by Anne O'Brien
“I say it is mine. As does this.” Drawing his sword with ruthless deliberation, he raised it, the tip pointed at the very center of her breast, although he did not allow it to quite rest there.
A feral smile slashed a white gash in the dark, unshaven face, but failed to warm that fierce gaze. “Might is right, lady. And as of this moment, with this sword in my hand, I hold the power here. You do not.”
Rosamund froze on the spot, the implied threat too real to be discounted.
Suddenly, without warning, the point of the sword fell. Thank God! But Rosamund’s relief was short-lived when the knight took a long stride forward to close the space between them. Before she could retreat, she found herself caught within his arm, tightly banding around her waist. Dragged hard against him almost off her feet, breast to breast, thigh against thigh.
If she had been speechless before, now she found herself unable to think, to marshal any thought at all. It was all sensation, all awareness of the power of his body, the heat of him, as she was held plastered against him. To see those cold gray eyes, gold-flecked, looking down into hers with what she could only interpret as hatred.
What could she hope for at the hands of this man? For the first time in her life Rosamund de Longspey feared for her safety and her honor.
Conquering Knight, Captive Lady
Harlequin® Historical
Author Note
Rosamund, my heroine, escapes from her family to take refuge in Clifford Castle, which today is an atmospheric ruin on the bank of the River Wye in the Welsh Marches, not many miles from where I live. A tale is told of a lady who, in medieval times, was besieged there, taken prisoner by a local robber lord and forced to accept his hand in marriage. When the king came to hear of it he descended with an army, punished the lord for his despicable exploit and offered the bride her freedom and a purse of gold. Instead of snatching at the chance, the lady refused the king’s justice and would not be parted from her impetuous husband.
And that, I thought when I read it, is the stuff of romance. I could not resist such a glamorous opportunity. It inspired me to explore the wilful passion between Rosamund and her own robber lord, Gervase Fitz Osbern. I have created for them a difficult path to travel before they can accept that one cannot live without the other, as I am certain the original lovers too experienced. Rosamund has to learn that sometimes a man needs to be seduced into a compromise, without his knowing it, when all the time he thinks that his is the controlling hand. Whilst Gervase, almost too late, realises that military force is not the way to his lover’s heart.
I hope that you enjoy reading Rosamund and Gervase’s journey of discovery as much as I did writing it.
As for Harlequin, I owe them so much—not least that they gave me my first opportunity to write historical romances for my own, and your, pleasure.
ANNE O’BRIEN
Conquering Knight, Captive Lady
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
For George, the hero of all my romances.
Available from Harlequin® Historical and
ANNE O’BRIEN
Puritan Bride #762
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Prologue
January 1158—a cold, wet winter four years into the reign of King Henry II.
Clifford Castle—a remote border stronghold in the Welsh Marches.
‘S top! What in God’s name are you doing?’
‘As you see.’ The unknown knight who commanded the formidable force of soldiers might have been surprised to see the lady, but with barely a flicker of an eye chose to spurn her. Even when she continued to shiver in the bitter wind at the top of the flight of steps leading up from the enclosed space of the bailey to the stone keep. Even though that lady was clearly seething in an enraged whirl of mantle and veil, another lady similarly muffled to the tip of her nose against the elements at her shoulder. The knight proceeded to give brisk, efficient instructions to his men for them to dismount and immediately secure the fortress.
The lady opened her mouth. Shut it, tight-lipped. Eyes of green, clear as glass in an ecclesiastical window and just as sharp, her eyebrows beautifully arched and dark, she surveyed the organized overrunning of her castle in horrified silence. Under her veil the rich red-brown of her hair, a fox’s pelt with gold and russet depths, shining and glowing, as vibrant as the autumn fruit of the chestnut tree, was whipped into a messy tangle by the wind. She paid it no heed. For one of the few occasions in her life she could find no words to express the shock, the sheer fury, that held her motionless. But not for long.
‘What are you doing here? Who are you? Who opened the gates to you?’
‘I am Fitz Osbern.’ He barely took the time to glance in her direction.
The lady narrowed her eyes at the device that fluttered and snapped on the profusion of pennons attached to the soldiers’ lances. A mythical beast, dragon-like with a fierce snarl on its mask of a face, silver on black. Definitely not one she knew. Fitz Osbern—why was he here? As a marauding brigand? A robber lord? There were plenty of those in the March, wild and lawless men, answering to no man, not even to the King. He certainly looked the part. She scowled at the man who had by this time dismounted to stand, one hand fisted on his hip, in her bailey. Equally at the older knight, who had moved in silent support to his side, and the greyhound, as lean and rangy as its master, that loped and dodged with excitement between the horses’ hooves. Fitz Osbern… She pitched her voice above the general racket that had descended on her home. ‘I don’t understand what you are doing here.’
