Conquering Knight,Captive Lady

by Anne O'Brien

  ‘You are looking at me!’ Rosamund accused, as if she could read his thoughts.

  ‘So I am. And I am thinking…’

  ‘What?’ Now she looked at him, uncertain, uneasy.

  I am thinking that you deserve better of me. Some finesse, some elegance. I am not the loutish soldier you accused me of being—it’s time I proved it, took the time to savour and give pleasure. Instead, because she was still wary, he said, ‘I am thinking that you once accused me of looking you over as if you were a cherry pie.’

  ‘You did!’

  And so he had with deliberate lascivious intent, in those early days when he had thought to drive her away. How true her words had been. She was just as sweet, just as succulent as that summer fruit, just as rare if they avoided the predations of the blackbirds. Beneath wilfulness, beneath the prickly layer of her candid frankness, she was sweet and soft and entirely seductive. So he would show her and tease the sweetness from her.

  ‘And I am thinking that I am very fond of cherries.’

  Slowly, lingering, first with lips, then with fingers, then with tongue and teeth, he stroked and caressed, discovering every inch of her, only to return to where the blood beat heavily beneath her skin. The base of her throat. Her breasts with soft tinted nipples that quickly hardened under his mouth. He splayed his hand over the curve of her hip when she purred and turned her face into his neck. Explored the desperately soft darkness between her thighs whilst desire for her built and tormented him. Satisfied when her grasp tightened on his shoulders, her nails digging in as she gasped at his persistence, his ultimate invasion. Until he groaned.

  ‘What?’ She was instantly aware.

  ‘My Rose has thorns. I shall be scarred for life.’

  ‘I shall be scorched for life, I think.’ Her eyes wide and wild as emotions rocked her.

  ‘Yes, and I too. Does it please you?’

  ‘Yes. Gervase—I love you.’

  ‘That’s as it should be.’

  With remorseless skill, with knowing fingers, he pushed her on until her breathing hitched, her whole body shuddered and, skin gleaming with sweat, she hid her face against his shoulder.

  ‘Gervase…’

  ‘Hmm?’

  She laughed breathlessly in astonishment as he continued to plant kisses in the soft valley between her breasts. ‘I didn’t know it could be like that.’

  Hearing the serious question in her voice, he halted the kisses and took his weight on to his forearms so that he could look at her. ‘It can be.’

  ‘Is it not always?’

  ‘No, not always.’ He would be honest with her. If her pleasure was astonishing to her, Rosamund’s power over him was a matter of pure amazement. As was her absolute trust in him, allowing him to lead her into a tapestry of new sensations. He cradled her face in his hands, stroking his thumbs over her cheekbones, marvelling at the soft translucence of her skin. ‘But I can make it so for you. As you do for me.’

  ‘Then let me.’ She spread her hands against his chest and reached up to kiss him. ‘Let me give you that pleasure. Because it seems to me there is nothing to compare with it.’

  How astonishing that a woman could drive him to madness with soft fingers, even softer lips. She gave no quarter until he was breathless and his command over his responses reached snapping point, balanced on a knife edge. When he could hold back no longer, when his body ached for release, he buried himself in her.

  ‘Look at me,’ he insisted, voice harsh with passion, when her lashes fell, lacing his fingers with hers, pinning them on either side of her head. ‘Look at the authority you can wield over me, lady.’

  Her eyes opened, incomparably green as emeralds, lit as if from within by the reflection of the candle flame. Miraculously depthless, infinitely inviting. And the robber lord found himself falling, drowning in them, until his whole world was encompassed by Rosamund’s heart, her soul, her silken body. Yet, deliberately, jaw clenched against the sheer need to give way, he thrust slowly, a careful rhythm that would drive her to madness too, until she shivered uncontrollably beneath him again. Then he was beyond all knowledge, driving on to his own completion as her final shudders died away. Until he could do no more than lie with his head on her breast, his fingers still laced with hers.

