Anne O'Brien – Conquering Knight, Captive Lady (страница 13)

He held out his hand, palm up.

‘Come, lady, sheath your sword. You can fight the battle another day. I think you’ve done enough for now.’

She considered him, even now resisting. ‘I’ll walk back. It’s a mere step. I don’t need—’

Stubborn to the last! Why did that not surprise him? ‘No!’ He stopped her. ‘You will accept my offer of help. And you’ll not argue the point.’ Fitz Osbern swung up on to his horse, leaned and reached down his hand, in invitation or demand, whichever way she chose to see it. He would brook no denial. And Rosamund, presumably reading the determination stamped on his firm mouth, his tense jaw, accepted, without comment, and in one lithe movement was lifted to the saddle before him where he settled her firmly in his arms and, with a click of his tongue, a shortening of the reins, urged his horse into a walk.

The girl sat rigid, precariously balanced, holding her body away from him as if she could not bear that he should touch her. If his stallion spooked, she would surely fall off.

‘I won’t bite,’ he murmured against her wet hood, impatience returning. ‘Or not yet at any rate. And I’d rather not have to stop and dismount to pick you up out of the mud.’

Although she made no reply, he knew that she had heard. She stiffened. Then, with a little sigh, she leaned back against his chest and the support of his arms.

So Gervase, with curling strands of his enemy’s hair escaping her hood and brushing his chin, contemplated what might lie ahead considering the terms he had just agreed to. He was not optimistic for the outcome. For one thing, it could have no permanency. She could not stay at Clifford for ever, no matter what he had promised. Some suitable arrangement must be made for her. But the de Longspey heiress was too wilful by half, with no sense of what was reasonable behaviour. He simply could not see a clear path here.

The stallion side-stepped as Bryn loped beneath his hooves, causing Gervase to settle the woman more firmly against him. She did not resist. Indeed, he felt her fingers close on his arm and her body settle more closely against his, her spine relaxing. But then he recalled the previous day when some species of fear—or so he had thought—had robbed her face of all colour. Perhaps he should take the time to discover the cause of such a reaction to his threat to turn her out. As for the moment, he was forced to acknowledge a pleasure in simply holding her close, the curve of her breast against his forearm.

Fitz Osbern dismounted in the bailey. He reached up to Rosamund and, his hands at her waist, helped her to slide down to her feet. Rosamund would have stood alone, calling on her dignity to hold her erect and still defiant, but the cold and damp had had their effect, stiffening her limbs. She staggered as her cold feet took her weight, so that momentarily she clung to his arms for balance, grateful when he held her.

His first words startled her.

‘Did I do that?’

Looking down, she saw the faintest of shadows of a bruise on her wrist. And remembered that he had restrained her the previous night. ‘Yes.’

‘I will never hurt you again.’ Soft-voiced, Fitz Osbern gently touched the mark with his fingertips, then astonished her further by bending his head to press his lips there.

‘Don’t …!’

‘Don’t what?’

‘I don’t want your attentions …’ She snatched her hand away. Surely he would feel the tumultuous blood pulsing, racing through her veins, if he kissed her wrist again?

His eyes darkened, his mood changed immediately. ‘If you mean by my attentions that you don’t want my mouth against your skin—then don’t put yourself in my way, lady. You have won your victory today. Make sure it’s not at a price you are unwilling to pay.’

Rosamund could not believe her ears. Her lips parted in shock.

And Fitz Osbern promptly kissed them. Fast, but very thoroughly.

‘Well, Rose? What have you to say now?’

She gasped. Could think of nothing sensible. ‘That I have not given you leave to use my name in that way,’ she managed finally.

And before he could do or say anything further, tearing herself away from his relaxed hold, Rosamund fled to her chamber where, considerate beyond anything Rosamund could have believed, Fitz Osbern had already left instructions for water to be heated for the women, and the wooden tub to be carried there. The courtesy passed unnoticed. Fear gripped her, a depth of dread of which she had no experience. She had feared marriage with Ralph de Morgan. This emotion was entirely different. Her heart thundered, her cheeks coloured to the tint of a winter pippin. She was very much afraid of the Wild Hawk. Her reaction to him was quite inappropriate. Pressing her fingers to her mouth, she realised that she could still taste his kiss. And ran her tongue slowly over her lips to savour it.

This can’t last, Rosamund, Fitz Osbern thought. It’s like living in the middle of a thunderstorm.

It hung over them, a deep and lowering threat. The whole fortress waited uneasily, holding its breath for the approaching cataclysm. It could not be expected that Fitz Osbern and de Longspey would live amicably side by side for long. Disputed ownership would have to end some time, whatever promise had been forced from him when under pressure.

Before the storm could break, Hugh de Mortimer made his departure, his own concerns in Hereford needing his attention. He acknowledged to himself a reluctance to go. He would like to watch the outcome of this imminent clash of wills. He parted from Fitz Osbern when they broke their fast on a late dawn, the first lightening of the sky heralding a fine day.

‘Farewell, Ger. You’re well settled then, I think.’

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