Conquering Knight,Captive Lady

by Anne O'Brien

‘Yes.’ She saw him move toward her. ‘Nor will you kiss me. I won’t allow it.’

  ‘No? And how will you stop me?’ Two lithe strides and he had rounded the end of the table, stopping her before she could take flight, trapping her against the edge, one hand braced on either side of her. ‘I warned you. If you don’t like my attentions, keep out of my way and stop interfering.’ His eyes lowered to her lips as if he would kiss her again. By the Virgin! Rosamund found herself wishing that he would. Humiliated, she turned her face away, aware of nothing but his breath hot on her cheek, his hard thighs holding her against the table’s edge. His desire for her was readily apparent. She held her breath as the shivers speared down to her belly, toward her thighs. She hated him. She desired him. Risking a glance up, she found his eyes on hers and a slow smile that heated her blood until it scorched every inch of her skin.

  Gervase’s voice dropped even lower. ‘Be warned, lady. If you don’t stop meddling, I will be the one barring your door. With you on the inside. I’ll lock you in your chamber, if I have to. For the safety of the whole castle.’ The smile widened into what she could only interpret as a leer. ‘Or I might even join you there behind your closed doors. I wager your bed would be more than comfortable for the two of us. The nights are long and dark. I could suggest any number of ways to pass the time.’ His voice fell to the softest purr. A woman might find it seductive but Rosamund could not mistake the menace, and flinched. ‘I would find that most…agreeable. Take care, Lady Rosamund!’

  And he swaggered from her presence.

  Of course she was to blame. Her eyes had shone with innocence, but she was knee deep in guilt. It was written all over her magnificently complacent responses to his complaints. And, in the privacy of his rooms, Gervase allowed himself the luxury of laughter. He had to give her credit for ingenuity. He must remember the stench from the midden if he ever needed to lay a siege again. It had been enough to drive any man into flight before the source was discovered. A consignment of putrid fish, he was given to understand, bought from a trader who was glad to get rid of his rotting load, and buried beneath the stable manure. How she had managed it…Probably with the assistance of Master Pennard. It stank to high heaven even in the coldest of weather, pervading every nook and cranny in the castle, eye-wateringly, until he had ordered a detail to dig into the noxious mound and burn the offending mass. A good plan, if of short duration.

  He grinned at the threat to take over her solar. Blood had drained from her cheeks, but she had rallied fast enough. It would be almost tempting to do so, and with her in it. He recalled feeling a vicious pleasure when her cheeks paled. And now cursed himself. That was unworthy. The fact that she had done as much as she could to undermine his authority had to be admired. But he must not weaken, just as he must banish the alluring image of sharing Rosamund de Longspey’s bed. As he had informed her, it could not go on, and he could retaliate far more effectively than she, as she would soon discover. A word or two with Master Pennard would effectively put the fear of God and Gervase Fitz Osbern into the steward.

  ‘That man is impossible!’

  As the wind direction changed, bringing gales from the north, biting temperatures, and a sprinkling of snowflakes, Lady Petronilla had ensconced herself in the solar with embroidery and a well-built fire, where she could follow her own thoughts without interruption. They led in one particular direction, in spite of all her attempts to turn them aside. A thick-set, stocky figure, not young but agile yet with well-defined muscle. Blue eyes that saw much, with attractive crinkles of weatherbeaten skin at their corners. A kind face, one that smiled easily. A good threading of grey through his brown hair that spoke of wisdom and experience…

  ‘Impossible! Beyond tolerating!’

  The solitude was over, her daughter entering like the blast of a storm. ‘I asked to see the accounts of the estate,’ Rosamund fumed to her mother. ‘Master Pennard—who suddenly could not look me in the eye—sent the wardrober to me. My official, my estates, but he informed me that I might not inspect them, the accounts of my own property, except by Fitz Osbern’s permission. I must apply to his lordship personally if I wished to see them.’

  ‘So did you make the request?’ the Countess enquired, guessing the answer.

  ‘Request? I demanded it. And that…that lout had the audacity to ask if I could read and figure. I doubt that he can! I doubt he can do more than sign his name!’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘That my education had been exemplary. So he said to my wardrober, very well. Show the lady the accounts.’

  ‘So did you inspect them?’