  ‘Are you leaving me?’ she asked. Her eyes in the candlelight were level and unafraid, but he sensed the uncertainty, the dismay that she would never voice. He would not show her that he had noticed. He would give her that respect.

  ‘No.’ He rolled on to his back, and when he suspected that she might withdraw from him to the other side of the bed in a sudden reticence, made sure that he dragged her with him. Sometimes physical strength had its uses. His arms held her firmly until she sighed and gave way, and he tucked her head under his chin. Like a blessing, her hair spread over them both ‘My rooms in the west tower have not been made ready for me yet.’

  ‘And you did not order Master Pennard to do so, as soon as you set foot in this place?’

  He felt her smile, her lips curve against his chest. ‘No. So this is the only bed I can think of where I’ll get a good night’s sleep.’

  She chuckled. ‘How convenient.’

  ‘Isn’t it? For both of us.’

  Her fingers drifted over his belly to his thigh, making contact with the ridge of tissue of the old scar. Lingered there, softly caressing the old wound that had caused him discomfort in the days of their first meeting.

  ‘Did you kill your opponent?’ she asked sleepily.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Your leg. You said you were a man of vicious passions, that you killed your enemy.’

  ‘No,’ remembering. ‘The scar’s from a fall from my horse.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  He picked up the concern in her sleepy voice and decided on honesty. ‘I have killed men, Rose. You must know that.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But only when it was necessary for my own life. Or in battle.’

  ‘Yes. I know you are not the cruel ruffian I thought you.’ Her voice slurred as she slid into sleep.

  ‘Glad to hear it, my dearest love.’ Gervase eased her closer. He had put her mind at rest and was grateful. ‘Go to sleep, Rose. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

  He felt warm breath sigh again against his shoulder. ‘Will you be here when I awake?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her breathing grew deeper, her muscles softened and grew lax within his embrace. He turned his head to kiss her temple and knew that she slept. ‘And every day for the rest of your life. And mine.’

  He had promised to be there when she awoke. But he was not. Bright light stroked the contours of the room, one stray shaft of sunlight edging through the window to touch the foot of the bed with gold. It was late. Rosamund awoke slowly, returning to consciousness, turning within the disordered linen coverings that for some reason seemed to be wrapped around her legs, anchoring them. She stretched lazily as if still in the soft wrappings of a dream. Until memory rushed in. She pushed herself up on her elbow, hair falling in a curtain of fire, shivering as the cold air attacked her naked shoulders. The bed stretched emptily beside her. It was cold, she discovered as she ran her hand across it. But the images that captured her mind were hot enough to scorch, to flame her face with colour, and had been no dream. When had he left her? All she remembered was sleeping and wakening, again and again, to the power of his hands, the possessive ownership of his body.

  Pressing her hand to lips that were still soft from his kisses, Rosamund sought the one memory she wanted. He had said he loved her. In the heat of desire, yes, he had, when neither of them had been careful enough to consider the words spoken, he had said he loved her. When his body had lured her into total surrender, he had whispered I love you against her lips, against her breast.

  And had she laid her soul bare, admitting her love for him? She feared that she had. Who knows what she had confessed, as she had melted in his arms, her mind trapped within a space that admitted no ot
her thought than her astonished delight at the feelings he could magic within her at the simple brush of skin against skin? She had slept in his arms, curled into him, something she could never have envisaged, to put her trust, her whole future, into the hands of a man. But she had. Had awoken in the night, or been awoken, to drift again into that magical world of passion and pleasure.

  I love you, he had said. And she had answered him.

  But what now? Rosamund did not know. He had promised to be there when she awoke, but he was not. Last time, under Henry’s uncompromising orders, Gervase had taken her, had kissed her and left her. Had not loved her enough to stay. And last time she had hidden from his departure, too much of a coward to face him. She covered her face with her hands, knowing that this time she could not hide. If they were to have any future together, she must face the day and the Lord of Monmouth.

