Anne O'Brien – Conquering Knight, Captive Lady (страница 2)
Rosamund froze on the spot, her blood ice, the implied threat too real to be discounted.
Suddenly, without warning, the point of the sword fell. Thank God! But Rosamund’s relief was short-lived when the knight took a long stride forward to close the space between them. Before she could retreat, she found herself caught within his arm, tightly banding around her waist. Dragged hard against him almost off her feet, breast to breast, thigh against thigh. If she had been speechless before, now she found herself unable to think, to marshal any thoughts at all. It was all sensation, all awareness of the power of his body, the heat of him as she was held, plastered against him. Never before had she known what it was to be under the physical control of a man.
Barely able to catch a breath, her heart hammered in her breast. Furiously struggling against him did no good at all. She looked up into his face, as dismay transformed into fear to see those cold grey eyes, gold-flecked, looking down into hers with what she could only interpret as hatred.
What could she hope for at the hands of this man? For the first time in her life Rosamund de Longspey feared for her safety and her honour.
Chapter One
The troop of soldiers rode smartly north-west out of Gloucester, the promise of a warm homecoming at the Fitz Osbern castle in Monmouth luring them on to get in out of this thrice-damned persistent wind and rain. Unlimited ale and hot food. The soft stroke of a woman’s hand. Even the proximity of hot water would not be sniffed at … They had been on the road for a long time in the worst of weather after a sharp campaign across the Channel to Anjou, where Gervase Fitz Osbern held a number of strategic castles.
Gervase Fitz Osbern set a fierce pace. The Channel crossing had been bad; he shuddered at the memory of being tossed and drenched and vilely ill for twenty-four hours—sea voyaging was not for him—but now they were on firm ground. He raised his head, much as his hound at his heels, scenting the air. Home was within easy distance as he caught the outline of the dark ridge of the Black Mountains through the ever-swirling mist.
But when a group of travellers approached along the road, bringing with them one item of news, it was enough to make Fitz Osbern change his plans.
‘Rumours in the March. The Earl of Salisbury, William de Longspey, is dying.’
It was enough to shorten his breath, to drive a fist into his gut.
‘Do we go on, my lord?’ Watkins, his troop commander, all but nudged him into action as he sat in the rain in the middle of the road, brows drawn into a ferocious frown, his gaze focused on some distant place not altogether pleasant.
Fitz Osbern raised his head, refocused, gathered up his reins and signalled to his men to move off, the decision made. ‘We stop overnight in Hereford.’ The authority of their lord, coupled with the obvious lure of the fleshpots of Hereford, had the desired effect and put a halt to any murmurings of dissent. ‘And in Hereford,’ Gervase Fitz Osbern added, quietly, face settling into stern lines, ‘I shall make it my business to discover William de Longspey’s state of health.’
Meanwhile, some distance away in the prosperous town of Salisbury, Rosamund de Longspey was in a fractious mood. But then, who would not be? Approaching twenty-four years, with no husband on her horizon, no betrothed, and made fatherless for the second time in her life. No matter how good her blood, how attractive her face—and she could not deny that—her future looked less than secure.
So Rosamund, justifiably irritable, joined the family members of the household as they met together on the occasion of the death, from a malingering ague, of William de Longspey, Earl of Salisbury. He was no blood relation of hers, which might account for her lack of grief on this sorrowful occasion, merely a stepfather who had shown brief interest in and even less affection to her as she grew from child to a strikingly attractive young woman. A daughter of the Earl’s wife, Countess Petronilla, from her first marriage to John de Bredwardine, Rosamund had taken her stepfather’s name on her mother’s remarriage, and now had a very personal interest in Earl William’s will. In this room, within the hour, her entire future would be disposed of, with or without her consent.
