‘But, Oliver, the drawbridge is up – what about curfew?’
He didn’t reply with words, he simply directed Lance to the gatehouse and hailed one of the guards. Coins chinked and the guard’s face split into a gap-toothed grin.
‘There’ll be more on our return,’ Oliver said.
It was easy to leave Ingerthorpe Castle when you were the lord’s squire. With much clanking and grating of metal, the winding mechanism was set in motion. The drawbridge was lowered and they were outside the curtain wall before the portcullis had even been fully raised.
Strong arms held her close as they trotted down the highway. Rosamund gripped Lance’s mane and glanced back. The wind was brisk, it stung her cheeks. It was pushing back the clouds, the crenellated walls looked dark as pitch, a jagged outline against a star-spangled sky.
The flambeau by the gatehouse soon receded – despite the stars, the cliff path was shadowy. A trickle of unease ran down her spine. A crescent moon was rising. Could Lance see his way with only the starlight and a sliver of moon to guide him? Rosamund had never ventured to the cliffs after sunset. She sent up a prayer for their safety, hoping fervently that there was no truth in the stories about the monsters and lost souls who wandered the cliffs at night.
Oliver’s cloak dragged on his shoulders as it billowed out behind him. He smiled grimly to himself, the set of Rosamund’s back betrayed her ill temper. Was he imagining it, or was she trying to prevent herself from leaning against him? He sent an unobtrusive command to Lance with his heels. When the stallion obediently danced sideways, she gave a little gasp and clutched at his forearms, sliding back against him in as satisfactory a way as he could wish. He eased his cloak about her to protect her from the wind and his lips curved. It was much more pleasant riding down the cliff path with the scent of Rosamund in his nostrils.
She was an infuriating, stubborn woman, but he loved the way her body fitted against his. If his cousin knew what he was about, he’d roar his mockery to the treetops. She’d been given to him and no-one would question his right to keep her. Oliver felt his smile fade. Except that poor wretch of a husband. And what was he doing considering the feelings of a stone-dresser? He must be going soft.
As they left the cliff path and dropped onto the shingle at the edge of the shore, the gentle churning of the waves reached them. The sea gleamed black as jet. The moon hung over the bay, a silvery reflection trembling beneath it. The water rippled, breaking the reflection into glittering fragments; it rippled again and the moon reformed.
Drawing rein, Oliver dismounted. One thought stood stark in his mind – in the days to come, he wanted Rosamund at his side. But he wanted her willing.
‘Why are we here?’ she demanded as he helped her from the stallion’s back. Pointedly, she stepped away from him, fluffing out her skirts. She didn’t look happy.
He put his finger to her lips. ‘Not a word.’ He hooked Lance’s reins round a boulder, and bent to remove his boots. ‘Unless you want your boots to be spoiled by salt, I suggest you do the same,’ he said.
‘Why are we here?’
‘Quiet! No arguments.’ He stood over her until she sighed and took off her boots and dropped them next to his. Grasping her hand, he strode onto the beach. It looked as though it had been touched by sorcery – everything glistened in the moonlight. By the margin of the sea, the wet sand shone like a dark mirror. It was cold on the feet and the wind buffeted them. The cliff wall was a mere stone’s throw away. He marched along.
‘Slow down!’ Rosamund said, struggling to keep her skirts clear of the wet.
Pausing, he searched the cliff wall. ‘There’s a sheltered spot close by.’ He towed her a few yards further. ‘Here we are. Sit.’
Crossing her arms, she scowled up at him. ‘I am not a guard that you may order me about in such a manner.’
He gave her an ironic bow. ‘My apologies, ma dame.’
‘Are you trying to give me lung-fever? I’m frozen. You have a cloak, while I-’
‘Come here.’ Oliver shook out his cloak and laid it on the ground.
Rosamund narrowed her eyes.
‘It’s as soft as our bed at the castle.’ He sat down and offered her his hand.
‘Our bed?’ Rosamund said, ignoring the hand. ‘I thought, sir, it was your bed.’
He sighed into the night. Catching her wrist, he tugged her to her knees. ‘Angel, the sand here is dry and in the lee of those rocks we’re out of the wind.’
