by Cheryl Holt
“It appears you have some fight in you. I’m glad. I’d heard you were a meek mouse, and I despise docile women.”
His comment rattled her. He’d heard about her? From who? If someone had gossiped, how would Anne continue her deception? If he discovered that she wasn’t Rosamunde, what might he do in retaliation?
He dragged her from the great hall, past the serving boy who was still lurking and not nearly as sure as he had been when she’d entered.
“Go get help,” she told him, but he merely gulped with terror.
Lord Hugh’s reputation preceded him. He could ravage her or cut out her tongue or murder her and not a single man would lift a finger.
Cowards!
He marched her up the stairs that led to the family’s living quarters, and at the top, he chose the first room he saw. It was Blodwin’s sewing room, where she kept her loom and baskets of wool.
He kicked the door shut, and as he enclosed them, he dropped his hand. Instantly, she bolted, but she was a fool to have tried.
His strong arm circled her waist as he yanked her to him, giving her such a hard jerk that she was lifted off her feet.
Her entire backside was cradled to his front. She could feel him all the way down, his broad chest, his muscular thighs. His manly parts were pressed to her bottom, and she squirmed to wriggle away, which made him chuckle in her ear.
“What a hellcat you are,” he murmured.
Her heart was pounding so violently she worried it might simply burst through her ribs. “Are you planning to…to…ravish me?”
“You should be so lucky.”
He scoffed and pushed her away. She staggered and caught herself.
“You’re a brute,” she charged.
“That’s one of my best qualities.”
“Is this how you earn a woman’s favor? You manhandle and abuse her?”
“It’s always worked in the past.”
“I despise you.”
“I don’t care.” He gestured to her veil. “Let me see your hair.”
“What? I most certainly will not.”
With the speed of a hawk swooping down on a rabbit, he reached out and yanked it away to reveal her auburn tresses. They were the color of autumn leaves, all red and umber mixed with strands of gold.
It was her mother’s hair, and she wasn’t ashamed of it exactly. Yet throughout her life, she’d been informed that it was a witch’s mane, that it indicated a wild, brazen temperament. Father Eustace was particularly annoyed by it, and from the time she was tiny, he’d made her conceal it.
Lord Hugh stared at her, his head cocked with curiosity. She lowered her eyes to study the floor.
“I could have sworn I was told you were blond,” he said.
“No, I never have been.” It was the absolute truth.
He took a slow trip around her person, meticulously cataloguing her size and features as if evaluating a horse he was about to purchase.
“You’ve seen my hair,” she said, “and now I should like to cover it. May I have my veil?”
“No.”
“Please?” she begged, feeling naked without it.
“Learn quickly, Lady Rosamunde. I don’t like to be questioned. When I give you an answer, I don’t believe I should have to immediately give it again. And don’t plead with me. I find it unbecoming.”
Irked by his haughty remark, she snapped her gaze to his. Though he was bigger and stronger, she would not be intimidated. If she didn’t stand her ground, he’d bowl her over, and she couldn’t let him.
She should have scolded him for his arrogance, then stomped out, but he was very close, and she was flummoxed by his proximity.
There was a strange energy in the air, as if they were generating heat. She didn’t like the sensation and recognized that she could tamp it out by stepping away, but she couldn’t make herself move.
“What is it you want of me?” she asked more plaintively than she’d intended.
“You know what I want.”
His lazy attention meandered down her torso. He stopped at her breasts, at her belly, at the woman’s spot between her legs. Then he wandered back to her mouth.
He actually looked as if he might kiss her, and though the prospect was ludicrous, she couldn’t get beyond the notion that he was contemplating it. Pathetically, if he was suffering a burst of ardor, she did nothing to quell his enthusiasm.
She’d been kissed precisely one time—when Rosamunde’s love, Geoffrey, had groped her under the stairs—and she’d always wondered what it would be like to have it carried out by a man who knew how. Lord Hugh oozed masculine vigor and definitely seemed as if he might be an expert.
He smiled at her, as he stroked his hand across her hair, following it down her shoulders and back. As he approached her bottom, she squealed with outrage and lurched away, his smile altering to outright laughter.
“Are you a virgin, Lady Rosamunde?”
“A…what?” she gasped. “How crass of you to inquire.”
“If I must marry, I aim to treat myself. I’m a baron now, after all. I can have whoever I want. I needn’t settle for another man’s leavings.”
Anne’s cheeks turned such a brilliant red that she felt as if she might burst into flames. “I suggest you take it up with my mother.”
“I will—if she makes an appearance before I grow tired of waiting for her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my lady, that I’ve decided to wed you.”
“Well, I have not decided to wed you¸ so I advise that you seek out a maiden who is amenable. I shall never be.”
“Why is that?”
“You have to ask? You murdered my father.”
“He was a traitor, tried and convicted by my king.”
“He was my father.”
Lord Hugh shrugged. “I can’t change what happened to Ranulf, but by marrying you, I can protect you from some of the disaster. Have you considered what will become of you and your family if you refuse me?”
“I’d rather live under a rock than have you as my husband.” Her insult provoked more laughter. “Besides, I told you I’m bound for the convent. I shall marry my Lord, Jesus Christ.”
