by Anne O'Brien
Well, if Fitz Osbern would not talk to her, at least she could express her personal gratitude to Owen.
‘Owen…’
Owen, fair, untidy head bent, engaged in the unpleasant task of scouring the rust from Fitz Osbern’s weapons, looked up, flushed, and leapt to his feet, a dagger in his hand.
‘I did all I could, Lady…’ His colour deepened. Did he fear her retribution? She must put him at his ease, even if Fitz Osbern would not.
‘You saved my life. You pulled me into shelter when my mare fell.’
Owen swallowed visibly, eyes wide. ‘I did what I thought was best.’
‘I hope you have not been punished.’
‘Punished?’ His brow immediately furrowed. ‘No, my lady. My lord says I will make a good knight. That my father will be proud of me.’
‘Did he?’ She could not hide her surprise.
‘He did. And he gave me this.’ Owen turned and delved into the pile of swords. Extracted one and held it out. ‘Lord Fitz Osbern gave me this. For my own.’
Rosamund could not but smile. The chased grip was far too large for his small hand, but he would grow into it.
‘It is one of my lord’s own swords.’
‘Then you must be very proud.’
So Gervase Fitz Osbern had both praised him and rewarded his squire. Rosamund left Owen to his task, her thoughts of Lord Fitz Osbern once more in total confusion.
Rosamund paced her chamber, the short distance between bed and window, considering the predicament she had unwittingly tossed herself into. It seemed to her that she was torn in two directions, and did not like either. She owed Fitz Osbern her life, thus creating a debt of honour on her side. She had promised Fitz Osbern that she would do nothing to undermine the smooth running of the Clifford household and garrison, and she was, as she acknowledged in response to a tweak of conscience, not a woman to break her promises. But this stalemate between them could not last. His kisses, his careful handling of her, had changed everything for her. Attempting to close her mind to the memory of his mouth on hers and her own inexplicable desire both for more kisses and to return them, she failed entirely as hot colour flushed her cheeks, as heat prickled along her skin.
Stop thinking about the man, Rosamund! she lectured herself. His embrace means nothing. It would mean less than nothing to him. He probably kissed women frequently. Dozens of them. Her own reaction was merely a symptom of the surprise of the event, overlaid by simple gratitude that he had ridden to her rescue. The sooner she pushed aside and forgot the two disastrous episodes, one of diamond-bright lust, the other of heart-wrenching gentleness, the better. For if nothing else, her mind’s preoccupation with the Marcher lord had proved that she could no longer live side by side with this man. He might give the impression of a moneyless mercenary who would prey on the weak to his own ends, but she could not deny her attraction to him or that he had so dangerous an influence over her.
On the other hand, and here was the crux of the matter, retreating to Salisbury could never be a choice for her. Ralph de Morgan would be waiting for her at the end of that road. Nausea shook her, fear gripped her, a queasy weight in her belly. A knot, hard as granite, lodged in her throat so that her head ached with it. Because in spite of everything, in spite of all his promises, it had been made more than plain to her that Fitz Osbern was planning to remove her from Clifford.
Why had she ever trusted him, believed him to be a man of honour? She had known what he was from the very beginning. He had done nothing to hide his base instincts. How could she have allowed herself to be swayed by that bright shard of attraction that persisted in lodging in her heart, no matter what he did? Of course he was not a man of honour, as he had, that very morning, proved to her.
Rosamund had spied him in deep conversation with the leader of one of his frequent patrols just returned. It was a serious discussion. Deep furrows scored his brow as she approached to discover what was afoot.
‘What is it?’ she demanded as the patrol disbanded for ale and food.
‘Nothing. Or there again it might be…Rumours of a large raiding party.’ Gervase had stared at the mud at his feet, rubbed a hand over his jaw, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. ‘Not your concern, lady.’
‘Yes, it is,’ Rosamund had responded sharply. ‘If it threatens my castle, it is my affair. What are you planning?’
Which got his attention. Fitz Osbern scowled at her. ‘It’s no threat to your pretty skin, my lady. Only to my own home in Monmouth. Perhaps to my mother…That’s not your concern—nor your interest. My plans are nothing to you.’
