The Rose and The Warrior by Karyn Monk Page B

side, contemplating the languid flicker of the dying torches.
    His buttock was throbbing, as was much of his body, but the pain had been dulled somewhat by the enormous quantity of ale he had consumed during dinner. His men had also imbibed heavily, which accounted for the swiftness with which their snoring had rumbled through the hall, even though they were bound hand and foot. Unfortunately, the sanctuary of slumber had long been elusive for Roarke, and despite his profound weariness, tonight was no exception. The relentless ache of his battered bones and muscles, coupled with the melancholy wanderings of his mind, made it difficult to release himself to that quiet refuge. And so he lay in silence, staring at the fading light of the torches, wearily aware that he was only tormenting himself further as he studied their red-gold hue, which in that ale-clouded moment exactly matched the color of his beloved daughter Clementina’s hair.
    It had been several days since the memory of either his little daughter or his wife had permeated his thoughts. The realization filled him with guilt, for it demonstrated that he had abandoned them in death the same way he had abandoned them in life. He had not meant to, but there it was. He was a cold, unfeeling bastard—salubrious traits in a warrior, but utterly despicable in a husband and father.
    I am sorry.
    He knew his apology was pathetically insufficient. Not that they could hear him, anyway. They lay cold and stiff under the ground, forever sealed in a simple pine coffin, with Muriel holding their tiny daughter in her arms, their faces pale but serene. At least that was what Laird MacTier had told Roarke on that terrible day he returned from his raiding to find his small family dead and buried.
They are at peace,
his laird had assured him.
They are with God.
    Roarke had failed to see how his wife could be at peace. Despondent after the loss of her beloved three-year-old child to a fever, she had taken her own life by eating poisoned berries. But at the time he had not questioned MacTier’s description. There had been a modicum of comfort in imagining sweet Muriel at peace, with little Clementina safely wrapped in the loving hold of her mother’s arms. He still tried to imagine them lying so, as if they were merely sleeping, and would open their eyes and smile at him if he but chose to wake them. It was ridiculous, of course. A life of raiding and battle had left him intimately acquainted with death, and he knew its foul stench and rotting ugliness too well to believe such a fanciful tale. But during those first few months the image of his wife and daughter lying in gentle slumber had soothed him, and helped to alleviate the unbearable guilt that had threatened to crush him from within.
    He swallowed thickly, watching as the torchlight blurred to a watery wash of gold.
    All his life he had longed for nothing other than to be a warrior. And that was exactly what he had become, God help him. As a lad it had seemed a life of unparalleled wonder, filled with adventure, daring, and exotic travel. From the time he had first swung the crude wooden sword his father crafted for him, he had known that he was destined for greater things than staying caged within the boundaries of his clan’s land. Farming held no appeal for him, and the idea of living his life trapped in a dark, smoky cottage with a shrewish wife and squalling babes had terrified him. And so he had pursued his training with relentless determination, excelling at every exercise, until finally Laird MacTier realized there was nothing to be done except send him off to fight. Over the years Roarke had grown from a green, arrogant lad with more strength than brains into an experienced, arrogant warrior, who loved battle and thought no further than the next conquest. His sworn duty was to his laird and clan. All who knew him understood that. Even Muriel, who had fallen in love with him at the tender age of seventeen