by Anne O'Brien
And yet such gentleness. The rough marauder had vanished for ever. Every inch of her blossomed under the slide of his hands, the press of his body. And if he gave her pleasure, how much delight it gave her when he shuddered, hissing in a breath under her own touch. Increasingly confident, she reciprocated the caresses with her own fingertips, experiencing the contour of muscle and lean hard flesh for herself.
Still the natural fear of their coming together remained hovering over her pleasure, firmly lodged in her mind. When he moved his body above hers, his thighs pinning hers, when she felt the power and hardness of his desire surge against her, her courage finally ebbed.
‘Gervase. I am afraid…’
‘Hush. You said you would trust me.’
And despite her inexperience, she knew he made it easy for her, taking his weight on his arms so that he might not crush her. Muscles taut with control, even though they strained for release, he was careful to keep his own desire in check. She knew what would happen between them, but that did not make it easier for her to bear. He helped there too when he felt her stiffen with nerves, nails digging ferociously into his shoulder blades in apprehension. His hands continued to stroke her, as he might reassure a frightened mare, as his arousal pressed hard against her for entry. Kissing her, his tongue explored, touching hers, soothing the soft inner skin of her lips until she gasped.
‘Now!’ He entered her slowly, holding back so that she might become accustomed to his weight and size when she froze. ‘Don’t resist. Lie still a little.’ Sensing her need to struggle against the intrusion, he held her face between his hands, held her gaze captive as he forced his body to move slowly. ‘Gently,’ he murmured, his eyes as dark as night, his whole body smooth and strong and powerful. ‘Don’t fight me.’
She could see the stark lines on his face as he forced himself to thrust slowly, inexorably to ultimate possession. Until he could hold back no longer and drove on to his own fulfilment. Taking her mouth with his when she cried out. Kissing her throat and neck, her closed eyes, with lingering passion as the tension drained from him.
Rosamund held on, arms locked tight around him. It was all she could do.
He has filled me. He has made me his. He has given me a satisfaction that I could only have dreamed of. I have been waiting for this my whole life.
Gervase buried his head in the pillows beside her as his breathing settled. Then, keeping her securely within his arms, rolled, tucking her against his side, pressing his mouth against her hair as a delectable warmth and contentment spread over her, soft as a fur mantle.
‘You are a beautiful woman, Rose, the most beautiful I have ever seen. And eminently desirable. Next time it will be better.’
‘There will be no next time,’ she murmured, her cheek resting against his chest, accepting the inevitable. Sorrow, regret, intense loss might find their way into her heart, but she kept her voice level. There must be no blame between them. Willingly she had given him her virginity and he had, in his thoughtfulness, his exquisite, unselfish concern, prized its value. Gervase had given her all that she could have imagined.
He made no reply. Instead, with a final lingering kiss to scald her lips, he released her and slid from her side, folding the coverings neatly around her shoulders against the chill of the room. She would have held on to him, but knew she must not. Instead she allowed him to dress without comment, closing her eyes against the sight of him preparing to walk out of her life even as she yearned to watch and savour every movement. Until he leaned over the bed. One more kiss on her mouth, firm, a possessive brush of tongue against hers, yet enclosing a breath of sadness.
‘I must go. God keep you, Rose.’
Then he was gone.
Rosamund lay sleepless, watching the faintest flicker of shadows as the fire fell into ash on the hearth and died, considering whether she had made the most dangerous mistake of her life. She had invited the intimacy. Of her own free will Gervase had introduced her to a realm of pleasure, led her along paths of delight that she could never have believed possible from all her readings of the tales of chivalry, or her knowledge of the songs of romance. Her whole body tingled at the memory of his taking her.
It will be better next time.
But now he was gone, and so he had rejected her at the last. They were further apart than they had ever been. That was their destiny.
Except that now she knew what love was. An intense longing that flowed over her, through her, flooding her so that there was no space within her for anyone or anything but Gervase Fitz Osbern. A yearning pain, that was almost physical, to be with him, to experience again his caresses, his ultimate owning of her. To sleep in his arms, to awake to a tender repetition of all she had learnt. And instead he had left her. He had to, of course. The King had left him no choice in the matter. But it was not that that shredded her heart with sharp claws. He had left her with no idea of his feelings toward her beyond that sharp physical awareness that had refused to release them from the moment he first set foot in her castle. No words of love had been exchanged. Well, she scolded. He hardly deserved her recriminations for that. Was she not as guilty as he? Where were all her fine intentions of asking his forgiveness? She had been unable to find the words, or to tell him of her love.
And perhaps it was as well that she had not. Rosamund frowned down at where her fingers picked at the loose threads in the linen sheet. She had no wish for her love to be a burden on him. Perhaps he had simply pitied her unwed state, or been driven by sheer male lust to take for himself the woman who had been put beyond his reach by royal decree.
Although her heart sank even lower, in the core of that heart Rosamund did not believe that of Gervase. Surely there must be more, as there was in her own heart? But it did not soften the pain of rejection to any degree. And she sighed heavily. She must force herself to be positive, she had her castle, she could be free of Ralph de Morgan. But beyond that there was no love, no marriage, no hope. Only the memory of his burning kisses, and what they had found in each other’s arms.