Rosamund had flushed vividly with shame that she should have immediately thought of her own safety rather than that of Fitz Osbern’s family, then with anger that he should judge her so harshly. She listened as he gave orders to Watkins to look to the equipment and horses of a fast troop of soldiers.
‘Are you leaving?’ she demanded.
‘I might.’
‘When?’
‘When it’s necessary.’ At last he looked at her directly. The curve of his mouth, the gleam in his eye was not pleasant as he grasped his sword belt with fisted hands and appraised her from her veil to her hem. ‘Now I see you’re interested. That’s what you would want, isn’t it? For me to leave, taking my troops with me?’ He positively leered. ‘Don’t raise your hopes, lady. If I go, I won’t leave you here in charge. You might not be quick to let me back in.’ He stepped close, a little too close so that his sleeve brushed hers, threateningly. She could feel the heat of him. ‘If I go, I’ll take you with me.’
‘No. I won’t go.’ Hurt brushed her skin. Why did he always think the worst of her?
‘No choice, lady. I’ll deliver you to Hereford myself on my way south. I’ll leave de Byton in charge here.’ He made to walk away, face stern.
‘You said you would let me stay.’ Outrage gave her voice an edge.
‘But not in my absence, lady. Now take yourself off about your own affairs, out of my way. I’ll inform you when you need to be ready to ride.’
So summarily dismissed. He thought her selfish and untrustworthy. And he had the power to carry out his threat. Ralph de Morgan instantly beckoned with his gross belly and greasy fingers. In sheer fright, when Gervase would have turned away, Rosamund fisted her hand and punched his arm.
It was a glancing blow, ridiculously light against this hard muscles. It shamed her anew. It startled him. He recovered first with a harsh laugh.
‘Lady Rosamund! Is that how a de Longspey behaves?’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed at the expression of disdain in his face. ‘When she is tried beyond patience by a man who is as insensitive as he is dishonourable.’
‘Ha! Well, let me show you how a Fitz Osbern reacts, when he is goaded beyond endurance by a bad-tempered woman.’
He swooped, plunged, fast as a hunting sparrowhawk. His embrace, the hard banding of his arms, simply robbed her of her breath. Mouth capturing, tongue possessing, hand owning in one long sweep of hard caress down her side, she could not struggle. Too shocked, too stunned by his power and her own needy response as her heart leapt. Until he released her, with a quizzical expression.
‘Don’t goad me, lady,’ was all he said.
His arms fell away. His face rough-hewn, lacking all expression. His mouth twisted, thin-lipped, almost cruel. Which had left her breathless, terror ripe that she would have to obey his commands if he chose to go. The demons of fear that had gradually loosed their hold since the day of Gervase’s ride to save her life, of his extraordinarily compassionate treatment of her, raced back, sharp-spurred, to dominate her every thought.
So now, in her chamber, faced with the stark reality that her future might be determined by events beyond her control, Rosamund cast about for an answer, and it was not difficult to find. To remain safe at Clifford, as was her right, she must use honest, legal means. Nothing underhand, nothing unseemly, but clear recourse to the law of the land. And who better to trust, if she could no
t trust Fitz Osbern, as clearly she could not, than the King of England? King Henry who was in that very moment not twenty miles away at Ludlow.
So that night whilst her mother slept, she sent for a quill, ink and a sheet of parchment. And, she determined as she wrote, she would not speak of this little matter to Lady Petronilla, who could not, for some unfathomable reason, keep a secret where Hugh de Mortimer was concerned.
The voice of her conscience whispered in the silence of her bedchamber. Does this not have the smack of dishonourable dealing, Rosamund? A stab in the back? Is this not cold treachery against Fitz Osbern, who saved your life?
‘Not if it’s legal and right,’ she replied to the sly cat. ‘How can that be dishonest? If I wish to stay out of Ralph’s clutches, I must use the means I have. What choice do I have? I can’t trust Fitz Osbern to keep his word. Has he not made his future plans plain?’
