Conquering Knight,Captive Lady

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘Oh, dear,’ Petronilla remarked mildly, inconsequentially, quite at odds with the explosion of temper.

  Hugh slid a wary glance. ‘What did you know about this, lady?’

  ‘I? How should I know anything? My daughter is her own mistress.’

  ‘I thought you were smiling.’

  ‘Not I.’ But she was.

  ‘So what now, Nell?’ Hugh considered the hungry men, heard the rising voices.

  ‘I think, Master Pennard,’ the Countess addressed the waiting steward, ‘that you should serve supper immediately. Lord Hugh will preside in the absence of the lord and lady.’ And then to Hugh. ‘A bout of tears followed by a touch of defiance should do the trick, I think.’

  Hugh chuckled, his eyes widening in admiration. ‘Like that, is it?’

  Petronilla sighed. ‘I hope so. I really do. I don’t think I can stand the strain any longer!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  G ervase allowed himself one peremptory knock, determined to preserve that much control of the situation at least. But he did not wait for a reply, flinging back the door so that it squealed on its hinges, and took two strides into the room. An ultimate feminine preserve now, it struck him, far different from its filthy state as he had first seen it under Sir Thomas de Byton’s occupation. Alluringly comfortable. A cushioned settle beckoned. A chair with carved back and arms. Tapestried walls to soften and warm, to hide the ravages of damp. A fire settled gently in the hearth where a grey cat raised its head and watched him with a glint of suspicious eyes. Shutters were closed against the early dark. It was seductively welcoming with the scent of spiced wine.

  Then he no longer noticed his surroundings. His quick appreciation was suddenly scattered. Gervase swallowed hard.

  What had he expected? Tears, perhaps. Defiance, certainly. Temper and a downright refusal to see sense. He could work through all of these, take her in hand and demand her presence at the meal. For her to preserve at least the outward signs of civility and gracious acceptance of defeat.

  But nothing had prepared him for this.

  ‘Welcome, my lord.’

  ‘Lady…!’

  ‘I have been waiting for you.’

  He remained frozen to the spot, his breath backed up in his lungs as if, expecting a cold acquiescence at best, a heated parley at worst, he had just been challenged to mortal combat. By a challenger who now moved purposefully around him to close the door at his back. Graceful, as feminine as her surroundings, Rosamund circled him to approach the cups and flagon on the coffer with smooth competence, to pour wine with deft elegant hands.

  Rosamund de Longspey lay in wait for him.

  He set his jaw. In all the days he had known her, he had never seen her like this. In the plain skirts and over-tunic of a woman engaged in household tasks, frequently he had seen her. Drenched to the skin from sitting in the rain. Muddy and dishevelled, blood-smeared from her tumble from a horse. Elegantly groomed to entertain Henry and his Queen or to challenge his own deliberate lack of style. Blazingly angry, infuriatingly defiant, supremely arrogant, tearfully grief-stricken—all of those and in any combination. Never like this…

  His mind sought for a reason. Ambush! The only one to come to mind. Was this a deliberate ploy? How should he react to this strategic entrapment? Then he abandoned the task of making a decision, for it suddenly did not seem to matter. His heart thudded, his blood throbbed in his veins. His body responded uncomfortably with arousal at the gleam in her eye, the curve of her mouth.

  Rosamund stood before him, holding the cup with delicate ease. Her gown, a magnificent silk bliaut, light as a whisper, cascading to the floor whilst its myriad little pleats managed to hug and smooth over her figure, both hinting at and defining what lay below. But that was not it, even though he was conscious of, intimately acquainted with, every one of those dips and curves. It was her face that captured his attention; he stared, as if he were some inexperienced naïve youth to be entranced and seduced. Pale, surprisingly serene, flawlessly oval with straight nose, softly moulded lips, she was a picture of enchantment. And when that pretty mouth smiled at him…Green eyes, jewel bright, lifted to his, to reflect the light from the candles. And as he looked, because he could do no other, he saw a faint hint of rose that touched her slender throat, her cheeks.