Would that be enough for a lifetime?
Gervase packed his belongings into his campaigning chests, his heart wrenched apart. Owen could have done the task, but at least it gave his hands something to do. He found it impossible to distract his mind. Even at the mere thought of Rosamund de Longspey his blood surged hot and powerful.
By the Virgin! It was enough to make a strong man tremble.
Of course he had known what would happen when he went to her rooms. So had she. Somehow his intention to simply acknowledge her miraculous support for him and then leave her had been burnt up in the aftermath of that leaping flame that had drawn them together. His lips curled in a sardonic twist. He was not entirely sure who was the moth and who the flame. For sure his wings had been singed. It had made for a strange interlude between a strong-minded man and a determined woman. I know the consequences, she had said. And her eyes had told him that she wanted to know what it was like to have a level of physical intimacy between them. Let us prove what lies between us, or deny its very existence. How could he have denied her? It was as much his wish as hers. Just as he could not deny the strong links of the chain that inexplicably bound them
But now…It solved nothing. He would leave her as Henry commanded, and cursed himself viciously for his lack of control. What a fool he had been! He should not have given in to the temptation to sample those soft lips, but he had found it to be beyond his will power when she had held on to him so strongly. Opened her arms to him, even as she shivered with unnamed fears. It had been his undoing. There was no thought of retreat when desire had flared through his body and he knew he must have her.
And how could he regret it now? He would remember the gift she had given him until the day of his death. How her skin had glowed, pale beneath his sunburned hands. The seductive curves and dips that beckoned irresistibly to hands and mouth, all sleek and supple, strong as finest silk, soft as cobwebs. Her body had answered his every demand, she had pu
t her utmost trust in him, allowing him that ultimate knowledge of her that she had given to no man.
His hands stilled on the mantle as he folded it on top of the chest for the following day. She had admitted to no mild fondness, no gentle affection toward him, certainly had spoken no words of love. And how could he have told her that he loved her, a sentiment that was anything but mild and gentle, when it was still his intent to rob her of the castle she now thought was indisputably hers? To return with an army because Henry demanded it of him.
His smile was crooked. It will be better next time. Thoughtless words. What was he thinking to speak something so crass?
There will be no next time.
If his were foolish, hers were some of the saddest words he had ever heard. By God! There would be a next time if he had anything to say to it. But she was a proud woman. Was there a way to her heart?
Chapter Ten
E veryone was astir before the late grey dawn crept above the ramparts. The rain fell steadily. Not a day for journeying, but the King had issued his decree. Fitz Osbern must leave. The jingle of horse harness, the creak of saddle leather. The stamping of hooves, and the feet of the soldiers as the cold nipped. The occasional oath from sleepy men struggling with ties and bindings with wet fingers. They broke their fast hurriedly. Their lord was unnaturally preoccupied and short in his orders. They hastened to load the baggage wagons before they caught the sharp edge of Fitz Osbern’s tongue. His expression, not surprisingly, was as bleak as the weather.
Sir Thomas de Byton, intent to be surly over the change in ownership of Clifford, found himself facing an uncompromising lord.
‘You’re a good commander here, de Byton.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You’ve been efficient in carrying out my orders.’
‘Indeed, my lord.’
Fitz Osbern appeared to be considering his words. ‘In my…ah, absence…the lady is in command.’
De Byton sniffed his disgust.
‘Hear this, man.’ Fitz Osbern leaned close, harsh, deliberately intimidating. ‘You’ll obey the lady’s orders to the letter, quickly and with good grace. You’ll do all in your power to ensure her safety. If I hear ought to the contrary—and I shall assuredly hear if it occurs—you’ll answer to me. Is that clear?’
De Byton visibly swallowed, a painful movement in his throat. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You’ll take care of her. I’ll hold you to account for her life.’
De Byton bowed, sensibly keeping his features devoid of expression. Gervase studied him for a long moment to make his point, then nodded and strode out to where his restless stallion waited with Owen hanging on to its head. There was nothing more for him to do here. He had done all he could to ensure her safe keeping. Briefly he looked round for the women of the castle, perhaps on the staircase to the living quarters if they had a mind to witness his departure, but in vain. Then the gates were opening with a creak of rope and timber. He could make no more excuses to stay. Casting a final eye over his arrangements, Fitz Osbern rode through and out over the bridge, his men falling into formation behind him. Once on the road, he turned his mount south in the direction of Monmouth.
As if in sympathy with his mood, the rain pattered heavily on his cap and shoulders. The sense of loss twisted in his gut. Taking a deep breath to ease it, and failing, he took himself to task as he had throughout a long sleepless night.
You must be relieved she did not come to you this morning. What could you possibly have to say to her after last night? You took her virginity and then left her with no word but farewell. How could she possibly see that as anything but rejection? What a fool you were to leave her as you did. What an unmitigated fool!