The cat yawned silently and returned to grooming its fur.
So, satisfied with the result—as far as she ever would be—Rosamund accosted Thomas de Byton next morning.
‘Sir Thomas—I need a courier to deliver a letter for me—to my brother the Earl of Salisbury,’ she improvised. No need to tell him the truth of it since he would carry the knowledge straight to Fitz Osbern.
‘That’s as may be, my lady.’ Sir Thomas appeared to deliberate. ‘I must ask his lordship’s permission first.’
‘You are my commander, Sir Thomas, not Lord Fitz Osbern’s.’
‘A moot point, my lady. I take my orders direct from Lord Fitz Osbern.’
Although this exchange had been entirely expected, it made a furious Rosamund even more determined to pursue her goal. There were other means. A word with Master Pennard to arrange a lad with a horse, a handful of coin, and she saw her letter set off at a canter down the track in the direction of Ludlow.
Not toward Salisbury.
There was no need to feel guilty at all, she assured herself as the horse and rider dwindled into the distance. No need at all. What would the loss of Clifford really mean to Fitz Osbern? She twitched her shoulders as if to rid them of an unwanted weight. Why he was so determined to hold on to a small border fortress she had no idea.
Chapter Eight
‘B y the Virgin! The woman is impossible.’
Fitz Osbern muttered the oath, not for the first time using those same words, to a passing pair of unresponsive ravens. She had no business to still be at Clifford. He’d be glad to see the back of her, never to set eyes on her again. He scowled at the glossy birds wheeling in the brisk breeze. Except that he would like nothing better than the opportunity to kiss her again. More than that, he acknowledged. To strip the clothes from her—he bared his teeth at the memory of doing almost that, with his dagger, without finesse—and take her to his bed.
‘Devil take the woman!’
Shrugging off so illogical a reaction to a woman who did nothing but defy and irritate him at every step, Gervase gave all his physical efforts with his men into the strengthening of one section of the palisade. Until he could arrange the transport of stone for the rebuilding of the entire wall, he must make do with a renewal of timber in the weaker sections. Necessary with the rumours of large raiding parties. Satisfying work, but it did not take his mind off Rosamund de Longspey. Nothing took his mind off her! She had kept out of his way since her brush with death in the ambush, but his mind remained disconcertingly with her.
He couldn’t explain why he had kissed her in the first place after the cat in the well incident. Or when she had refused categorically to accompany him if he found the need to take a force to Monmouth. He had acted on sheer impulse on both occasions, of course, not a reasoned step. In anger, he admitted, when she had challenged him. There she had stood, all fire and bright defiance, accusing him of God knew what. Her soft lips parted, those astonishing green eyes brilliant. One short hard kiss was all he had intended, just to savour those lips. After all, she was far too high born to consider a tumble between the sheets with a lover who was not lawfully wedded to her. Whilst he, he admitted, had far too much honour to even consider it, however attractive her face and figure might be to any red-blooded man. Besides, she was definitely not his choice of woman at all. Nothing like Matilda.
He stopped, his hands still on the stave of wood he held. Hugh had said he should marry her. Ha! He wanted a quiet life, not a daily crossing of swords with the woman he would chose as his wife.
And yet…why not? Would it not solve the problem overnight, as Hugh pointed out? If she became his wife, Clifford would return to his dominion. The lady was capable and could run the place for him, could live here if that was her wish. His teeth glinted in an appreciative grin. Once she had abandoned the idea of driving him out by an evil-smelling midden, she had proved herself to be a most efficient chatelaine. She could read and write and figure, a distinct advantage, if unusual in a woman. Of a determined cast of mind, she could hold the reins strongly, and he imagined she could collect the rents owed with a firm hand against any man who would try to take advantage of a woman’s softness.
The grin faded. Was there any softness in Rosamund de Longspey?
But of course there was. He deliberately directed his mind into more comfortable channels. As his wife, she would enjoy the authority at Clifford, in his name or her own. He could leave her here and return to Monmouth. All in all, it seemed that he had heard worse advice than marriage to the woman.