  Why had he not remained with her, to wake with her in the light of morning? Why was he not here with her now, to calm her fears?

  This was no good! Rosamund extracted herself from the covers, lacing herself loosely into a chamber robe, wincing at muscles that complained. Taking up her comb, she began to drag it through her hair, grimacing at the snarls and tangles. Then smiled. Had he not held it, pushed his hands through it, wound it around his own wrist to make her his captive?

  Rosamund sighed. Then turned her head at the noise at her door, as Edith entered with a tray. Edith, unnaturally silent, with her face as flat as new whey, not a flicker of acknowledgement, when all the castle must have known that Gervase had spent the night in her chamber. Edith stood at her side, hands on hips.

  ‘Well?’ Rosamund asked.

  ‘My lord says you must eat. My Lord Fitz Osbern asks that you will join him on the rampart walk, my lady, when you have finished. And to wrap warmly. There’s a cold wind from the north.’

  Rosamund set her lips in a spirit of mutiny. So he was giving orders even in his absence. Edith left. It did not escape Rosamund’s notice that she smirked at the last.

  Gervase waited for his love. There were things that needed to be said between them, confessed to if they were to build anything for the future. She had reduced him to glory in a clever little scheme to lure him to her chamber, if he read her right. And he had been well and truly caught. And here she came, her step light, skirts held so that she might run up the steps, her head high. Lust arrowed into his gut as surely as love bound his heart.

  ‘You were gone when I awoke.’

  Rosamund tried not to make it an accusation. Her Wild Hawk was waiting for her at the far corner of the battlement walk as he had said he would, the misted outline of the Welsh hills as a backdrop. He must have heard her footsteps on the stone, or sensed her approach, because his body tensed, head turned, as Bryn might scent his quarry in the hunt. Or as a lover would anticipate the nearness of the beloved. Rosamund’s heart quickened its beat as he strode toward her his face warming, those predatory eyes softening. Would he repeat his words of love or would he make his fine apologies for imposing his desires on her? It had been her desire too. Whatever the outcome of this meeting, if he did not want her, she would not wallow in regret. If she never wed, she would not go to her grave unaware of the weight of a man’s body, of how it could awaken hers. How Gervase’s touch could set her on fire. Pride would keep her strong through whatever decision he made. Yet she trembled as he approached. So she would take the initiative.

  ‘I missed you. Why did you wish to meet me here, Gervase?’

  With all the impatience she had come to recognise, he seized her hands, pressed his mouth against her fingers. ‘So that I am not tempted to strip that very fine gown from your delicious body and tumble you back into your bed again,’ he replied in all seriousness. ‘Will you hear me, Rose?’

  So Rosamund set herself to listen to Gervase, to whatever he felt the need to confess, leaning back against the rough timber so that she might watch his face, keeping her fingers linked with his.

  ‘I have not been as tolerant or as careful of you as I should have been, for which I feel shame. The problem was Matilda, who…No! That’s a lie. The problem was mine.’ The lines were suddenly deep, lyre-marks between nose and mouth as he struggled for honesty. ‘I remembered her here, a young bride, happy enough and content with the match. And then she was killed, and you, a de Longspey, had installed yourself in her place as Lady of Clifford. I resented your presence, an interloper, stepping into Matilda’s shoes, when your own family had been responsible…even when I felt drawn to you. It was an impossible situation.’

  ‘Oh, Gervase,’ she murmured, unable to bear the hurt she could hear in his words. ‘I did not realise that you saw me in that light.’ But she had suspected it, after his admission before the King. Sorrow filled her for his loss. ‘But I was never a true de Longspey…’

  ‘No, you were not, and that is also to my shame, that I did not admit it. You were near enough in my estimation.’ His bleak smile was sardonic. ‘I was not very logical in my determination to reclaim Clifford, perhaps.’

