The Apothecary Rose

The beady eyes smouldered with resentment. What cursed luck. Owen had hoped to learn enough about Fitzwilliam in this company that he might satisfy Thoresby without journeying north. Now he would have to leave without much to go on, for surely he had sufficiently insulted Lord March with his superior strength that the man would make it his business to get Owen killed. Or at least seriously injured.

'You are Thoresby's man, I hear,' Lord March said. 'Get you back to London and away from my lady, or I'll have you torn limb from limb.'

Owen gingerly let go the man's arms and backed up a few steps, bowed, and tried once more to explain. But it only evinced a howl of rage from the obviously mad Lord March.

Now what? If Owen turned and walked away, the ridiculous man might attack him with a weapon. Lord March did not seem rational enough to care whether he attacked from behind or not. But standing here was no good. And backing all the way to the rose garden seemed unwise.

Owen need not have concerned himself. Lord March decided the next step by lunging at Owen with a knife. Well aimed, too, for a vulnerable spot. His left shoulder.

'Damn you!' Owen cried, kicking the knife out of March's hand and punching him below the belt with all the fury that he felt for the lunatic bastard who'd reopened the wound he'd worked so hard to heal. As Lord March doubled over in pain, Owen drove another fist into the man's jaw. Lord March fell back and lay on the path, bleeding from the mouth. Most likely he'd bitten his tongue.

Owen tossed the knife into the yew hedge and strode angrily away, keeping a tight grip on his wounded shoulder to stem the bleeding.

Three

The Rogue and the Lady

When Owen got to the weapons room, he struggled out of his cloak and his leather vest and was pleased to see that the wound was insignificant, worse in imagination than in fact. It would heal quickly. Gaspare came in while he was there and helped him clean and bandage it, then poured him a cup of brandy wine. 'For your pride.'

'I gave much worse than I got, to be sure. The man was a fool to pick on me. He's a weakling.'

'We warned you to stay away from the fair Jocelyn. The man is bedevilled by her. They say that Gaunt had his lady invited into the household to keep Lord March at his work. He was always taking off north to check on her.'

'To be honest, she is not so delicious as to warrant such jealous devotion.'

'Glad I am to hear you say that, Captain. I'd thought that the loss of one eye had robbed you of your senses in regard to the ladies.'

Owen tossed the remainder of his brandywine in Gaspare's face.

Laughing, he headed for Bertold's chamber, where he got out the salve that kept his scar soft and cool and applied a generous portion, then lay down on the pallet. He must have dozed off, for he came to as his head was being gently lifted onto a silken lap.

Lady Jocelyn's rosebud mouth puckered in concern, then widened into a smile. The flinty eyes had softened considerably. 'Captain Archer. I am so relieved to see that you are awake. Where did he wound you?'

Her dress was cut dangerously low, in the new fashion, and he could see her breasts heaving with her breath. She was excited. He suddenly saw it so clearly, the chemistry of the marriage. She set up intrigues, March rescued her, she kissed him and tucked him in bed, and then tiptoed off to the wounded bait. Good God in Heaven. Owen wished he were anywhere else in the world right now than here in Bertold's chamber, with no danger of Bertold returning, alone with this woman who would probably get nasty when she discovered that he did not want her. But it would all have been for naught if he did not ask her about Fitzwilliam.

'I am not seriously wounded, though I cannot vouch for your husband's mouth.'

'He will have discomfort eating for a few days, but it will heal.'

'I do not know why he took such offence, though it did not help that I could not tell him why I wished an audience with you.'

'Yes. The old friend — '

'Sir Oswald Fitzwilliam.'

'Ozzie?' She put a hand to her white chest. 'You have heard from him?'

'More like I have heard of him, my lady. Fitzwilliam is dead.' Her eyes widened. Owen sat up and took her hands. 'Forgive me for the shock my news must inflict, but I could think of no gradual way to tell you.'

'Ozzie.' She shook her head. 'But I saw him — Who killed him?'

Again, the assumption that Fitzwilliam was murdered, that one of his innumerable enemies had caught up with him. Owen began to despair of ever unravelling the mess of the man's life to discover the murderer. 'You began to say you saw him. When did you last see him? At Christmas? Perhaps he visited you en route to York?'

She averted her eyes. 'He was an old friend.'

'A family friend? Perhaps Lord March had entrusted him with a message to you?'

'Yes. Of course. What did you think?'

'Then I could have saved myself a bruise and a wound by telling your husband about Fitzwilliam?'

She looked back at him, frightened. 'Oh no. No, I am most grateful that you mentioned nothing. It's — ' She brought a dimpled fist to her mouth. Her eyes glittered in the dusty daylight from the high window. 'I am most grateful.' She reached out to him.

'Lady Jocelyn, I would seek compensation in another way.'

She withdrew her hands, as if he'd gotten too hot to touch, and looked at him quietly.

'I want information. Fitzwilliam came to see you at Christmas. What did he talk about? What was he doing penance for at St. Mary's Abbey?'

She said nothing.

'I know you were lovers.'

She caught her breath and moved to stand up. He put his hands on her shoulders and made it clear that he meant to hold her there. Her bosom heaved. A part of him found it amusing that he had wasted such a perfect opportunity for an afternoon of pleasure. But mostly he was disgusted with the whole business and wanted to conclude it as quickly as possible.

'I mean you no harm, Lady Jocelyn. I merely want to know what Fitzwilliam was up to just before he died. Who he might have been seeing in York. Tell me what you know and I will release you without mishap.'

'And if I do not tell you?' A teasing tone. She still saw this as a game, a flirtation.

All life was a series of flirtations to her, he supposed. He disliked her kind of woman. Addlebrained. Silly. No good to anyone. 'I would prefer not to threaten you, my fair Jocelyn.'

He could see from her heightened colour that he was right, that she found the situation exciting, that she would be disappointed when he sent her off without so much as a kiss. And he thought it unwise to disappoint this woman. So he leaned over and kissed the rosebud mouth lightly. 'You are most lovely. But I do not mean to compromise you.'

She dropped her head demurely. 'Captain Archer.'

'Fitzwilliam's raptures about you fell far short of the truth.'

Her laughter surprised him. 'Raptures. Fitzwilliam. You are a poor liar, though charming. Quite charming.'

Not so silly. 'I — '

'Obviously, Ozzie got himself murdered and you've been sent by his guardian, that carrion crow, to find out who dared to spill Thoresby blood, however tainted with common blood it might have been.'

Owen felt quite stupid. The flinty eyes had warned him. 'Right on all counts, my lady. I am left speechless by your keen wit.'

'I'll tell you what I know on one condition.'

'What is that?'

'You will leave here tomorrow without questioning any others.'

'And how will you hold me to that pledge?'

'My husband will see that you are seriously injured.'

'Ah. You will cry rape and he will turn his thugs on me.'

'Precisely.'

How could he have been so wrong about her? Silly, indeed. He wished now that were true. 'Why are you so concerned?'