He rubbed his mouth against Rosamund’s hair and her fingers tightened on his. She was warm, she was soft, and she was going to stay. She wasn’t going to turn into mist. Lord, but he ached for her. Thank God, she’d chosen to stay.
A wave of relief had swamped him when she’d agreed. He’d not expected to be so pleased. But then, she was so fair, so warm, so giving. No other girl held a candle to her. He grinned as he remembered the power of those wide, blue eyes; as he remembered the pleasure that shot through him as she returned his caresses. Even after he had lain with her.
Yes, today had been a good day. ‘A remarkable day.’
Her head turned questioningly towards him and he was presented with a moonlit view of her profile. It was delicate, heart-achingly beautiful. Rosamund. Her lips were slightly parted, and her teeth were white as pearls in the starlight. His loins throbbed, insistent, demanding. Lord, they’d better hurry, else he’d be changing his mind about the need for reaching their bedchamber.
‘Remarkable?’
‘You, my sweet,’ he said, surprising himself with his candour. ‘I find your beauty remarkable.’
Luminous eyes smiled back at him and something shifted inside him, an emotion he couldn’t name. Longing. Desire. God, but he wanted her. No other woman had ever made him feel like this. He forced himself to concentrate on the road ahead. He must keep his thoughts shielded. She must never know the extent to which she affected him. The person did not live whom he would trust with his soul’s secrets. A man must be self-reliant.
This was lust, pure and simple, it should be easy to keep it in its place.
She’d agreed to stay, that was enough. He’d take her back to their chamber and they’d take their joy of each other. This time it would be even better, because this time he’d know he wasn’t going to lose her. She was his to keep. His enjoyment wouldn’t be marred by the thought that soon she would be lying in another’s arms.
Oliver hadn’t lied when he’d told Rosamund that there were pretty girls in the castle. A couple of serving girls had sent bold looks his way and he’d known that were he to press his attentions on them, he wouldn’t be rejected.
A delicately scented strand of hair fluttered across his cheek, he made no move to brush it aside. This was the woman he wanted.
‘Oliver, look!’
A slender arm pointed towards the castle gate. The braziers had been fired on top of the towers.
At first glance it looked as though the castle was ablaze, light was streaming through the open portcullis from a score of torches, bright splashes lit up the road. His warrior’s instincts flared into life.
‘Hold on,’ he said, and spurred forward. Lance’s rocking canter made short work of what remained of the cliff path, and a couple of heartbeats later he was reining in before the gatehouse.
‘Holà!’ He hailed the guards. ‘What’s amiss? Why was the portcullis raised?’ He reached into his purse and a silver coin described a shining arc in the air.
A guard snatched it. ‘Rebels. Lord Gilbert of Hewitt found them on his land. He caught some, killed others, and he’s tracked the rest into Baron Geoffrey’s territory.’
The bailey was thronging with soldiers and horses. Helmets flashed in the torchlight; horse harness glittered; dogs yelped. Oliver frowned at the guard. ‘Rebels? I thought Angevin activity was confined to the south?’
‘Eh?’
‘Never mind. My thanks, man.’ Oliver swung off Lance and led him past the stable boys struggling with Lord Gilbert’s herd of horses. ‘Mon Dieu, what a mêlée.’
Rosamund’s eyes were round as she took in the chaos. She had never seen so many warhorses before, and all fighting for space in the overcrowded castle yard. Her heart jumped. The noise was deafening. Knights were swearing at grooms struggling to find quarters for the extra horseflesh. Huge hooves threw up clods of mud from the ground of the inner bailey and trampled them back into the earth. Yellow teeth flashed. She watched as one ill-tempered brute of a horse took a chunk out of the haunches of another. A scream of pain and rage trumpeted out. Harnesses jingled.
These horses would scare off the devil. Rosamund was more used to thinking of horses as beasts of burden. But these great hulks were bred to battle. They were instruments of war, trained to do violence. To kill. Like the men who rode them. She shuddered.
‘I’ll stable Lance myself,’ Oliver was saying to a flustered groom.
