Page 17 of To Protect

ChapterSeven

They moved from cart to cart, Roland remaining close to Amalia as she sought out the herbs she wished to plant. Securing them, she paused to look at fabric, turning to find herself alone. Surprised Roland left her, as he’d remained by her side since they’d dismounted, Amalia strained her neck to look above the crowd just as a hand grabbed her waist from behind.

Spinning around, about to swat away the hand, she stared up at the very face she could not get from her mind. “Come quickly,” he said, guiding her away from the market toward the village.

Not daring to argue, his tone telling Amalia something may be amiss, she instead let herself be led away. When his hand dropped from her waist, she was almost sorry for it. They strode past shop after shop, Roland not looking behind them until they stopped in front of a tavern. This time, he did glance toward the market. Frowning, as if choosing between the lesser of two evils, he pulled open the door of a place she’d passed many times but never entered. Lady’s maids simply did not frequent the Cursed Ship, and Amalia discovered precisely why not the moment they entered.

Darkness enveloped them, the smell of lamb stew surprisingly tempting. The few patrons inside glanced their way, but none seemed very interested in them as she and Roland made their way to the far corner of the room. She sat atop a barrel with another barrel serving as the base of a table between them. A young serving girl not-so-gently placed two mugs of ale on a plank of wood between her and Roland that served as a table.

“We got ale. And stew. You have ale. You want stew?” The girl addressed Roland.

He looked at Amalia, who nodded vigorously.

“Two, if it pleases you.”

“It does not please me,” she mumbled, walking away.

Amalia and Roland exchanged a glance, both smiling.

“Pleasant, is she not?” he asked, looking around the tavern, as if assessing for threats.

“Very much so.” Amalia leaned forward. “Why are we here?”

“We are avoiding two of the king’s men.”

“How did you recognize them as such?”

“I have my ways.”

Amalia did not care for his answer. “What does that mean, precisely?”

Roland took a swig of ale. “They had a . . . look about them.”

She frowned. That answer was just as inadequate.

“A look?”

“Aye, a look.”

“Are you always so . . . avoidant?”

“Are you always so inquisitive?”

“Are you always so frustrating?”

“Nay. I can be much more so than this.”

Amalia opened her mouth, but promptly closed it. First, because she had no retort to that particular honesty. And second, because their stew had arrived. After it was all but tossed before them, she and Roland were alone once more.

“Why,” she began again, “are you so deliberately frustrating?”

“I am not deliberately so. Neither would I wish to frustrate you apurpose, Amalia.”

That he was doing so was, in fact, not the man’s fault. More frustrated with her attraction to a man who she should not be attracted to, Amalia stood, needing a respite.

“Amalia?” His voice was laced with concern.

“I am going to the serving girl for pepper,” she said, weaving her way through mostly empty tables to do just that. Asking her for the spice was about as pleasant as Amalia expected, and the break from Roland too short. Walking back to him, the knight’s eyes never leaving her, she prepared once again to have difficulty forming words. Difficulty breathing properly. Prepared to feel much as her lady had described to her whenever she and Sir Gareth met . . . almost overwhelmed with the essence of him.