Rosamund’s jaw worked. She opened her mouth.
‘Not a word, Rosamund. Not a word.’
And before she knew it, he had her lying alongside him on the cloak. He pulled it over them. She stirred and would have spoken, but a large hand covered her mouth. ‘Hush.’
She wasn’t afraid, but she was concerned. What was he doing? There was no point struggling, her strength was feeble compared to his and she would only be the loser. But she made sure her body was stiff as a poker in his arms.
The nights were cold, even in spring. Against her, Oliver’s warrior’s body felt warm. She felt herself begin to relax and steeled herself against it. What was he doing?
Gradually, she absorbed his heat. The hand which had been clamped over her mouth lifted and came to rest on her neck. When his thumb shifted in a subtle caress, she stiffened and the thumb stilled.
Waves were breaking softly on the shore. She could hear the rattle of shingle as it was sucked this way and that. Another wave broke, and another, the eternal beat of the sea. It was very relaxing. Calming. She could hear Oliver’s heartbeat and that was calming too. She gave a small sigh and before she knew it her hand was around his waist, and once again his thumb was stroking the side of her neck. The length of his legs lay against hers. It was a poignant reminder of how it had felt to awaken and find their bodies entangled in the aftermath of love.
She turned her face into his side so she could breathe him in. Oliver. She loved his scent. She placed a secret kiss on his tunic. Long fingers found her chin, angling her so that she would look at him.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked. His voice was husky.
She was thankful the night spared her blushes. ‘N...nothing much. You’re very warm.’
‘Liar,’ he murmured, eyes hooded.
She watched him, waiting for a kiss, but those long fingers simply trailed over her face and traced the fullness of her lower lip. Her skin heated. She almost pressed her mouth to his wrist, but squashed the impulse just in time. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted him to kiss her. She ached. She waited. Nothing happened. ‘Oliver?’
Their gazes locked. When he exhaled sharply, she realised they had both been holding their breath.
‘You see, angel, when left to ourselves we do not quarrel.’ He was smiling, she could see his broken tooth in the moonlight. His voice was gently mocking. ‘We might even like each other.’
‘Of course, but what are you saying?’
He shook his head, still smiling. ‘Your position in the castle was turning you into a shrew – and it’s no use glowering at me. Every time we meet, you turn on me. I’ll not have it.’
A cold suspicion curled in her vitals.
‘I grant that you are as pretty a girl as a man could want, but is it worth it? I’ll not have you turning into a nag. There are plenty of other girls – willing ones – at Ingerthorpe.’
‘Why, you conceited-’
He gave her a quick shake. ‘Hear me out. We met on the beach. I brought you here to see if we could hear an echo of that day. And I think we have. For a while I think you managed to forget your resentments.’
‘I did.’ She couldn’t deny it. A moment in his arms and she had been imagining, wishing, dreaming...
Oliver pillowed his head with one arm – the other remained firmly about her waist. He was staring up at the stars and his expression gave nothing away. ‘I have decided to give you the choice you say no-one has ever given you. You may choose to stay at Ingerthorpe Castle as my lover, o
r you may go back to your husband at the mill.’
She felt the blood drain from her face. The sea went on playing with the shingle and shells.
He swallowed. ‘I won’t force you either way, it will be entirely your decision. But, Rosamund, I tell you this, if you choose to stay, I’ll stand no more shrewishness. These are the terms – I am to marry Lady Cecily. I can’t love you but I can take care of you. I won’t allow anyone to insult you, nor will I cast you into a ditch when I am done with you. On all these things you have my word. You will be my woman, mine alone. What do you say?’
She looked thoughtfully at him. ‘Is this a real choice?’
‘Of course!’
‘And what about Baron Fitz Neal? He’s the one who gave me to you. I’m his vassal, and he threatened my father with loss of the mill if I don’t stay at the castle. If I decide to go back to the mill, will Sir Geoffrey permit it? I am part of your agreement with him. I feel like a pawn in a game of chess where a squire is determined to become a knight.’
Oliver’s eyes were pinned firmly on the stars, she saw his lips twitch. ‘What do you know of chess?’
