Page 8 of To Protect

“If I am more accustomed to giving commands than requests, apologies, mistress.”

“He’s not once apologized to me,” Alden said, walking up from behind him, “for his high-handedness. You must be Lady Evelina’s maid.”

“Amalia,” she said as Alden breezed around the table to take a place beside her.

Roland frowned. She’d given everyone but him use of her given name.

“Do sit with us.” Alden gestured to the bench as if he were the king of England himself and not a blacksmith’s son. Roland’s friend had admitted that he often felt out of place among so many knights, some of whom were heirs to estates much grander than the one in which they trained.

He was obviously learning quickly.

This time, Amalia did sit. Alden introduced himself as Darien arrived, their table now filled with the other recruits talking among themselves. Roland would speak to them separately so they knew, if he or the others were not here, how Mistress Amalia should be treated at meals.

So they knew their place, and his.

He listened, but did not speak, as the meal was served. She spoke easily with Alden and Darien as they talked quietly of Gareth and Evelina’s wedding, and though Roland said nothing, she did glance his way more than once.

She did so now, just as the tip of her tongue touched her spoon. He watched her take a bite of stew, her hazel eyes peeking out from thick black lashes.

Comely.

It was hardly the word he’d use. Beautiful, aye. Magnificent, aye.

“You are the quiet one, then?” she asked, finishing chewing.

Darien nearly spit out a mouthful of stew.

“He is not normally so,” Alden said, more tactful than Darien. “Are you well, Roland?”

He answered to Amalia instead of his friend. “Very well.”

If the pink that appeared on her cheeks were any indication, the maid understood his meaning well.

“Are you well, Mistress Amalia?” he asked, adding, “and rested after your journey?”

“Indeed, I am. Thank you, sir.”

“Lord,” Darien corrected. “Roland is the eldest son of an earldom. A fancy title, is it not?”

“Apologies,” she said. “My lord.”

Roland leaned forward, not taking his eyes from her. “None are necessary. You may call me Roland, if it pleases you.”

“Roland,” she said, dipping her wooden spoon into the stew once more. “You may call me Amalia.”

That he was as pleased as the pudding they’d not be staying to enjoy told Roland all he needed to know about this exchange. He could not remember being so enamored by a woman before. She was beautiful, of course, but he had met many a beautiful maid before. There was something more, a dichotomy of strength and vulnerability. Of fire, as she’d looked at him just before they sat, and ice, as she coolly finished her stew, now having turned her attention to Lady Elara, who had just walked into the hall.

“She is so beautiful,” Amalia murmured. “Lady Elara?” she asked no one in particular.

“Aye,” Alden responded, also watching the strategies instructor as she joined Sir Theobald toward the front of the hall and sat beside the archery instructor.

One by one, the men began to peel away. To the training yard, to classes. Talk of the king’s imprisonment permeated every conversation, all wondering if it would mean the end of their resistance. If Empress Matilda would soon become queen, no longer needing the Guardians of the Sacred Oak to aid her cause.

“Did Sir Eamon give you a tour of Blackwood?” he asked Amalia.

Darien rolled his eyes.

Alden excused himself, shaking his head.

“We arrived late last eve,” she said.

“I have time before my next lesson and would be glad to do so.” Roland watched as she wrestled with a response. “I vowed to Sir Eamon no harm would come to you,” he added. “And none will. You have my word, on my honor as a knight.”

She blinked. “And as the son of the Lion of Ravensbrook?”

Of course she knew his father. “Aye.”

“I would be pleased to accept a tour of Blackwood,” she said with a small smile.

He stood, more excited than he should be. “Then let us begin.”