  ‘No. I told Fitz Osbern I had changed my mind. I will not be dependent on his good will. I will not accept my rights at his thieving hands, as and when he chooses to bestow them.’

  ‘I think, my dear Rose,’ the Countess observed as she set a row of tiny stitches, ‘that you might have met your match.’

  ‘Never! And then, would you believe, he roared at me and told me to get out of the Hall. His men were drinking—you know as men do. He said it was no place to be for a woman.’

  ‘He was right.’

  ‘But there was no need to shout. And he was drinking with them. As for the language…’ She covered her ears at the memory. ‘It was shameful! No doubt he was swearing as much as any of them.’

  ‘Ah, well.’ Petronilla hid her face over her stitchery. ‘Perhaps it’s best to leave men to their own uncouth devices.’

  ‘An excellent reason for my remaining unwed!’

  ‘Rosamund…’ Petronilla placed her needlework in her lap and considered the wisdom of giving her daughter some advice. Well, she would. ‘All I would say is beware. This is not a pretty kitten you are playing with. It’s a full gown wildcat with teeth and claws.’

  ‘I know that.’ Rosamund’s voice softened, Petronilla hearing almost a hint of a catch there. ‘But if I do not fight him, he will win. And where shall I be? Back at Salisbury, with the prospect of Ralph de Morgan’s ring on my finger. I can’t afford to lose this battle, can I?’

  Petronilla sighed. ‘No, Rose. You can’t.’ Sadness touched her heart. She had always known it might be a lost cause, and feared for the outcome.

  Chapter Six

  A t some point into his second week at Clifford, when the temperatures continued to hover around freezing, even at mid-day, Fitz Osbern found it necessary to take issue over the lack of a fire in the Great Hall—a minor matter, perhaps, but one of principle, he decided, with clenched jaw, as he viewed the pile of cold ash. Just one of the many minor matters where once again he detected the hand of Rosamund de Longspey!

  ‘This fire will be kept burning at all times,’ he thundered at Master Pennard. ‘God’s wounds! I want it well stacked and alight every morning. I’ll not have this discomfort for my men. If you don’t have enough servants to see to it, then I need to know about it. But it’s your responsibility—’

  He was in full formidable flow when he was hailed from the doorway. He turned with quick irritation. And then with relief. ‘Thank God for some sane company!’

  Hugh de Mortimer had returned.

  ‘You look as if you need it.’ Hugh advanced as servants now scurried round under their lord’s jaundiced eye to re-lay the logs and coax them into flame.

  ‘You have no idea.’ Gervase took Hugh’s arm to move him out of the path of the logs. ‘So what brings you here?’

  ‘I’ve business in Ludlow and so decided on a detour. It’s the King. King Henry will be there within the week on one of his progresses through the country, and I’ve been summoned to discuss security in the March.’ Hugh looked round, taking in the changes in sharp appreciation. ‘You’ve been busy, I see.’

  ‘I’ve had need to be.’ Gervase continued to glower at his wily steward, despite his overall satisfaction. The rain no longer collected in stagnant puddles in the inner court. The rushes in the Great Hall were of recent collection, despite the winter weather, and relatively pleasant scattered with
herbs. The layers of soot had been scoured from the walls.

  De Mortimer stretched himself along a bench with a groan. ‘I’m getting too old to be riding the March in this weather, but a cup of ale will put it right.’ He cast a glance at his friend’s fierce expression, then over to the steps leading to the upper floor. ‘I presume she’s still in residence.’ He chuckled. ‘And there’s no real threat of snow on the horizon yet.’

  ‘More’s the pity.’ Gervase joined him, but kept his attention fixed on Master Pennard whose loyalties were still open to question. He would have dismissed him out of hand if he had not been aware of the true culprit. ‘Why she won’t just accept defeat and leave. I can’t take my eyes off her. She rejects my authority and wreaks havoc whenever her will is thwarted. If you stay, Hugh, I warn you.’ His lips twisted. ‘Talk about de Longspey cunning! We’re having daily battles over household matters that should run smooth as milk from a cow, but have a way of being carefully undermined.’

  ‘And you have not retaliated?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Quick colour flashed across his lean cheeks. ‘The war is all on her part. I merely…well, let’s say I don’t make it easy for her.’