  And then her hair. Unbound, unbraided, uncovered. Gold and red, and every colour of russet and bronze in between that he could imagine. It lay loose, to fall with the softest curl over breast and shoulder, to her waist and beyond, rivalling the richness of the silk bliaut.

  What is she doing?

  But that was not important either.

  Can I let her go? Can I let this splendid woman walk out of my life into the arms of Ralph de Morgan?

  No. And no. He needed no time to contemplate the answer. He wanted to keep her, to wed her, to keep her by him, so that she might continue to smile at him as she was doing at this moment. Even though he knew this was a deliberate seduction by a clever woman, it did not matter. He loved her. In spite of all they had been through, even though it might still be a ruse to get the damned castle from him. Sitting outside her castle walls, he had realised that to be estranged from her brought him nothing but pain. She had battled her way into his heart so that he was her prisoner as much as she was now his.

  What’s more, seeing the colour deepen in her lovely face at his silent appraisal, he did not think she was indifferent to him. Indeed, he would wager…

  With a graceful gesture she offered him the cup.

  ‘Will you drink with me, my lord? Will you toast your victory over me?’

  He swallowed, dry mouthed. Why a man of his experience should be so foolishly inept—he was no better than Owen, who had developed a bad case of admiration for the lady. He forced his face into a frown. So she thought she could seduce him, did she? He would prove her wrong. He would not allow her to get the better of him without some show of backbone. Yet he could not resist taking the cup she held out to him. And as his fingers grazed hers for an instant, desire sprang to life to flood through him. But he did not drink, forced himself to remain, at least on the surface, cold and aloof.

  ‘You said you would not eat with a thief in your own Hall, lady.’

  Rosamund’s lips curved enchantingly.

  ‘But I did not say that I would not share a cup of wine with that thief in my solar, my lord.’

  Beneath the gracious exterior, composed and smoothly hospitable as she had intended, Rosamund’s heart thudded hard in her chest as if it would break through the fragile silk. Like a rat trapped in a cage, she thought, as nerves raked a fingernail down her spine. This was the culmination of what she had worked for. Gaining a willing accomplice in Tom, who would follow instructions for the excitement of the plot, and the promise of payment, probably from both sides, she had ordered only a token defence when the Fitz Osbern troops had climbed over the palisade. No point in shedding blood unnecessarily. They were her people and must not be put in danger for her whims. Then all she had had to do was face the Lord of Monmouth. What a scene that had been. Since she had discovered her talent for acting was as keen as his, it had not been difficult to conjure a descent into feminine tears to melt the heart of the devil himself.

  But had it melted him, the battle-hardened Lord of Monmouth? All hung now in the balance. A man had his pride, demanded that he be in control, Eleanor had stated, and she should know. That was exactly what Rosamund had plotted. Gervase had captured the castle, it seemed by his own cunning, not accepted it as a gift on a gold platter at the instigation of its lady. And now? Now, if she had her way, she would lose neither the castle nor her robber lord. As long as the plot could be worked out to her own desired ends.

  She had never before laid an ambush. Timing was essential, as well as keeping her nerve beneath his eagle stare. But now she would have to be prepared for honesty. For laying her heart bare. For if she did not, there was no value in the victory. And by telling him what was in her heart, sh
e must expose herself to possible rejection and heartbreak.

  The thoughts sped through her mind, chilling her blood with the threat of failure. Yet she knew it must be done. She must tell him of the love that would not let her rest. And if he loved her, he must tell her so. Ah! There was the worm in the apple. Would she still wed him without his love? No…The chill became an icy cold. But as she looked at him filling her solar with his intensely masculine presence, felt her reactions to him move from simmer to burn, she was no longer sure. She was, she admitted, as much ambushed as he.

  Throat so dry she could barely speak, how could she have forgotten in these few short days, which had seemed so long, just how magnificent he was? Particularly as he had deliberately played the courtier in glorious dark silk with fur at hem and sleeve to honour her at the meal she had refused. Dark hair strong and straight, glossy as the mare he had given her. Grey eyes, keen, assured, assessing, with those remarkable hints of gold, and at present not a little indignation. The predatory nose that dominated his face. Lips firm, even though she knew the softness of them against her throat. All heat, all raw male energy beneath the fine tunic, all hard-toned muscle. She had seen him in action, at leisure, in playful sport. Riding, hawking. Magnificently naked and sweat-streaked. Always impressive, always imposing. What more could a woman want in a mate?

