by Anne O'Brien
‘Yes.’ He inhaled, praying for patience. ‘I want you to return with me.’
‘For as long as I wish?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you will not force me out again?’
‘No.’ A veritable growl. ‘As I agreed. Not unless it is by your own choice.’
‘And I can have the solar and the private chamber for my own use?’
‘Have I not said as much?’
‘On your oath, my lord.’ He saw her eyes shine through the wet.
‘Do you want blood as well? On my oath, lady.’ He clapped his hand to his chest somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, a deliberately dramatic gesture.
The lady managed a brisk nod. ‘Then we will return.’
‘Amen to that. Let’s all get under cover before we die of this infernal downpour.’ He tore his eyes from her brilliant gaze and bent to help Edith to her feet, then Petronilla, who was neatly folding quilts around her. ‘Leave those, my lady. I will see to it.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I am grateful.’ The clutch of her hand on his expressed her heartfelt gratitude, easing his acute sense of defeat at her daughter’s hands.
‘Thank de Mortimer for your rescue. I was tempted to leave you here all night.’ But his eyes were warm, belying his hard words as he handed the lady over to the care of one of his men-at-arms.
As he had expected, he found no gratitude whatsoever in Rosamund’s face, only the triumph of a victory snatched against all the odds. But he saw that she waited until her mother and the maid were cared for, lifted on to horseback, watching as they were carried back the short distance to the gatehouse, before she considered her own comfort. Then she looked across at him, dishevelled and muddy as she was, the challenge still there, but also the vestige of a plea that he knew she would never willingly voice. As well as a deep weariness—it seemed to him from more than merely making her stand against him in appalling conditions, but as if the battle she had just fought was a bloody conflict, vital to her. Any remaining anger toward her dissipated. All he felt was a desire to lift the burden—whatever it might be—from her shoulders.
He held out his hand, palm up.
‘Come, lady, sheath your sword. You can fight the battle another day. I think you’ve done enough for now.’
She considered him, even now resisting. ‘I’ll walk back. It’s a mere step. I don’t need—’
Stubborn to the last! Why did that not surprise him? ‘No!’ He stopped her. ‘You will accept my offer of help. And you’ll not argue the point.’ Fitz Osbern swung up on to his horse, leaned and reached down his hand, in invitation or demand, whichever way she chose to see it. He would brook no denial. And Rosamund, presumably reading the determination stamped on his firm mouth, his tense jaw, accepted, without comment, and in one lithe movement was lifted to the saddle before him where he settled her firmly in his arms and, with a click of his tongue, a shortening of the reins, urged his horse into a walk.
The girl sat rigid, precariously balanced, holding her body away from him as if she could not bear that he should touch her. If his stallion spooked, she would surely fall off.
‘I won’t bite,’ he murmured against her wet hood, impatience returning. ‘Or not yet at any rate. And I’d rather not have to stop and dismount to pick you up out of the mud.’
Although she made no reply, he knew that she had heard. She stiffened. Then, with a little sigh, she leaned back against his chest and the support of his arms.
So Gervase, with curling strands of his enemy’s hair escaping her hood and brushing his chin, contemplated what might lie ahead considering the terms he had just agreed to. He was not optimistic for the outcome. For one thing, it could have no permanency. She could not stay at Clifford for ever, no matter what he had promised. Some suitable arrangement must be made for her. But the de Longspey heiress was too wilful by half, with no sense of what was reasonable behaviour. He simply could not see a clear path here.
The stallion side-stepped as Bryn loped beneath his hooves, causing Gervase to settle the woman more firmly against him. She did not resist. Indeed, he felt her fingers close on his arm and her body settle more closely against his, her spine relaxing. But then he recalled the previous day when some species of fear—or so he had thought—had robbed her face of all colour. Perhaps he should take the time to discover the cause of such a reaction to his threat to turn her out. As for the moment, he was forced to acknowledge a pleasure in simply holding her close, the curve of her breast against his forearm.