  ‘If I might say—you look as if you’ve spent the morning in hard labour.’ Hugh stretched out a hand to twitch the grimy sleeve. ‘Fighting gear?’

  Gervase grinned. ‘I am the brigand of her nightmares.’ He ran his fingers through his untidy hair until it stood in spikes, then drew his nails over the dark shadow of unshaven chin.

  ‘And you still can’t get her out.’

  The grin softened into a smile, but feral for all that. ‘Not yet. She’s courageous and determined. But I’ll not give in.’

  De Mortimer sought more attractive company, perhaps the cause of his going so far out of his way from the direct route between Hereford and Ludlow. He found it after much innocent searching—and some surprise—in the dairy, and bowed with pleasure.

  ‘You’re still here, dear lady.’

  ‘Lord Hugh!’ Petronilla pushed her veil back from her cheek with her wrist. ‘As you see. We’re trying to make cheese that’s halfway edible. We’ve had some problems.’

  ‘Perhaps you should tell me about them.’ He could not imagine why the Dowager Countess should find a need to become engaged in so menial a task, but what a charming picture she made, her hair wound into a bright coronet to draw attention to her fine features. Whether her flushed cheeks were as a result of the exertion or his own sudden appearance into her domain he had no idea. He hoped it was the latter. It raised his hopes when she left the girls to their task, wiped her hands and actually took him by the sleeve.

  ‘I doubt you would wish to hear of them.’ She shook her head at his ingenuous smile. ‘Come with me.’ And led him outside into a sheltered corner where a half-hour of bright sunshine had made the temperature pleasant enough to sit for a short time. Mantle wrapped closely, she pulled him to sit beside her, folded her hands comfortably in her lap and faced him readily enough.

  ‘Have you missed me, lady? Are you content here?’

  ‘I’d rather be elsewhere. Ah! I think I should not have said that.’

  Accepting that Petronilla had neatly side-stepped his first question, Hugh lifted her hands from her lap into his large clasp, pleased when she did not pull away. ‘I won’t tell. Where would you rather be?’

  ‘In Salisbury,’ Petronilla admitted. ‘I enjoyed life in the town. I even think I would prefer my own jointure at Lower Broadheath. It’s not as wild as this. I had enough of this country in my first marriage.’

  ‘You should come to visit me in Hereford,’ he responded promptly, seizing the opportunity, ‘if towns are to your taste.’

  She smiled wanly, but made no reply.

  ‘Can you not persuade your daughter to retreat gracefully? Where is she, by the by?’

  Petronilla sighed. ‘Talking to the cook about some variety in our diet, I think. It’s been boiled mutton every day this week. But, no. Rose will not go back. She’ll do everything she can to stay out of Earl Gilbert’s circle of influence. Even here, I’m not so sure that she’s safe…’ She frowned at him, as if daring him to repeat her careless words. ‘I don’t think I should have said that either.’

  ‘Safe from what?’

  ‘I don’t think Rose would want me to talk about it.’

  ‘But Earl Gilbert is not a bad man, surely.’

  ‘No…not bad, exactly. There, now!’ Her hands moved restlessly in his. ‘I suppose since my tongue has been so careless, I must tell you the rest. Gilbert would force a marriage on Rose. Gilbert and my husband, Earl William, planned it before William died. It would be a…a strategic union, they said.’

  ‘But would it be so bad?’ Hugh asked. ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Twenty-four years. There were others, but nothing came of them.’ The Dowager Countess folded her lips tight, clearly distressed.

  So Hugh returned smoothly to the crucial matter. ‘So who do they have in mind? It can’t be so bad as to drive the girl into headlong flight, can it? Or bad enough to make her consider Clifford a desirable residence.’

  Lady Petronilla raised her brows. ‘It can. Ralph de Morgan.’

  ‘Ah!’ Hugh rubbed his face with a large hand. ‘I know Ralph de Morgan.’

  ‘Then you understand her reluctance.’