Rosamund gripped the coarse white mane and kept her eyes fixed on Oliver’s back as he shouldered through the sea of horses. He was one of them. A warrior. The gentle lover who had covered her in kisses was blown away like thistledown on the breeze and Lance was suddenly an island of safety, the only thing that would stop her falling into that wild threshing of legs and hooves.
At last they gained the sanctuary of Lance’s stall. Oliver reached for her and briefly clasped her body to his. A strong hand touched her cheek. ‘You’re white as milk. Did you think I’d let you fall?’
‘No, but warhorses frighten me.’ She couldn’t admit that he frightened her too – that his easy competence in the face of such an army had raised a barrier between them.
‘It’s not long since Lance had the same effect on you. That first time on his back, you went just as white.’
‘I’ve grown used to him.’
‘And his master?’ Oliver asked, with unnerving percipience. ‘Have you grown used to him too? Or does this...’ he glanced at the heaving bailey ‘...change matters?’
Her blood returned in a rush and she stumbled to the stable door. If it weren’t for the mill of horseflesh, she’d have stomped across the bailey and left him. Behind her she heard the gentle chink of Lance’s bridle being removed. She watched the seething bailey until the warmth of Oliver’s breath caressed her neck.
‘Ma dame, you wait for my company?’ he murmured, voice amused.
She nodded, reluctant to admit the extent to which the horses frightened her.
A dark eyebrow lifted. ‘I’m afraid our rendez-vous will have to wait.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
His palm ran down the length of her arm from shoulder to hand. Taking her fingers, he gave her a gentle squeeze. ‘Much as I long to fulfil my promise to you on the beach, my first duty lies with my lord. There will be a council meeting tonight, and I must attend. Our pleasure must wait for another day.’
‘Your first duty is to Baron Geoffrey. Oliver, I do know my place.’ She lifted her chin and gestured at the jostling horses. ‘I’m not used to these monsters and I’d welcome your escort across the courtyard. If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘It’s no trouble at all, my angel.’
‘I hate this...this warring.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to stay.’
Oliver stiffened. ‘It that a threat?’
She opened her eyes. ‘A threat? How could it be? Can a miller’s daughter threaten a squire?’
‘Rosamund, I’m warning you...’
‘I shouldn’t be here. You think that in giving me a choice you made everything right between us. But you grant me no right to pride and I’m beginning to see that without pride what happens between us is as nothing. I should go.’
Strong fingers caught her by the shoulders. ‘Go? Where shall you go? Back to the husband who loves you?’
‘At least Alfwold admits he loves me, which is more than you ever will. You’re an unfeeling wretch.’
Grey eyes bored into her. ‘Unfeeling, eh?’ He jerked her against him. ‘Does your loving Alfwold set you alight as I do? Do you moan in delight under the press of his body? I’ll warrant this unfeeling squire stirs your blood more than your loving husband would if you spent a lifetime in his bed!’
‘You swine!’ And before she knew it, she’d slapped him in the face.
The stables went horribly quiet. It was impossible, of course, what with the noise in the bailey, but so it seemed. Above her, his eyes glittered as cold as the winter sea. Flinching at what she’d
done, she put up a hand to ward off the blow that must surely fall. Peasants didn’t strike their betters and go unpunished.
The blow never came. His face was a mask of indifference. ‘You may well cringe,’ he said, as steely fingers clamped round her wrist. ‘But much as you may deserve it, I won’t hit you. Come, I shall escort you across the yard and you can await my pleasure in the bedchamber.’
‘I won’t!’
‘You will. You made your decision. It’s too late to change it, you are back in Lord Geoffrey’s hold and he has given you to me. I will not release you.’
‘I was wrong to agree! It’s not enough, can’t you see?’
‘It has to be enough. You’re staying.’
So saying, Oliver escorted her through the press and took her to the bottom of the steps that led into the keep. ‘Until later, my angel,’ he said, and vanished into the throng.
Chapter Six
‘Cousin!’ Sir Geoffrey was on the dais, deep in discussion with the captain of the guard. The moment Oliver stepped into the hall, he was beckoned over. ‘I’m glad you’re back, lad,’ Geoffrey said. ‘Come with me, I would have speech with you in the solar before the council meeting.’ He looked at his captain. ‘You too, Ned. You can be witness.’