Gervase’s brows snapped together. What could he have done but leave her with all that was between them left uncertain? What choice had he? The King had left him no choice but to get out of Clifford. So here he was, the rain soaking him to the skin, obeying royal orders. As for Henry’s advice…it did not appeal. Henry might consider forcing a woman into marriage, but it was not to his taste. Sweep her off her feet, Henry had said, give her no time to think. Not a good idea. If he tried it with Rosamund, he might just risk a fist to the jaw, even if she had given him her virginity with such grace. He ran a hand over his chin wryly. She had refused his offer of marriage once. He could have asked her again last night…But somehow it had seemed all wrong. No doubt she would have refused him again!
A seed of an idea slid into his mind beneath the bitter layers of his self-condemnation. There might, after all, just be something in Henry’s atrociously devious scheme to achieve what he wanted. Was he, a Fitz Osbern, not a man of experience in planning campaigns? Why not a campaign to capture Rosamund de Longspey’s love?
Was that what he wanted?
Oh, yes. There was no doubt in his mind. To batter down her defences was not an option. If he could persuade her to open the gates, to open her arms to him as he had last seen her with firelight glimmering along the silken skin of her shoulders and arms. If she would welcome him again into her bed with words of love rather than recrimination. His groin tightened inconsiderately at the bright memory of Rosamund’s arms holding him close, of her lips soft and responsive beneath his.
The stallion shied and sidled at the clap of pigeon wings over his head, destroying the persuasive image, and he firmed his grip on the rain-slicked leather. Now there were things to do, to keep his mind occupied. Home to Monmouth first, where, if he was to execute his plan with any hope of success, there were certain items he needed to acquire. He knew exactly what he needed—at least the restless hours of the night had proved fruitful. And then? And then he would set in motion the events to ensure his ultimate victory. No Fitz Osbern would be bested by a red-haired woman who barely reached to his shoulder!
Rosamund kept to her chamber. Until she heard the final beat of hooves echoing over the drawbridge, she refused to set foot outside, only then allowed herself a sigh. Only then did she climb to the battlements, the high colour in her cheeks owing nothing to the sharp wind. She could not face him. Did not know what to say to him after her outrageous behaviour. What must he think of her? So for once, furious with herself, she took the path of cowardice and waited until he was gone and there was no need for them to speak.
Hands white-knuckled on the stone coping, she stood in silence, straining forward to watch the troop grow smaller, disappearing in the swirling mist of rain clouds, her veil clammy against her cheek and neck. Her discomfort meant nothing to her. Never had she felt so bereft. Even when her mother came to join her, she made no response beyond the slightest turn of her head, an unhappy twist to her lips. She could not explain what she felt. Had never felt so miserable in her life.
Are you afraid of me? he had asked, before his mouth had taken hers.
Yes, she should have answered. Afraid of your possession of my heart.
For without doubt he had ensnared it with masterful caresses, incomparable grace, a shattering competence in the face of her own lack of skill. Her behaviour might have lacked dignity, but he had treated her with a consideration that was beyond belief. And Rosamund shivered, almost as if she still felt the intoxicating trail of his fingers between her breasts, across her belly.
A little movement at her side brought her mind back to the present and she turned her head. Petronilla, with her mantle clutched to her chin, was equally doleful. With a sharp glance Rosamund saw that her cheeks were pink and perhaps even her lashes suspiciously damp, and was immediately full of remorse at her own preoccupation with her own sorrows. She was not the only one to suffer loss.
‘What is it that makes you unhappy?’
‘Nothing.’ Petronilla pulled her fur collar up to the tip of her nose so that she need not attempt a smile. ‘Standing in this damp, I expect. It’s always damp.’ She stared straight ahead. But Rosamund knew. She put her arm around her mother’s shoulders and hugged her tightly.
‘Perhaps you should go to Lower Br
oadheath after all—with a short stay in Hereford first?’ Rosamund summoned a smile.
It did no good. ‘No. I shall remain here with you, Rose. It is my duty.’
‘What about your duty to your own happiness, your own wishes, after all these years?’
‘There is no happiness to be found with Lord Hugh,’ Petronilla stated bluntly. ‘He’ll not wed again. Life is too comfortable for him without—without responsibilities.’
‘Has he said as much to you?’ Rosamund was surprised.
‘No. He did not have to. He is perfectly content as he is. He could not wait to return to Hereford with the King. And who can blame him? He has grandchildren to entertain him.’
‘Ah…I’m sorry.’ Rosamund felt the sting of it, sharp as a slap in the face. Not only had she been unable to acquire a husband, she had failed to give her mother grandchildren to spoil and love.
‘Rose—I did not mean that.’ Her mother must have read her thoughts. ‘That was not what I intended, at all. I was just melancholic. Take no notice of me…’
‘Perhaps it was not what you intended. But it’s true enough.’ Rosamund admitted. ‘Are you not attracted to Lord Hugh? Do you have an affection for him? I was sure you did.’
‘Yes,’ Petronilla muttered into the fur.
‘Do you…do you love him?’ Rose asked tentatively.
Petronilla burrowed deeper, shrugged. ‘I know nothing of love.’
‘Nor I.’ Rosamund laughed softly. ‘What a pair we make.’ They fell silent.
‘I might love him,’ her mother finally considered. ‘But since our paths are unlikely to cross again it’s not a matter to give any thought to, is it?’