Fitz Osbern dismounted in the bailey. He reached up to Rosamund and, his hands at her waist, helped her to slide down to her feet. Rosamund would have stood alone, calling on her dignity to hold her erect and still defiant, but the cold and damp had had their effect, stiffening her limbs. She staggered as her cold feet took her weight, so that momentarily she clung to his arms for balance, grateful when he held her.
His first words startled her.
‘Did I do that?’
Looking down, she saw the faintest of shadows of a bruise on her wrist. And remembered that he had restrained her the previous night. ‘Yes.’
‘I will never hurt you again.’ Soft-voiced, Fitz Osbern gently touched the mark with his fingertips, then astonished her further by bending his head to press his lips there.
‘Don’t…!’
‘Don’t what?’
‘I don’t want your attentions…’ She snatched her hand away. Surely he would feel the tumultuous blood pulsing, racing through her veins, if he kissed her wrist again?
His eyes darkened, his mood changed immediately. ‘If you mean by my attentions that you don’t want my mouth against your skin—then don’t put yourself in my way, lady. You have won your victory today. Make sure it’s not at a price you are unwilling to pay.’
Rosamund could not believe her ears. Her lips parted in shock.
And Fitz Osbern promptly kissed them. Fast, but very thoroughly.
‘Well, Rose? What have you to say now?’
She gasped. Could think of nothing sensible. ‘That I have not given you leave to use my name in that way,’ she managed finally.
And before he could do or say anything further, tearing herself away from his relaxed hold, Rosamund fled to her chamber where, considerate beyond anything Rosamund could have believed, Fitz Osbern had already left instructions for water to be heated for the women, and the wooden tub to be carried there. The courtesy passed unnoticed. Fear gripped her, a depth of dread of which she had no experience. She had feared marriage with Ralph de Morgan. This emotion was entirely different. Her heart thundered, her cheeks coloured to the tint of a winter pippin. She was very much afraid of the Wild Hawk. Her reaction to him was quite inappropriate. Pressing her fingers to her mouth, she realised that she could still taste his kiss. And ran her tongue slowly over her lips to savour it.
This can’t last, Rosamund, Fitz Osbern thought. It’s like living in the middle of a thunderstorm.
It hung over them, a deep and lowering threat. The whole fortress waited uneasily, holding its breath for the approaching cataclysm. It could not be expected that Fitz Osbern and de Longspey would live amicably side by side for long. Disputed ownership would have to end some time, whatever promise had been forced from him when under pressure.
Before the storm could break, Hugh de Mortimer made his departure, his own concerns in Hereford needing his attention. He acknowledged to himself a reluctance to go. He would like to watch the outcome of this imminent clash of wills. He parted from Fitz Osbern when they broke their fast on a late dawn, the first lightening of the sky heralding a fine day.
‘Farewell, Ger. You’re well settled then, I think.’
‘Yes. So it seems.’ Fitz Osbern continued to plough his way through a plate of roast mutton.
De Mortimer thought for a moment, then drained his tankard and pushed to his feet. ‘Is this impasse between you and the lady to be long term?’
Fitz Osbern barely glanced up, as if h
is mind was elsewhere. ‘No. I know not what’s in her mind, but it can’t be permanent.’
‘But, as I recall, you promised—’
‘That I would not get rid of her unless she agreed to ride out on her own decision. I know and I’ll respect that.’ He brushed crumbs from his fingers and rose to his feet. ‘But there are ways and means to make life less than comfortable here. And if nothing else prevails to dislodge her, a good fall of snow will probably prompt her departure. To be snowed in for weeks at a time on siege rations will surely sap her stubborn will.’ He angled his chin in thought. ‘I think I can dislodge her without that.’
‘So you intend persuasion.’ They made their way to the door.
‘Yes.’ A distinctly wolfish smile touched the dark features. ‘Nothing to bring harm to either one of them,’ Fitz Osbern assured as de Mortimer’s brows climbed. ‘I can be boorish company, an uncivilised lout as Lady Rosamund put it, as well as the next man without putting either woman in any serious danger. If they decide they would rather live elsewhere—in pleasanter surroundings where chivalrous conversation is the order of the day…’ his grin widened ‘…then so much the better.’