Witness? More than a little puzzled, Oliver followed his cousin up the curling stairs to the solar. Lady Adeliza was sitting by the fire with one of the ladies, Oliver got the distinct impression she’d been waiting for them.
‘You’ll serve me better as a knight, cousin,’ the baron said briefly. ‘Kneel. Come on, man, kneel.’
Bemused at the lack of ceremony, Oliver knelt, bent his head and received the token buffet.
‘Arise, Sir Oliver. Here, take you these.’ Casually, Geoffrey threw a pair of golden spurs, the coveted badge of knighthood, at him. He grinned. ‘Anything amiss?’
‘Why, no,’ Oliver said, a stunned smile belatedly curving his lips as he blinked at the spurs. Sir Oliver. At last! ‘Thank you, sir, it is just that I never expected...not tonight...’
‘Never mind that, I need all the support I can muster. We can’t have Lord Gilbert thinking my knights are all bumbling fools and beardless boys. Accompanying Lord Robert to the East has served you well – you have experience under your belt and it shows.’ Sir Geoffrey put an arm around his shoulder and they headed for the door. ‘There’s a fine sword for you in the armoury, should be just your weight. I’ll send Ned for it.’
‘You’re very kind, cousin.’
‘Pssht! Kindness has nothing do with it. It’s part of the game. Tell me, sir, what do you make of Gilbert Hewitt?’
Geoffrey took precedence on the winding stair and Oliver replied to his balding head. ‘I only know of him by repute, so I couldn’t say. I shall consider him during the meeting.’
‘Do that,’ the baron flung over his shoulder. ‘He’s a man I’d rather have as friend than a foe. I’d rather like to put the seal on this blossoming friendship – I’ve a mind he might do for Blanche.’
‘I thought Lady Blanche was promised elsewhere?’
‘Nothing’s been written in stone. Anyhow, I want your view of Hewitt.’
‘Of course.’
‘And, cousin, don’t be forgetting you will be expected to fulfill your part of the bargain regarding my other sister,’ Geoffrey said, pushing through into the great hall.
Oliver gave a stiff little bow of acknowledgement and stepped onto the dais with his kinsman to take his seat at the council table. Ned went to find his new sword.
***
Night hung dark as death over Ingerthorpe Castle. The council meeting between Lord Geoffrey Fitz Neal and his ally, Lord Gilbert of Hewitt, had come at length to a close. Though no action would be taken until the morrow, friendships had been forged and strategies decided upon.
Seeking what respite they could, bone-weary men sought their pallets, mumbling and muttering among themselves as they scrambled for places. There wouldn’t be space for a mouse in the hall that night. There’d be no hard floor for Sir Oliver de Warenne, thankfully, the bedchamber was to remain his.
Oliver yawned as he headed for the spiral stairs. As he went up the first turn, he was absurdly conscious of the golden spurs tinkling at his heels. He was absurdly proud of the sword swinging at his hips – the steel came from the forges of Toledo, and the scabbard was made from Spanish leather. As it scraped against the wall he put his hand to the hilt to steady it.
The wall torches were burning low and he knew they’d be lighting a face that was grey with fatigue. He had no idea of the hour and felt he could sleep for a week, but there was little chance of that. They’d rouse him before cockcrow.
Thank God, his bedchamber hadn’t been allocated to one of Lord Gilbert’s comrades. A night with the rest of the men on the hall floor would be penance indeed. His mouth lifted at the corners. As one of his cousin’s household knights, he’d been given charge of leading a party to search for the traitor’s encampment. Thus, the small chamber in the tower was his to keep. They wanted him well rested, the better to fulfil his commission.
He’d reached the top. Softly, he lifted the latch. There was no need to waken Rosamund, though he had to admit he wanted to tell her his news. How would she react when she learned he’d been knighted? Most maids would be proud to have their lover elevated, but Rosamund was not like most maids. His unpredictable, unbiddable Rosamund...