“I can’t allow it.”
“Why not?”
He studied her again, unnerving her with his salacious assessment. He looked as if he might devour her, as if he’d set a trap and she’d fallen into it.
“It would be a sin to lock you away,” he claimed. “I have to save you from yourself.”
“What? You talk in riddles. I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“How old are you?”
She almost gave her true age of twenty, then remembered she was supposed to be Rosamunde.
“Eighteen.” The lies were coming so fast and so furiously that she’d have to spend a week in confession just to name them all.
“I can tell by the pink in your cheeks that you’re still a maiden.”
“And I can tell by your mentioning it again that you’re a complete ass.”
“We’ll get on fine.” His gaze narrowed as if he saw traits in her that she didn’t see herself.
She shifted uncomfortably. “We will not get on, as you so blithely put it. If I have my way, we’ll never speak to each other again after this conversation is concluded.”
“We’ll wed on the morrow,” he abruptly informed her.
“We will not.”
“After the morning bells have chimed. Then we’ll celebrate with whatever feast the servants can arrange on such short notice. We’ll have the bedding in the afternoon.” His lazy smile was back. “I’ve been on the road for many months, so you should expect the event to last far into the night. You’ll need to eat a hearty meal to keep up your strength.”
“Would you listen to me?”
“I never listen to women.”
“Try. My mother is not here, and I hate you.”
“So? What has your hatred to do with anything? If you loathe
me or love me, it matters not. I’m doing you a favor. You should be grateful.”
“A favor!” She threw up her hands in disgust. “Talking to you is like talking to a log.”
“That’s not the first time a female has said that to me.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Women are frivolous beings, and I have no patience for their silly habits. Stop complaining. We’ll wed—as I’m certain your mother will agree is the appropriate course for you.”
“There is no priest to perform a ceremony. Father Eustace has traveled with her.”
“One of my knights fancies himself as ordained. We’ll use him.”
“We won’t,” she stubbornly replied.
“We will.”
Anne glared, engaging him in a staring match she couldn’t win, but she tried her best. He was the most obstinate person she’d ever encountered. Pity his poor bride. She would have a life of misery.
He stepped to her, snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her near. Though she pushed at his broad chest, she couldn’t create any space between them.
“You need a man in your bed,” he arrogantly contended, “like no woman I’ve ever met.”
“I do not.”
“You’ll be happier for it. We’ll work off some of the piss and sass that drives your tongue.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’ve never denied it.”
He released her as suddenly as he’d seized her, and as she struggled to right herself, he strolled to the door.
“Be ready in the morning,” he said, and it sounded like a threat.
“I won’t be.”
“We’ll see.”
He walked out, his forceful strides marching down the stairs. He had a confident gait, a man sure of the world and his place in it. She sneaked after him, hovering on the landing, eavesdropping as he reentered the great hall down below.
“Well?” his cousin, Henry, asked.
“Shackled by noon tomorrow.”
Male laugher and clapping drifted up.
“She’s a wild one, you lucky dog,” Henry said.
“She definitely is.”
“Be careful with her. A brash girl like that might stab you in your sleep.”
“I’ll keep her flat on her back for months. She’ll never have a moment to grab a knife.”
The male laughter became loud guffaws.
“What a disaster,” Anne murmured.
She crept away and rushed to find Rosamunde.
CHAPTER TWO
“You won’t believe what a little bird told me.”
“What?”
Hugh glanced over at Henry as Henry nodded at a serving girl to leave the room so they could talk privately.
They were in the bathing chamber behind the kitchen, the bathing tub being filled with hot water. Hugh wasn’t typically given to such luxuries, but his time among the heathens, fighting for king and Christ, had softened him in many ways. He’d developed a passion for cleanliness and bodily indulgence that others found peculiar.
The door closed, the maid tiptoeing out, and they were alone.
“What did you hear?” Hugh asked as he shucked off his sword belt and the knives dangling from it. He laid them on a nearby table.
“Your Lady Rosamunde isn’t Rosamunde, at all.”
“She’s not?”
“No.”
“Who is she?”
“Ranulf’s bastard get. Her name is Anne.”
Hugh chuckled, amazed by their temerity. “They’re tricking me?”
“Yes.”
“To what end?”
“Probably to embarrass you. They won’t say anything until the wedding is over—“
“—and then I’ll realize that I’ve been duped.”
“Yes. You’ll be fettered to the dead lord’s natural daughter instead of his legitimate one.”
Hugh rolled his eyes. “The stupid fools. Don’t they know I could have them whipped or imprisoned? I ought to marry them off to goat herders as punishment.”
“I don’t think they thought it through to the conclusion.”
“Obviously.”
Hugh lifted his arm, gesturing for Henry to help him with his leather breastplate. He wasn’t wearing armor—he wasn’t afraid of anyone in the castle—but his body was covered with hidden weapons and leather. If some oaf jumped from the shadows to stab him, they’d have trouble piercing the skin. And, of course, Hugh would kill any man demented enough to try.
“How did you learn of this?” he asked.