De Mortimer pursed his lips as he considered it. ‘I suppose it’ll work. You know your own mind, my boy. Good luck.’
‘I don’t need luck. By the time you return, the castle will be entirely mine.’
Thinking that it might not be as easy as that, de Mortimer took his leave of the women. Both smiled on him. Both wished him well and hoped to see him again in the future.
Did he imagine it, or did Lady Petronilla allow her fingers to rest in his longer than was entirely necessary when he took her hand in his rough palm and planted a kiss on her fingers? Did he read the shy invitation in her eyes correctly? But take care, he warned himself. She was a lady of birth and quality. This was not an area in which to consider anything more than a light-hearted dalliance. Certainly not a liaison of a deeper nature, nor the taking of mere physical pleasure. Petronilla de Longspey should be approached with respect and gentle handling. And he, on his own admission, had no thought of marriage. Nevertheless, she had a sharp wit and a quick astuteness he suspected, hidden under her careful composure. She attracted him. What’s more, sensing some shadow of unhappiness lingering in her face, he felt an unexpected urge to protect her, from what he was not sure. She was small boned and delicate, and Hugh found himself considering the necessity of a man sheltering her from the storms of life. Foolish! But he would like to renew her acquaintance.
He caught Petronilla alone, not by chance for either party, halfway down the stairs from the solar.
‘Will you indeed return?’ she asked.
‘I think I must.’ An enigmatic reply, to cause the lady to arch her brows.
‘And why is that, Lord Hugh?’
‘To see you again, dear lady.’ And, against all his previous good sense, and to the amazement of both of them, he leaned to drop a gentle kiss on her surprised lips, leaving to lope down the stairs with agile ease before he could commit himself further and before she could catch her breath.
When Rosamund commented on her mother’s bright eyes and pink cheeks, she received an entirely unbelievable explanation that the Dowager Countess had run up the stairs too quickly. Which did not fool her keen-eyed daughter one bit as her mother hid her flustered movements in a thorough and unnecessary reorganisation of her embroidery silks.
‘I take it Lord Hugh has finally gone.’
‘Yes.’ Uncharacteristically abrupt, Petronilla picked up a piece of embroidery, but did not sit or appear to be motivated to apply her needle.
‘Are you sorry?’
‘No. How should I be?’
Rosamund chose to make no further comment but cynically considered the matter to be of little moment. What had her mother said a mere matter of weeks ago? Two husbands are enough? Lady Petronilla was easily pleased if she could be flattered by the rough attentions of a grizzled border lord. Rosamund did not consider her mother to be easily pleased at all.
Casting that thought aside, Rosamund gave her attention to more pressing concerns. Her own apartments. She had never visited one of the royal palaces, but she had heard tell Queen Eleanor had magnificent style. A wealthy heiress in her own right, married to King Louis of France, she knew what it was to live in luxury and, since her second marriage some six years before to King Henry, she had brought her influence to bear.
‘Tell me again of the Queen’s bower at Woodstock,’ she asked.
So Petronilla did, painting a beguiling picture of panelled rooms and tiled floors with glass in the windows. Silken hangings and oriental carpets cushioned the life of Eleanor and her ladies. Lit by sweet-scented oil, perfumed with incense, it was a far cry from the draughty, smoke-filled Great Hall at Clifford lit by flaring torches with their burden of soot, or guttering rush lights.
Rosamund listened as she stood in the bare solar, now hers. Closing her eyes, she could imagine what it could be like. A delight to the senses. Nothing as grand as the Queen’s bower, of course. She grimaced, amused, at the thought of fine table linen such as Queen Eleanor used being mauled by grubby hands in her Great Hall here in Clifford. But Clifford was now her home and she would create a haven in her solar against the bleak borders outside her walls.
As she opened her eyes, her attention was caught by a quick movement by the bare hearth. A shadow slunk along the wall. A grey cat, little more than a kitten, one of the brood that inhabited the kitchens or stables. Thin and unnervingly sly, it ignored the de Longspey occupants, inspected the cold hearth with apparent disfavour, then leapt to curl into the corner of a settle. It stared at Rosamund with green eyes much like her own.
