “Can we actually do what we want today? No uniting of tribes nor any other state business?”
“We shall be lovers and do what lovers do. Shall I play my lute and sing for you?”
“I’d rather you showed me that trick you have of throwing a knife. I have tried it but I cannot move my wrist as you do. It would be very useful in battle to be able to throw a knife and kill a man so cleanly and quickly. I could—” Once again, Rowan put his fingers over her lips.
“An hour’s knife practice, an hour of singing, and the rest of the day making love,” he said.
Jura looked thoughtful. “That seems like an equal division to me,” she said seriously, her eyes twinkling. “Shall we eat first or bathe first?”
“Eat,” he said, reaching for her, but laughing, she eluded him and grabbed the basket of food.
When his blanket fell away and she saw that he wanted more than food, she ignored him as she sat on the ground and began to eat.
But all through the meal she stretched her legs often and bent so he could see down the front of the loose tunic.
It was a heavenly day to both of them, the first they had shared as people, not as enemies. Rowan reluctantly showed Jura how to throw a knife, but he soon realized that she had a natural aptitude for using a weapon and after an hour’s practice she was nearly as good as he.
“You should teach my men,” he said grudgingly.
“Not that Neile,” Jura snapped. “I do not like that man.”
Rowan started to correct her but, instead, he said nothing. Perhaps Neile was offending other Lanconians as well as Jura.
For both of them the day was too short. Although they had been married for some weeks, they knew very little about each other, and so much anger had been between them that they could not easily trust. But each of them had been reared to do nothing except train for war.
Rowan had had Lora to teach him some of the gentler ways and he had come to believe that was a woman’s place in life.
Jura had no idea what Rowan expected of her.
They spent the day tentatively trying to please the other, neither of them knowing what the other expected in a marriage mate.
Jura wanted to have an archery contest—after all it was what had made Daire ask her to marry him.
But Rowan did not like that idea. He wanted to show Jura how to play a lute or to sing some English songs.
Jura knew she had a musical sense that was made of lead and she did not want to appear to be a fool in front of him.
It seemed that neither of them was willing to do what he knew the other one excelled at.
So they ate and made love and they talked. Rowan listened with some wonder at Jura’s story of her childhood. He had been so horrified at the idea of a women’s guard at first that he had dismissed the women, but now he listened more openly because he had seen the way Jura protected his back.
“But when did you dance and play?” he asked. “When did you ride out in the fields to look at the spring flowers?”
“The same time you did,” she answered.
They made love again that night and slept twined in each other’s arms. It wasn’t quite dawn when the sound of a horse, coming at a run, woke them.
Jura and Rowan rolled out of bed instantly, both pulling on a tunic while they ran toward the tent door.
Rowan ordered Jura to stay behind, but she made no move to obey him.
She stood beside him, sword in hand, and waited for the rider.
It was Geralt, his dark face black with rage—and across his saddle, hands and feet tied, mouth gagged, was Brita.