“I kissed a maid who hates Blodwin.”
“Ranulf’s widow?”
“Yes. I guess she’s a shrew. The maid couldn’t wait to tell me of the scheme that was hatched. In case Blodwin was behind it, the maid wanted her foiled.”
“Have you seen the true Rosamunde?”
“No.”
“I suppose I should take a look at her before I wed that auburn-haired virago. Just to be certain.”
“You’ll still go through with it?”
“Why not? You know I don’t care who I marry.”
Hugh’s life had been filled with soldiering and battle. He’d had scant interactions with women, unless they were whores.
He was marrying for the reason all men married. To sire sons. To establish his line. He’d been orphaned as a boy and had no siblings. Henry was his sole relative, so he’d always been an outcast.
Now, for his years of loyal service, King Richard had rewarded him with Castle Morven. For the first time ever, Hugh had a home to call his own.
His bride could be a halfwit or a dullard or a harpy. It mattered not to him, so long as she spit out the boys he required. He didn’t plan to expend much effort with her and would visit her bed only as necessary so that impregnation occurred on an annual basis.
His passionate entertainment would be provided by his paramour, Charmaine, who was impatiently dawdling in London. He would bring her to Morven as soon as affairs at the castle were more stable.
“Wouldn’t you rather wed the lord’s daughter?” Henry pressed. “If your intent is to calm hurt feelings over Ranulf’s demise, shouldn’t you settle on Rosamunde?”
“If you’d seen Anne, with her hair down and her emerald eyes spitting fire at me, you wouldn’t have to ask. Besides, I was informed that Rosamunde is spoiled and insipid. In a choice between the two, I’ll have the tempestuous vixen.”
“She might be more trouble than she’s worth.”
“I’m sure you’re correct.”
“She claims she’s about to take the veil.”
Hugh scoffed. “It would be a crime against nature for that beauty to be locked behind convent walls.” He grinned, titillated by the memory of how sparks had flown whenever he’d touched her. “Let’s play a game with them, shall we? Summon them both.”
“Why?”
“I want to watch Anne as she lies and pretends. Then I’ll have her bathe me.”
“Bathe you! Gad, you’re wicked.”
“With Blodwin away, she’s supposed to be the lady of the manor. She’s obligated to offer me the courtesy. Let’s check her mettle. I’m curious to see how she holds up.”
Henry went to the door, murmuring to the maid who was hovering outside. She hurried off to fetch Anne and Rosamunde. Hugh and Henry relaxed and drank, waiting for the pair to arrive.
An eternity passed before he heard them scurrying down the hall. Anne had delayed to the end of his patience, to the point where he’d been about to go to her room and force her to comply.
What she didn’t seem to understand, but what he would teach her, was that she was his minion—as was everyone at Morven. He could be a fair lord or a cruel one. She would quickly learn how to stay on his good side, and the sweeter she was, the better his disposition would be for all concerned.
Anne—the real Anne—marched in, and a thin, plain blond girl sl
inked in after her.
Hugh and Henry remained rudely lounged in their chairs, refusing to rise in greeting and Hugh in the initial stages of undress. Hugh stared at Anne, the false Lady Rosamunde, until she couldn’t bear the tension.
“You wished to see us, Lord Hugh?” she finally asked.
“Yes.”
He added nothing further, and her color rose, her temper sparking.
“Well,” she snapped, “what do you want?”
“I’m told this is your sister.” He gestured in the blond’s vicinity, but didn’t take his gaze from Anne. “Introduce me.”
Anne sucked in a deep breath, as if mustering her courage. “Lord Hugh, may I present my half-sister, ah…Anne.”
She was a terrible liar and had no aptitude for artifice. Her cheeks flushed, and she was peering over his shoulder. If he hadn’t already been notified of their deception, he’d have been suspicious as sin.
He bit down a snort of amusement. The blond was hiding behind Anne, and he barked, “Show yourself. Let me have a look at you.”
Rosamunde stepped forward, and Hugh studied her, his boredom clear. She was a vain creature whom he instantly disliked. It was obvious she was incensed by his arrogance, by his lack of regard for her, but she couldn’t mention it.
She was so ordinary, while her half-sister was so extraordinary. How did the poor bland child stand it? She paled in comparison to the point of being invisible.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said to Anne, the fake Lady Rosamunde, “as to what should become of your sister once I wed you.”
“First of all, I’m not marrying you. Get it through your thick head.”
Hugh grinned at Henry. “I’ll never have a dull day with her.”
“Because she’ll drive you insane with her absurd chatter,” Henry replied.
“Second,” Anne interrupted, “you needn’t worry about my sister. My mother is her guardian.”
“No. I’m in charge now, and I’ve decided she should wed. One of my knights needs a wife, and I promised him he could have a bride from the castle.”
The duo shared a frantic visual exchange, and Anne declared, “You’re not marrying anyone in this castle to your knights. You’ll take no action until my mother is present.”
“And why shouldn’t I? Your sister should be glad I’m interested in her welfare. After all, she’s just Ranulf’s love daughter. With his paramour, wasn’t it? It’s not as if she can be choosey.”