  Even when those eyes looked at her as if he were a hawk contemplating a particularly tasty mouse.

  Rosamund roused herself before her courage failed her and offered him wine. When his fingers brushed hers, her skin burned. To live with him, touch him, see him every day, to share his bed, bear his children—would that not be enough? Once again she was forced to fight down the panic at the compromise she might be forced to make, if he did not love her. Perhaps it would be enough to live with him without his love, if the alternative was to never set eyes on him again. For that would be beyond pain, an anguish she could not tolerate.

  ‘You said you would not eat with a thief in your own Hall,’ he stated, his voice harsh with emotion that shimmered just below the courtly surface.

  So her barbed message had stung, as she had hoped. To bring him hot-foot to her room. Rosamund’s lips curved. Now, the ultimate victory must be hers. She summoned all her courage, all the strength of her heart and her love.

  ‘But I did not say that I would not share a cup of wine with that thief in my solar, my lord.’

  His brows twitched, the faintest uncertainty. ‘No. You did not.’

  ‘Nor did I say that I would not share my bed.’

  Marvelling at her courage, she awaited his reply as the loom of impending humiliation spiked her skin with ice. Blatantly she had cast aside all her pride and offered herself to him, a gift, a festive dish served up on a golden platter, a peacock in the glory of its iridescent feathers. And all Gervase Fitz Osbern could do was stand there, without words, and look at her. So stern, so controlled, so impossible to read! Rosamund resisted the urge to glare at him. She had gambled everything on this, throwing the glove down at his feet, and must play out the challenge to the end. Would he turn and walk from her room, now that the castle was his? Had she demeaned herself to no purpose? No, she chided herself. There was nothing demeaning here. She loved him.

  But if she had misread him, if the Queen had been wrong in her reading of men…In that case, she had lost everything. Her castle, her pride, her dignity. In the end, her confidence draining away, she veiled her eyes with her lashes so that she might not see the condemnation in his brilliant gaze as he finally decided to reject her offer and leave her.

  So she felt Gervase move rather than saw him, so that when she lifted her lashes he was standing close. So close that she had to look up. She might have stepped back with a little spurt of surprise, but one hand closed on her wrist, gently enough, and held her steady.

  ‘You offered to drink with me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then let us do so. Let us drink to…’ Gervase hesitated, a hint of a smile.

  ‘To what?’ Her voice husky with misgiving.

  ‘To a successful culmination of the siege, of course.’

  That was not what she wanted! ‘Very well. To success.’

  And raised her cup, drank, as did he.

  ‘Then since we are of the same mind…’ Gervase took the cup from her hand and placed them both down on the coffer. Rested his hands on her shoulders, drawing her a step closer. Rosamund’s breath tangled in her lungs, but she kept her eyes locked on his.

  ‘Well, lady?’

  ‘Nothing, my lord.’

  ‘I have been waiting to touch you again for some time.’ He lowered his head and kissed her mouth so softly. ‘That’s it.’ He kissed her again. ‘I have wanted to do that.’

  Rosamund breathed out, tensions uncurling, against the fluttering in her belly that no longer feared rejection. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Events came between us.’ Gervase pressed his lips at the soft place where her brows met.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered again, finding words impossible at the last.

  ‘Is this what you want?’

  ‘Yes!’ Impatience now. Since she was making no effort to repel him, was she not plain enough? Would he make her beg? Well, she would! ‘Kiss me again, Gervase. I have been waiting an age.’

  His brow arched, his face lit by his swift and devastating smile, so that the flutter erupted into a beat of strong wings. ‘It’s something I have loved about you. Your courage in setting your will against mine. On this occasion, my lovely Rose, I am more than willing to obey your orders.’

