Page 15 of To Protect

She stopped before Roland noticed her.

He was leaning against a wall, watching preparations for the midday meal in the great hall. Though he wasn’t smiling, precisely, neither did he scowl. Roland’s expression was . . . impassive. His jaw, set. Every female servant in the hall seemed to notice him there. Despite so many unmarried recruits lurking at Castle Blackwood, all well-honed for battle and skilled already in some way, Roland stood out easily.

Spotting her, he stood up straight.

The wolf emblazoned on his surcoat seemed a fitting emblem for such a man. As he watched her approach, Roland’s expression gave away nothing. Even so, an undeniable current ran between them. Did he feel it too? Or was it simply because she found the man so attractive, despite the high-handedness he’d displayed?

“Amalia,” he said with a slight bow, even though it was she who should be bowing to him.

“Roland,” she somehow managed, as he followed her gaze to his surcoat. Why did he look so much more formidable now than he had not long ago in the garden?

“They say it became the symbol of our family many generations ago, when an ancestor of mine wrestled a wolf to the ground, slitting his throat. He’d learned the beast had killed his beloved hunting beagle.”

She looked up. “Do you believe the tale?”

He shrugged. “As well as I believe any of the tales passed down from previous generations of de Veres. They are known for spinning stories.”

“So likely not?”

“Likely not,” he agreed. “You look lovely in that gown, Amalia. Though I will admit, you looked lovely in the one before it too.”

Hating the flutters inside her stomach at his compliment, she attempted to pretend they did not exist. “Many thanks, my lord.”

Roland’s head cocked to the side. “You’ve a tendency to do that.” He began walking from the hall.

“To do what, precisely?”

“Revert to ‘my lord’ when I’ve displeased you.”

“How could I be displeased at a simple compliment?” she asked, hoping to divert attention from his very true assessment.

“I wonder the same. How indeed?”

She did not answer. It wasn’t until they’d walked to the stables, had their horses saddled and were on the road to the village that he spoke of it again.

“Do compliments always displease you, Amalia? If so, I will not mention how skilled a rider you are.”

Her lady said so often enough, but Amalia most often dismissed it. She’d only learned to ride when coming into her lady’s service, unlike many who’d been doing so since birth.

“Nay,” she said, answering his question and attempting not to notice what a sight Roland made atop the black destrier. “I enjoy compliments,” she said. “Does not everyone?”

“In my experience, they do.”

“I’m glad to hear it, since there’s much to compliment you on, as I’m sure you are already aware.”

Again, those flutters.

“And I’m sure you are accustomed to giving them quite often.”

Roland appeared . . . amused.

He did not answer until a riding party of three men passed them on the road. They appeared to be knights, but from Roland’s reaction to them, not in the Order. Her suspicions that he did not know the men were confirmed when Roland angled his mount in front of hers, and his hand moved to the hilt of his sword as they passed without incident.

Dropping back toward her, he turned in his saddle more than once, finally glancing her way when he was, apparently, satisfied that the riders meant no harm.

“You believe I am that sort of man, do you?”

“Which sort?” she asked, aware her tone bordered on being flirty.