‘Not a pretty animal,’ Petronilla commented.
‘No.’ Rosamund laughed. ‘But if nothing else, even if we can never replicate Eleanor’s accommodations here, at least we shall be free of mice.’
Rosamund hugged the Countess with impulsive pleasure. There was nothing for her to fear after all; Fitz Osbern was keeping his distance from her. She would indeed make this castle her home. And Gervase Fitz Osbern could do nothing to prevent her.
Chapter Five
H ardly had de Mortimer ridden off than the baggage wagons belonging to Fitz Osbern eventually caught up with their lord to arrive at Clifford. They were unpacked and the contents, considerable in the number of chests and bundles, were carried into the west tower that had now become his personal domain. At least he has baggage! Rosamund thought. Although unspoken between them, it was quite natural that both de Longspey women expected to see some outer improvement in the new self-styled Lord of Clifford, something to reflect his new status as a lord of property, rather than a mercenary seeking an income from any man who would pay. No longer a soldier on the move, he would have no excuse but to improve on his unimpressive appearance. Rosamund secretly anticipated the result. Perhaps she would once again see the man who had come to face Earl William and throw his offer back in his face, rather than the robber who had stolen her castle from her.
But at supper over a dish of bland pottage, her heart plummeted. Spoon hovering in mid-air between dish and lips, she stared at his approach across the Hall.
‘Well, lady?’ He strode on to the dais. For a moment it seemed that he would bow to the Countess and herself. But she must have been mistaken. He turned abruptly, hooked up a stool, stretched out his legs and reached across the table to pull the flagon of ale closer. He filled a cup, clumsily splashing liquid over the sides, then lifting it to his lips, he fixed her with an uncompromising look, demanding a response.
‘Not a thing, my lord.’ She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing her disapproval, so pinned a smile to her lips. Unfortunately, despite the baggage, the uncivilised unkempt plunderer still remained. Hair, still untidy and untrimmed, fell lankly over his forehead. His cheeks remained rough with incipient beard. He had managed a change of clothes, to be sure, but looked no better clad than his men and far worse than som
e. A plain tunic, worn and threadbare in patches, was the short serviceable raiment of a soldier and his coarse hose still showed streaks of dried mud. From the state of his heavy boots, he had come straight to the table from the stables. No jewels, no decoration…He looked, Rosamund decided in that rapid survey, as if he had barely two gold coins in the world to chink together. Yet, to her disgust, the compelling stare from those grey eyes caused a curl of heat to centre in her belly where nerves fluttered restless wings. An image leapt into her mind of that stern mouth pressed against the soft skin of her wrist, even against her lips.
‘What is it?’ he persisted as she continued to appraise him.
She could hardly tell him that she felt an unsettling urge to raise her fingers to his cheek, to stroke them over the rough skin and unsmiling lips, so sought for an acceptable reason for her preoccupation, snatching at the obvious.
‘I have noticed you are limping, my lord.’
‘A healing wound. Nothing long-lasting,’ Fitz Osbern pronounced, reaching out for the jug of ale again. ‘My opponent on the occasion suffered worse injuries.’
‘Oh…’
‘I can be a man of vicious passions.’ He sneered over his cup. ‘I killed him. Is that all?’
And when she shook her head, appalled at the brutal response, and dropped her gaze to her cup, it was not before she saw his lips curve disdainfully.
‘He was a knight who discovered it was unwise to set himself up as my enemy. He’s dead now.’
Rosamund found no reply.
From that point, Fitz Osbern gave all his attention to the meal and, since Hugh de Mortimer was no longer present, with barely a word for his companions. Instead he applied himself with enthusiasm to the platters of food and even more to the ale. There was no conversation broached by him. Any response to the attempts by Lady Petronilla to begin an exchange of views was monosyllabic at best, otherwise a mere grunt around a mouth of roast meat. Rosamund did not even try as her disgust grew. As soon as he had finished, with a curt inclination of his head as his only acknowledgement of his fair company, he pushed himself to his feet.