‘Which is a matter of supreme indifference to me, lady.’ Fitz Osbern flung the reins of his dark bay stallion to his young squire. ‘Bryn!’ He snapped his fingers to the hound, bringing him immediately to heel, then made to walk toward the far stabling, still iss
uing orders to his men in a tone that brooked no disobedience.
But this spurred the lady into action. Who he was or was not was entirely irrelevant. ‘I will not be defied in my own home!’ She covered the distance down the steps and across the bailey in remarkable speed to grasp at a fold of his cloak with bold authority, grimacing at the slick coating of mud and rain that squelched beneath her fingers. ‘You have no right to give orders here!’
‘I have every right.’
He shook her off as if, she thought, she were a troublesome hound puppy, and then had the temerity to turn his back on her—again.
‘This castle is my home—my property, my inheritance.’ Disturbed by the note of dismay that had crept into her voice, the lady snatched at his cloak once more to hold him still. ‘And yet you have the gall to ride in here and—’
The knight came to a halt, so suddenly that she had to step aside or tread on his heels. He rounded on her, dark brows drawn together into a heavy bar, so that she found herself taking a step in retreat, and he surveyed her, up and down, from her muddied shoes to the rich curls escaping the confines of the veil in the brisk wind. ‘Your inheritance, you say? Who are you?’
The lady’s chin rose infinitesimally. ‘I am Rosamund de Longspey.’
‘Longspey?’ The frown deepened, the eyes sharpened. ‘The Longspey heiress? But she’s a child.’
‘She is not.’ Rosamund made an inelegant noise not far short of a snort. ‘I am not.’
The knight eyed her, clearly weighing up the situation. Then lifted his shoulders in careless dismissal. ‘So I see. But no matter.’
The lady squared her shoulders. ‘It matters! This castle is mine.’
‘No, lady. It is not.’ Impatient now, he raised an arm in an expansive gesture to encompass his guards taking up position on the gatehouse, the palisade walk, his horseflesh being accommodated in the inadequate cramped stabling. ‘As it has no doubt become apparent to you, this castle of Clifford is now mine.’
‘Who says?’ Confusion and indignation warred on her face, even a shadow of fear, as Rosamund de Longspey curled her fingers into the dense fur lining of her mantle where he would not see her panic building.
Fitz Osbern looked down his nose at the woman who reached hardly to his shoulder. And what a magnificent nose it was to look down, if the lady was aware of such inconsequential detail when cold grey eyes pinned her to the spot. High-bridged and predatory it was, with more than a touch of the autocratic.
‘I say it is mine. As does this.’ Drawing his sword with ruthless deliberation, he raised it, the tip pointed at the very centre of her breast, although he did not allow it to quite rest there. A feral smile slashed a white gash in the dark, unshaven face, but failed to warm that fierce gaze. ‘Might is right, lady. As of this moment, with this sword in my hand, I hold the power here. You do not.’
Rosamund froze on the spot, her blood ice, the implied threat too real to be discounted.
Suddenly, without warning, the point of the sword fell. Thank God! But Rosamund’s relief was short-lived when the knight took a long stride forward to close the space between them. Before she could retreat, she found herself caught within his arm, tightly banding around her waist. Dragged hard against him almost off her feet, breast to breast, thigh against thigh. If she had been speechless before, now she found herself unable to think, to marshal any thoughts at all. It was all sensation, all awareness of the power of his body, the heat of him as she was held, plastered against him. Never before had she known what it was to be under the physical control of a man. Barely able to catch a breath, her heart hammered in her breast. Furiously struggling against him did no good at all. She looked up into his face, as dismay transformed into fear to see those cold grey eyes, gold-flecked, looking down into hers with what she could only interpret as hatred.
What could she hope for at the hands of this man? For the first time in her life Rosamund de Longspey feared for her safety and her honour.
Chapter One
January 1158—two weeks earlier.
T he troop of soldiers rode smartly north-west out of Gloucester, the promise of a warm homecoming at the Fitz Osbern castle in Monmouth luring them on to get in out of this thrice-damned persistent wind and rain. Unlimited ale and hot food. The soft stroke of a woman’s hand. Even the proximity of hot water would not be sniffed at…They had been on the road for a long time in the worst of weather after a sharp campaign across the Channel to Anjou, where Gervase Fitz Osbern held a number of strategic castles.