‘What, an ignorant peasant like me, you mean?’ She swallowed down a surge of anger and struggled to focus on what really mattered. ‘If I choose to go back to the mill, are you saying that you’re prepared to risk losing the game for a worthless pawn like me?’
‘If you want to go back to the mill, I won’t stop you.’ Oliver turned his head and looked at her. ‘I can deal with Geoffrey, he only made you part of the deal because he thought I desired you.’
‘And don’t you?’ The question was out before she could prevent it.
His teeth gleamed. ‘You are the very sum of my desires. Ma dame, tell me – am I to return you to the mill, or will you come back with me to the castle? I’m anxious to have your answer.’
His voice was perfectly cool. Unemotional. And he’d posed his question – am I to return you to the mill? – in much the same tone that he’d use if he was asking her whether she thought the weather was likely to be fair or foul.
Rosamund thought of Alfwold, of humble, honest Alfwold, who had braved his lord’s wrath for her sake, but who nonetheless left her quite unmoved. And she looked at the tall, loose-limbed warrior at her side. He was so handsome with his grey, thick-lashed eyes. With his thick black hair. And she loved the shape of his mouth, she could kiss him forever.
She studied his dark features and held back a sigh. His looks were one thing, what she needed to see was some spark of feeling...
He was staring at the stars again. So calm. Yet her heart beat fast for him, it beat for Oliver de Warenne. Alfwold the stone-dresser left her unmoved.
Her hand lay where she had put it, across his waist. Experimentally, watching for his slightest reaction, she curled and uncurled her fingers. Through the fabric of tunic and undershirt, she felt his stomach muscles tighten. He was not as indifferent as he would have her believe. She moved her hand slowly down to his hip and marked how his head turned and their gazes met. He didn’t say a word but his eyes darkened. Casually drawing circles with her fingertips, Rosamund allowed her hand to wander up his chest.
The hand around her waist tightened and he covered her hand with his, killing the movement. His eyes were as black as the night.
Her shoulders slumped. He had reacted to her touch, but what of it? Oliver was young and virile, likely any girl could win a response from him.
‘Rosamund, your answer, if you please.’
‘Why give me a choice when it seems I am yours for the taking?’
He picked up her hand and opened it, spreading out her fingers. ‘I thought I’d explained, I don’t think it is right that you should be torn from your family against your will.’ He brought her forefinger to his lips and kissed it. ‘But it would seem there’s a strong liking between us, and if you’re willing, I’m content. But you must be willing, I’ll not force any maid.’ He turned his attention to her next finger and when he kissed that too, she felt herself warm inside.
‘You taste salty,’ he said. ‘Come, Rosamund, give me your answer.’
‘I find it surprising that you would consider the views of a simple villager.’
‘Simple?’ He laughed. ‘I heard you with Marie, you’ve already learned some French.’ With a wicked grin, he released her hand and cupped her breast.
The devil, he was trying to prove he could win responses from her, employing her tactics against her! She tried to conceal her response – the tightening in her stomach, her quickening breath – but knew she had failed by the heat sparking in his eyes.
‘You see?’ His eyes gleamed silver in the moonlight. ‘At the speed you learn, you’ll be fluent in a week – we’ll make a gentlewoman of you yet.’
‘I’m not sure I want to be a gentlewoman. Not if it means riding roughshod over others to gain my desires.’ She resisted the urge to wriggle, to increase the pressure against her breast.
His forehead creased. ‘I am giving you a choice.’
He lifted that thought-stopping hand from her breast and twined his fingers with hers. If only he cared for her. He’d been honest – he’d told her plainly that he could never love her. Was that the truth?
Why couldn’t he love her? Because she was a peasant? Sad to say, most of the inhabitants of the castle would see no wrong in forcing a villager to be the squire’s lover. Everyone knew that Baron Geoffrey and his family saw the villagers as cattle, as beasts of burden, and Marie had confirmed it. Marie had also said that Oliver was one of them.