There were no surprises when Father Benedict, the de Longspey chaplain, presented the terms of the late Earl’s will. His family by his first wife had been well provided for. The de Longspey title and main inheritance in Salisbury, the bulk of the estates scattered throughout the country, passed to Gilbert, the heir, who looked smug. Walter and Elizabeth were not forgotten. The Dowager Countess Petronilla would retain the lands and income from her original dowry. If she chose, she could live in the castle in Salisbury as an honoured guest for the rest of her life. If not, the castle at Lower Broadheath was now hers, a pretty estate in gentle countryside. Earl William had been generous and even-handed.
‘My lord thought that you would perhaps wed again.’ Father Benedict smiled benignly on the widow who showed no hint of tears at her loss.
Lady Petronilla silently inclined her head, but Rosamund was not fooled. If Rosamund read it right, her mother had no intention of seeking another marriage, no matter how wealthy or superficially attractive the lord. She was now free to do as she chose. Two husbands in a lifetime and both of them unsatisfactory, Lady Petronilla had been heard to say in private moments, were quite enough for any woman.
‘Father Benedict.’ Rosamund fixed her direct gaze on the cleric. ‘What provision has been made for me? I shall at least need land suitable for a dowry.’
‘Ah … Yes, Lady Rosamund …’ Father Benedict cleared his throat. ‘The Earl saw fit to grant three strongholds.’ He nodded at Rosamund with an encouraging smile, entirely false, she decided. ‘Three fortresses,’ he repeated, ‘and the income from the land and manors attached to them. For your own enjoyment and for your dower, Lady Rosamund.’
The fortunate lady raised her brows. ‘And where are these three fortresses, Father Benedict?’ Her voice was low, a little husky, usually with great charm, if not as on this occasion infused with deep suspicion.
‘On the border, my lady.’
‘The Welsh border? Be more exact, if you will, Father.’
The chaplain cleared his throat again with a quick glance toward the new Earl, who nodded in agreement. ‘You have possession of the castles and lands of Clifford, Ewyas Harold and Wigmore in the Welsh Marches, my lady.’
‘As you say—along the very border with Wales.’ Rosamund looked down to where her hands had just re-clenched in her lap, face smoothly unreadable, but her mind clearly engaged. ‘And will these three fortresses attract a husband for me?’
There was a loud guffaw from Earl Gilbert, hastily smothered. Walter did not even bother to hide his grin.
‘There’s no need to concern yourself, Rose,’ Gilbert replied heartily. ‘You’ll not be left destitute and unwed.’ She saw something like naked cunning in her stepbrother’s broad face before he lumbered to his feet and walked across the room to her, to take and pat her hand consolingly. ‘My father was remiss in this. Never fear. I am in the process of arranging all to your comfort, with three such
Behind Rosamund’s grateful smile, anger simmered. By the time she was alone with her mother in the privacy of the solar, it had become a surge of pure passion.
‘So I am now an heiress! With three castles to my name in the depths of the Welsh Marches, any one of them to be my home! It would be,’ stated Rosamund, green eyes flashing, all attempts to govern her temper abandoned, ‘like being buried alive. I have decided. Nothing will persuade me to go there.’
Rosamund’s decision did not outlive the day. Barely had the mid-day meal been cleared than she was summoned to the new Earl’s private chamber. She eyed him warily. Gilbert, in the magnificence of his father’s accommodation, looked even more pleased with himself if that were possible, and addressed her with obnoxious good humour as soon as she appeared in the doorway.
‘Rose. Some excellent news, as I promised you. This is a day for developments, it seems. Did I not tell you to leave everything in my care? The messenger has arrived.’ He flapped a travel-worn document in her direction. ‘Your marriage. I have in mind a knight who will take you for the castles you hold. It will be a most advantageous match.’ Sure of his argument, he held her gaze at last. ‘You’ve remained unwed far too long.’
Rosamund took a breath, a premonition heavy in her belly. So that was it. Set a trap to catch a prize on the Welsh border as she had suspected. And she was the bait in the trap. Now she knew the reason for Clifford and Ewyas Harold and Wigmore. She breathed out slowly.