Gervase Fitz Osbern set a fierce pace. The Channel crossing had been bad; he shuddered at the memory of being tossed and drenched and vilely ill for twenty-four hours—sea voyaging was not for him—but now they were on firm ground. He raised his head, much as his hound at his heels, scenting the air. Home was within easy distance as he caught the outline of the dark ridge of the Black Mountains through the ever-swirling mist.
But when a group of travellers approached along the road, bringing with them one item of news, it was enough to make Fitz Osbern change his plans.
‘Rumours in the March. The Earl of Salisbury, William de Longspey, is dying.’
It was enough to shorten his breath, to drive a fist into his gut.
‘Do we go on, my lord?’ Watkins, his troop commander, all but nudged him into action as he sat in the rain in the middle of the road, brows drawn into a ferocious frown, his gaze focused on some distant place not altogether pleasant.
Fitz Osbern raised his head, refocused, gathered up his reins and signalled to his men to move off, the decision made. ‘We stop overnight in Hereford.’ The authority of their lord, coupled with the obvious lure of the fleshpots of Hereford, had the desired effect and put a halt to any murmurings of dissent. ‘And in Hereford,’ Gervase Fitz Osbern added, quietly, face settling into stern lines, ‘I shall make it my business to discover William de Longspey’s state of health.’
Meanwhile, some distance away in the prosperous town of Salisbury, Rosamund de Longspey was in a fractious mood. But then, who would not be? Approaching twenty-four years, with no husband on her horizon, no betrothed, and made fatherless for the second time in her life. No matter how good her blood, how attractive her face—and she could not deny that—her future looked less than secure.
So Rosamund, justifiably irritable, joined the family members of the household as they met together on the occasion of the death, from a malingering ague, of William de Longspey, Earl of Salisbury. He was no blood relation of hers, which might account for her lack of grief on this sorrowful occasion, merely a stepfather who had shown brief interest in and even less affection to her as she grew from child to a strikingly attractive young woman. A daughter of the Earl’s wife, Countess Petronilla, from her first marriage to John de Bredwardine, Rosamund had taken her stepfather’s name on her mother’s remarriage, and now had a very personal interest in Earl William’s will. In this room, within the hour, her entire future would be disposed of, with or without her consent.
There were no surprises when Father Benedict, the de Longspey chaplain, presented the terms of the late Earl’s will. His family by his first wife had been well provided for. The de Longspey title and main inheritance in Salisbury, the bulk of the estates scattered throughout the country, passed to Gilbert, the heir, who looked smug. Walter and Elizabeth were not forgotten. The Dowager Countess Petronilla would retain the lands and income from her original dowry. If she chose, she could live in the castle in Salisbury as an honoured guest for the rest of her life. If not, the castle at Lower Broadheath was now hers, a pretty estate in gentle countryside. Earl William had been generous and even-handed.
‘My lord thought that you would perhaps wed again.’ Father Benedict smiled benignly on the widow who showed no hint of tears at her loss.
Lady Petronilla silently inclined her head, but Rosamund was not fooled. If Rosamund read it right, her mother had no intention of seeking another marriage, no matter how wealthy or superficially attractive the lo
rd. She was now free to do as she chose. Two husbands in a lifetime and both of them unsatisfactory, Lady Petronilla had been heard to say in private moments, were quite enough for any woman.
I would just like the chance at one! Rosamund forced her fingers to unclench. For there was one matter here that had not been touched upon.
‘Father Benedict.’ Rosamund fixed her direct gaze on the cleric. ‘What provision has been made for me? I shall at least need land suitable for a dowry.’
‘Ah…Yes, Lady Rosamund…’ Father Benedict cleared his throat. ‘The Earl saw fit to grant three strongholds.’ He nodded at Rosamund with an encouraging smile, entirely false, she decided. ‘Three fortresses,’ he repeated, ‘and the income from the land and manors attached to them. For your own enjoyment and for your dower, Lady Rosamund.’
The fortunate lady raised her brows. ‘And where are these three fortresses, Father Benedict?’ Her voice was low, a little husky, usually with great charm, if not as on this occasion infused with deep suspicion.
‘On the border, my lady.’
‘The Welsh border? Be more exact, if you will, Father.’
The chaplain cleared his throat again with a quick glance toward the new Earl, who nodded in agreement. ‘You have possession of the castles and lands of Clifford, Ewyas Harold and Wigmore in the Welsh Marches, my lady.’
‘As you say—along the very border with Wales.’ Rosamund looked down to where her hands had just re-clenched in her lap, face smoothly unreadable, but her mind clearly engaged. ‘And will these three fortresses attract a husband for me?’