Oliver was to be knighted. He was to be married to Lady Cecily. Not many maids would turn their noses up at the chance of becoming a knight’s lover. Here was an opportunity to taste the life that her humble birth had denied her. Baron Geoffrey doubtless thought he was giving her a great privilege. He knew Oliver hadn’t forced her. Would the outcome have been the same if her lord thought she’d been forced? Rosamund had no way of knowing, but she suspected it would be very much the same. She was a chattel.
No, the thought of offering Rosamund a choice hadn’t entered any of those superior, aristocratic minds. Except Oliver’s. He was offering her an escape route, and it would seem that he meant it. She really could choose.
Why? Squires weren’t known for heeding the wishes of their lord’s vassals. Surely there was hope in the fact that he was allowing her to decide?
Oliver liked her enough to want her goodwill, but she wanted it to be more than that. He needs me. Lord, she hoped she was right...
Taking a deep breath, she smiled. ‘I choose to stay.’ Her voice was as clear as a bell. ‘I chose you for my lover and I choose to stay.’
He caught her to him and pressed a shower of kisses on her nose and cheeks. ‘You’ll remember I gave you a choice?’ He nibbled her ear.
‘I will,’ she said, recalling another moment that first day on the beach, when cool grey eyes had turned as blue as the sky and she thought she’d glimpsed a longing for love. ‘I will.’
Two simple words, and she’d cast all sense to the winds. Her marriage vows – and Alfwold – were forgotten. When she’d made her marriage vows her heart hadn’t been in it. It was in it now. ‘I will.’ She was no longer an innocent victim, she was a willing lover. She was Oliver’s belle-amie – a sinner without so much as a shred of decency. And all because she took a flicker of light in his eyes to mean that he had a heart. She was staking her happiness on a fleeting expression. If she’d misread it, she was lost, but if she was right...
She rubbed her face against his chest. She’d been lost since May Day. Lost. At the time she hadn’t realised, but the moment she’d met Oliver, her marriage to Alfwold had been doomed.
Her marriage didn’t feel real. It never had and it never would. She’d fallen in love with Oliver de Warenne. There was simply no other explanation for her willingness to risk everything to be with him. The disapproval of her father seemed unimportant; she no longer cared what the villagers thought. She love
d Oliver de Warenne. Why else would she risk so much merely to be with him?
One day he would reciprocate. One day...
His lips were seeking hers. He moved his mouth gently, barely touching her, giving her lower lip the softest of nibbles. Rosamund’s insides went molten and her thoughts scattered as the kiss deepened and changed. It was demanding, a lover’s kiss. Confident and sure.
For all his protestations to the contrary, Oliver kissed like a passionate man. A man who understood love.
He lifted his head. ‘You taste so sweet.’
She sifted his hair through her fingers, it was soft and springy under her palms. His head was silhouetted against a starry backcloth, his wind-ruffled hair seemed to merge with the night, and all she could think was that she wanted to pull his head to hers, find his mouth, and melt into him.
His hand cupped her breast and his thumb caressed her through the cloth of her gown. She found the flesh of his back beneath his tunic. It felt like velvet – she could feel the muscles beneath. His eyes glowed silver, and she thought that he smiled.
‘Not here, my angel.’ His voice was warm but firm. Removing her hand from beneath his tunic, he enfolded it in his. With a murmur of protest, she wriggled closer.
The dark head shook. ‘I’ll not take you on the beach, it’s far too cold. We’ll go to the bedchamber where it’s warm and we can lock the door against interruptions.’ He pulled her to her feet and into the haven of his mantle. ‘Lord, I only hope we can find our boots.’
***
Oliver urged Lance on, and smiled into Rosamund’s hair. It had been a good day. The best. She sat before him as she had done on their way down to the beach and this time her body was completely relaxed. He was holding her slender waist and she had covered his hand with hers. She was playing with his fingers.
There was an unfamiliar lightness in his chest. He couldn’t stop smiling. It must be due to his rising fortunes. He had found his place in this northern hold, and at last the knighthood he had fought for was within his reach.
It was odd though, this morning when Geoffrey had told him about his change in fortune, he’d felt hollow. It was as though he was reaching out to take his prize and before his eyes it was turning to mist. His lips twisted. The surprise of meeting with success after years of striving must have temporarily stunned him.
Shattered Vows Page 13