He frowned. In the bailey she’d threatened to leave. She didn’t mean it, she would have forgotten their quarrel by now. An image of her naked body, all warmth and womanly curves, flashed through his mind – it was accompanied by an odd ache in his chest. Curse the girl, she was almost too distracting. Their disagreement had left him at odds with himself. He’d not been able to give the rebels the consideration they’d merited for thinking of her.
The bedchamber was empty and so was the bed. He shrugged, likely she was in the privy down the corridor. He unbuckled his swordbelt and peeled off his tunic. Settling on the bed, he leaned against the headboard to wait for her. His weariness had left him. If Rosamund was awake, he intended to make the most of it. If he took her again, he’d be better able to concentrate on the morrow. He wanted his mind clear – he must prove his worth and earn his knighthood. Sir Oliver de Warenne hadn’t been given a sinecure, he must work for his honour.
Minutes passed. Scrubbing his face, he glowered at the door. Devil take it, what was keeping her? He stared at his coffer – he’d flung his tunic on the top and Rosamund’s blue gown was peeping out from beneath it. The other gowns Lady Adeliza had given her were hanging on a hook, he could see the rose colour which she favoured, and a green gown she’d not yet worn, and...
A prickle of foreboding ran down his neck. Pushing from the bed, he strode over to the gowns and rifled through them. They were all there, there was nothing amiss. So why did he have a sick feeling at the pit of his stomach?
‘Mon Dieu!’ The realisation hit him like a blow from a quintain. Rosamund might be bold as brass in his bed, she might doff her clothes for him, but she wouldn’t dream of stepping half-dressed into the corridor. He was the only man to have seen her naked. Her loving had been as innocent as it was generous, and he knew with an almost savage pride that it had been for him alone.
She’d gone.
He stalked to the door and was down the corridor, wrinkling his nose at the stench in the garde-robe. It was as he suspected, the closet yawned emptily at him.
Rosamund had gone.
Storming back to the bedchamber, he snatched at her gowns. Lady Adeliza’s cast-offs. With an exasperated sigh he threw them aside. They were all there, every last one. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. What had she been wearing when she’d been brought to the keep? He’d never seen that dress for they’d bathed and changed her. He’d assumed that someone in the keep had burned her peasant’s clothes but...
Vaguely, he remembered seeing a pink bundle jammed into the corner of his travelling chest.
He flu
ng back the lid and it cracked against the wall. Yes, he’d seen her wearing a gown of just that pink. It had been darned at the elbows. He could see her smooth arms and her hands as she picked up tiny whorled stones from the beach. May Day. She’d said it was her best. Yes, that fitted, she would have worn her best gown for her wedding. She’d come to the castle dressed in her finest. Proud as a peacock.
Frantically, he disembowelled the chest, tossing aside spare tunics, chausses, his old cloak, a battered scabbard...
If a rose-coloured gown had been put among his things, there was no trace of it. Sitting back on his heels, he stared into the empty chest. There was no rose-coloured gown. She’d gone. But why leave her new gowns behind? She’d never see their like again, it didn’t make sense.
Unless – he expelled a breath – that pride of hers. He’d seen it in her eyes often enough, though he’d discounted it because of her humble background. Her pride had served to amuse him.
He remembered her expression earlier as she’d waited for him outside the stables. She’d wanted him to escort her across the bailey yet she’d been reluctant to ask. She’d talked about leaving and he’d not listened. He’d ordered her to stay. He’d assumed she would obey. Weren’t peasants bred to obey, as he had been bred to command?
Jesu, he’d been a fool. Blind, arrogant...
Getting to his feet, he dragged on his tunic, fumbling the buckle of his sword belt in his haste. What a fool. He groped for his spurs, a wild, unsettling thought sounding a frantic alarm. Rosamund was undefended. She’d gone into the darkness alone, on a night when outlaws were known to be abroad. She might encounter anything – Angevin rebels? Wolves? An image of her lying torn and broken in a ditch flashed through his mind and he groaned aloud.
He snatched at the door latch. His cousin had talked about fitting him out with some decent armour on the morrow – a padded helmet, some chainmail. He swore. No matter, he couldn’t wait. He must find her tonight, before some terrible ill befell her. And then, by the Rood, he’d teach her the wisdom of obedience.
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