Taken with the idea, Gervase moved out of the way of two of his men who were manhandling a newly felled tree trunk between them. The only problem as far as he could see—would she do it? Would she see the advantage of such an alliance, even if it was clear to him? It would remove the threat of Ralph de Morgan hanging over her. She was of age and so could make her own decision, without the consent of Earl Gilbert. If her inclination was toward independence, he would leave her at Clifford and she could have it.
A perfect arrangement, convenient for all. He did not have to like her or even see her very often.
And yet…Infuriatingly, the banished images sprang to life again. He remembered her mouth, the softness of it against the hardness of his. How her body had fit with his within his arms. He had kissed her—well, as a warning not to meddle in his affairs, a punishment of a kind. That was the first time. Unwittingly he had been drawn against his will to repeat the experience. Such sweetness as he had discovered beneath her proud defiance when she had come to him in the west tower after the incident of the damned cat. When she no longer resisted him, she melted in honeyed sweetness so that he drowned, senses swamped with its heaviness. He recalled the throb of her heart, beating furiously beneath his mouth in that soft hollow at the base of her throat. It had caused his own blood to riot and surge in response, his body to strain with the power of his arousal. He could not remember a woman who had had such an effect on him. And her hands had clung to him…
But then she had changed, in the blink of an eye, all ice and dignity, and he had let her go.
It could not be denied, however much he might wish to cast her into the character of a vixen. The softness, the consideration for others, was definitely there. When her mother had been struck down. When her mare had been killed. Then she had been inconsolable and had turned into him and wept. How difficult he had found it to face her pain or the chance that she had died under a Welsh arrow. So that when she had come to make amends he had deliberately shut her out. Stated coldly, brusquely, that she appeared to suffer no repercussions, when it was clear to any man that she was rigid from pain. He had had to work hard not to snatch her up into his arms to assure himself of her safety. By God, what had she thought of him! He had focused on his stallion’s perfectly healthy hoof as if he had never seen one in his life before. Watkins must have thought he was all about in his wits. No, he was not proud of that. But the fear that she could have met the same unhappy fate as Matilda had driven him to mask his emotions. Despicable indeed that he should have added to her unhappiness. Yet even then she had sh
own her concern for Owen’s welfare.
How difficult women were to read.
Gervase squinted his eyes against the low ray of winter sun as new wooden staves were driven into the earth, the sound echoing round him. Since then she had barely exchanged a word with him. It was his own fault, he acknowledged. Had he not lived up to his self-imposed role with exceptional skill? As the villain of the piece—who had all but stripped her robe from her body, using his knife—she probably thought he had rape and pillage in mind. She had no idea how close he had come to abandoning his façade and showering her with tenderness. It had been a mistake to kiss her as he had.
But had it? When he had held her and kissed her in his room, there had been a response beyond the pure innocence. She had not found him objectionable. She had clung to him, offered her mouth. Her hands had held him close rather than pushing him away. And when she had been hurt and sorrowful she had been able to accept comfort from him and weep into his shoulder.
So why not just take her? You have the bed and the woman, make the most of the opportunity fate has cast in your way. If you desire her, then have her, and assuage the need. Ease your desire to your own satisfaction. Easy enough to do. She accused you of rape and pillage. Prove it. Once you’ve had her, you’ll probably obliterate the need.
Gervase growled in disgust. That was not the path to take. He could not, would never dishonour a woman that way, no matter what she thought of him. Would not defile his own honour. Certainly he would never deal out such foul treatment to Rosamund de Longspey. He could not think of her in the light of a casual liaison. In fact, he was in the greatest danger of…
No! Love was not a word he would consider.
But if he offered her marriage, on his own terms, she might just be open to persuasion.
Never one to back away from a problem, Gervase decided to meet that problem head on. At present it was standing on the palisade walk, looking out over the rough track toward Ludlow. She had been there all morning. Now was as good a time as any. He loped up the open staircase and made his way toward her, beating the wood shavings from his tunic, raking them with his fingers from his hair.