  Rosamund gathered her courage around her. She must know the truth. ‘Did you love her? Did you love Matilda? Is that why you resented me here?’

  His fingers tightened on hers. ‘I did not love her.’ He hesitated over the blunt admission. ‘It was a marriage arranged by my father, between two important local families—and we were very young. No, I did not love her. As for whether she loved me…I think she saw me as some heroic figure. And I let her die.’

  ‘No, never that!’ Rosamund brought his hand to her own lips in comfort. ‘I thought you did love her.’

  ‘Nursing an unrequited love? I suppose I was nursing a strong dose of guilt. I felt that because I was in Monmouth in my father’s name, I had left Matilda here to die.’

  ‘No…!’

  ‘No. I know that. But when I saw you here, I was…drawn to you from that first moment you challenged my right to be in your courtyard. And I hated that you made me feel sentiments I had no wish to feel. If I could not love Matilda, how could I possibly love a de Longspey? Besides, love has no place in a soldier’s life where life is cheap and death hovers close. I had vowed not to allow myself the luxury of such sentiments…but chiefly I was driven by guilt that I felt for you what I had failed to feel for my wife. She should have been here, alive and blessed with children, not you.’

  ‘I see.’ Understanding the whole, Rosamund’s heart bled for him.

  ‘I wanted nothing more than to rid myself of you. It infuriated me that I couldn’t and that you defied me at every step.’ The tensions in his face eased. ‘It infuriated me even more that you should damn me as some border ruffian with no grace or polish.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘You played the part with great conviction.’

  ‘So I did. If my behaviour would not drive you away, nothing would. Then my eyes were opened when I saw you fall from your horse with the Welsh arrows dealing death. I knew that what I felt for you was not lust, but love. I thought I should explain…’

  ‘Yes…’ Rosamund looked away, over the scene where the hills were coming into clearer relief. And since it was a time for wiping away the past…‘I think you know why I was so…difficult.’

  ‘Difficult?’ The sombre expression was lit by a smile. ‘An underestimation. But, yes, I did, of course. Ralph de Morgan.’

  Rosamund nodded, her thoughts still in turmoil. Where did his confession leave her now? Did he still resent her, whatever he said? Dare she ask? She did not think she could support the anguish if he said yes.

  ‘What is it, my lovely Rose?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She dared not. ‘Just that I’m sorry that my being here gave you pain.’

  His arms were warm about her. ‘It was my own misjudgement. I was not putting the blame on you. And now…’ He stood away from her, a genuine smile dispelling the remembered sadness. ‘You refused my gifts before. Will you take them now?’ He smiled when Rosamund’s brows arched at this abrupt change in direction. ‘They were not ch
osen without thought. Wooing is the devil’s own work, especially when the lady proves to be inflexible.’ Amused impatience touched the hard planes of his face as from the breast of his tunic he took the jewelled brooch. ‘This I went all the way to Monmouth to fetch. It belonged to my grandmother, who defied and ran from her family to wed the man she loved—a true robber lord, as it happened—there are plenty of them in my family—and she had no regret for doing it to my knowledge.’ He pinned it to Rosamund’s mantle. ‘It was a gift to her from the man she ran to and married. Will you have it from me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Of course she would.

  ‘The mare is in the stables, eating her head off. She needs exercise. I remembered your grief, how you wept for the loss of your own mare. I wished to heal that wound if I could.’

  A warmth began to steal around Rosamund’s heart at his words, a delight through her mind. It was indeed a wooing. ‘I already love her. You’ll never know what it took to send her away!’

  ‘And these to warm your hands.’ He kissed every finger before pulling the fine gloves on, first one and then the other, with such care, smoothing the leather.

  ‘They fit perfectly.’ She allowed her gloved fingers to curl into his.

  ‘They do. My wooing is complete.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Do I still see doubt in your eyes, my lovely Rose? When you are my wife, you will know that I rarely say anything I do not mean.’