  A wry twist of his lips was answer enough. ‘He would not be my choice for a spirited young woman. Nor would life in Builth appeal. It’s even more bleak than here.’ And seeing the shadows in his companion’s face, he regretted his words, tucked the information away until it could be effectively used, and took immediate steps to restore the lady to good humour. He pulled Petronilla to her feet. ‘The day’s too fine to allow us to linger on Ralph de Morgan, so let’s agree to consign him to the devil. It’s to my gain, lady, that you should still be here,’ he remarked with a deceptively meek glance at odds with his weathered exterior. ‘The sun shines and the day is set fair despite the cold. Come for a ride with me. We’ll go along the Wye to the ridge. It’s pretty country and I would not have you condemn it out of hand. Will you come with me, Petronilla?’ If she registered the familiar use of her name, she made no objection. The shadows fled and her smile warmed, so that on a thought, ‘No!’ Hugh announced, startling her. Her smile promptly vanished again like the sun behind a cloud.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘Petronilla. It’s far too heavy a name for one so feminine and pretty. I shall call you Nell.’

  Colour instantly suffused her face. ‘No one has ever called me Nell.’

  Unsure whether she was amused or affronted, but willing to wager on the former, Hugh did not retreat. ‘I shall,’ he informed her. ‘So, Nell, will you ride with me?’

  The Dowager Countess did not hesitate. ‘Yes, Hugh. I think I will.’

  Meanwhile, whilst Hugh was unwrapping the layers of Petronilla’s reticence, Fitz Osbern had moved his attentions from the Great Hall to the stabling that looked as if a good gale would reduce it to a heap of sticks and straw. One end of the structure was already in a state of collapse and the whole of the thatch a sodden mass. He was considering the value of demolishing the lot and rebuilding from the ground up rather than patching the holes when Hugh joined him, already cloaked and pulling on his gloves.

  ‘Where now? You’ve only just arrived.’

  Hugh retrieved his own horse and ordered the saddling of the Countess’s mare. ‘Not far. Just a ride along the river with Nell—ah, that is, Lady Petronilla.’

  ‘I see.’ Gervase growled with some amusement. ‘Nell, is it?’

  Hugh merely smiled. ‘I have solved your problem,’ he announced.

  ‘You’ve locked the daughter in the dungeon?’

  ‘No. Perhaps I should have said I have discovered the answer to your riddle, Ger. I know why the Lady Rosamund will not leave, and has no intention of leaving. Why she’s intent on remaining here until the day she dies.’

  ‘Because she’s spo
ilt and wilful and difficult—and can’t bear to be thwarted.’

  ‘No. The reason in very simple. Ralph de Morgan.’

  Gervase bared his teeth in quick distaste, raised a brow. ‘Well?’

  ‘Earl Gilbert intends the girl to marry him.’

  ‘So?’

  Hugh grunted. ‘Think about it, Ger.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Gervase did so as he tested the edge of a thatching knife against his thumb, deciding it was too blunt for any purpose. It was not a pretty picture, honesty forced him to admit.

  ‘She’ll do anything but return to Salisbury, where she might be forced into the match,’ Hugh continued. ‘She’s here for ever.’

  ‘God’s blood!’ Gervase’s brows became a heavy black bar. ‘Thank you for the warning, Hugh. Enjoy your ride!’

  ‘I intend to. One piece of advice…’

  ‘Do I want it?’

  ‘No. But it’s sage.’ Hugh’s expression remained bland, but he was unable to disguise the gleam in his steady blue gaze. ‘You could wed her yourself. That would solve the problem. She’s twenty-four and would doubtless be glad of a husband.’

  ‘And I would be more acceptable than Ralph de Morgan.’

  ‘You might. It would settle the ownership of Clifford. She has the documents. You have the power. Combine the two…and it would make her grateful beyond words to be rescued from Ralph’s clutches. Result? Domestic harmony.’ Hugh worked hard to preserve his composure. ‘You can both live here in marital bliss.’

  ‘My thanks for mapping out my future, Hugh.’ The studied dignity of the reply was belied by the fierce glint in Gervase’s eyes. ‘I can think of nothing worse. The lady does not fulfil my requirements.’

  ‘Just thought I’d mention it.’

  ‘Enjoy your ride with the Countess!’

  Deciding that the water-logged mess of straw and reeds would not survive the rest of winter, Gervase continued to supervise the detail of soldiers in stripping the old thatch from the stabling. To all appearances, it took his complete attention. To his disgust, it occupied his thoughts very little. Hugh’s words insisted on swimming through his mind, lurking at the bottom of every thought, a vicious pike in the depths of a deep pool.