  And did so. His mouth, his body against hers, was just as unyielding, just as powerful as she remembered. Gentle at first, his lips grew more demanding, insisting that hers part in acceptance as he pulled her close, his arms pinning her closer yet, breast to breast, thigh to thigh, soft curve to hard muscle. The heat of victory, the fire of love, the bright sparkle of desire, all woven together into a brilliant mass of sensation, all rushed through her blood when he clenched his fist in her hair and buried his face in its gleaming length, whilst she threaded her fingers through the black waves, as she dreamed of doing.

  ‘Rosamund, I have been hungry for you for so long.’

  His breath was warm on her throat. And she sighed and leaned her forehead against his chest, enjoying the familiar scent of him. Until he placed a hand beneath her chin, so that she must look up to meet his silent enquiry. But there were no doubts now.

  There was no distance at all to her chamber, to her bed, for a man and a woman of a similar driving inclination.

  ‘Do you want the candle?’ he asked, a careful parody of before.

  But with a different outcome. ‘Yes. I am not afraid.’

  ‘Nor should you be.’

  And since they were of one mind, there was no difficulty in stripping away garments that might hinder the slide of flesh against flesh. The pleated magnificence of the bliaut fell unheeded to the floor, as did his much-admired tunic. There were no more words, only instinct and a desire to touch, to be touched. To own and be owned. It shattered them both, waves of desire flooding them, overwhelming as high waves in the power of a spring tide that would carry all before them. A fast slide of urgent hands, scrape of teeth, relentless assault of lips against shivering skin. Both slick with sweat, driving on to unimaginable pleasure. Her hair, a silken tangle, wrapped around them both. His arousal was hard against her belly, his weight heavy on her slender limbs.

  ‘Let me have you. Let me love you.’ The whisper fierce against her breast.

  ‘Take me,’ she replied. ‘And take my love in return.’

  Her thighs parted, inviting, so that his fingers could find and savour the wet heat of her. Impossibly wet, magnificently hot. Then, his control compromised, he was in her, plunging beyond thought, unable to hold back, until he shuddered within her.

  Breathtaking. Outrageously so. Limbs entangled, they lay as their breathing settled, until the chill of the chamber touched their skin, forcing them to find
shelter under the covers. Gervase pulled the linen over her.

  ‘That’s what I wanted. I sat outside your gates and wanted to do that every night.’ He nuzzled into her hair. ‘You kept me waiting for well nigh two weeks.’

  ‘Was it worth the wait?’ She stretched against him, an innocent move that had his blood throbbing again.

  ‘You have no idea.’ Gervase eased his weight from her, pushing down the covers so that the soft light highlighted every curve, cast every enticing shadow.

  ‘Gervase…’

  ‘Let me look at you. Let me love you with my body as well as my mind.’

  ‘I thought—’ His confession stopped her. Her lips parted so that he had no choice but to claim them again in a kiss. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I love you,’ he stated solemnly. ‘And we haven’t started yet.’

  Conscious of the heavy silence at his side, Gervase propped himself on an elbow to look down at her, resisting the impulse to draw his finger across her fine brows, to trace the delectable outline of her top lip. He recalled doing exactly that with his tongue. She was not asleep, but her eyes were closed against him. What was she thinking? She had not found the experience unpleasant, of that he was certain. He had enough skill in bed, enough knowledge of women, to know that her kisses, her responses when her arms tightened round his neck and her thighs parted to allow him access, had been from genuine pleasure. The muscles of his belly tightened again at the thought—he would like nothing better than to do it again. But it touched his mind, bringing a sardonic turn to his mouth, that he had not done his best by her. The first time—well, an initiation of a virgin was not guaranteed to be all joy for her, no matter how careful he had been. He remembered her rigidity, her fear, that first discomfort. And this time he had quite definitely not been in control. Heat and fire had swept them both along, Rosamund as much as himself, but his own need had been pre-eminent, if he were truthful. It had been impossible to withstand the lure of her body. All he had wanted was to own, to possess the woman who had lodged herself in his mind, his heart. So it had been all speed and light and lack of care. Was that the reason for the little groove that had dug itself between her brows?