Anne O'Brien – Conquering Knight, Captive Lady (страница 3)

‘Who is it?’

‘Ralph de Morgan of Builth. Quite a landowner in that area.’

‘Ralph de Morgan?’ He was a not infrequent visitor to the de Longspey household. The name instantly conjured up an image of the knight. Rosamund’s palms grew damp against the skirts of her robe as that image became a weight on her heart. ‘But he’s older than Lord William was!’ Possibly an exaggeration, she admitted, but not by much.

‘He’s an important man, Rosamund.’ Gilbert leaned forward to make his point, preserving his smile. ‘And newly widowed. He wants a bride who will increase his holdings within England. And for my benefit, he’ll help to hold the March secure. I doubt you’ll do better. He offers a substantial settlement.’

‘I can imagine!’ Who would not to wish to consolidate a connection with the powerful de Longspeys?

‘You have no choice in the matter, dear sister,’ stated the Earl as if he could read the rejection in her mind. ‘It’s arranged. Ralph has agreed and the terms are acceptable. He’ll come next week to renew your acquaintance, as a suitor for a bride.’

Rosamund controlled her reply magnificently. ‘Very well, Gilbert.’

Gilbert eyed the quiescent lady doubtfully. ‘Hear me, Rosamund. You’ll not antagonise him.’

‘No, Gilbert. How could you think it?’ She smiled serenely.

But I would not wager my new jewelled girdle on it!

Escape to Clifford suddenly seemed an object of desire.

One meeting with Ralph de Morgan was enough to convince her of all her fears and to drive Rosamund into open rebellion. In a cloud of resentment she burst into the widowed Countess’s bedchamber, where that lady was supervising her maid Edith in the packing of her possessions for the journey to Lower Broadheath.

‘That’s settled it. I can’t do it.’

Lady Petronilla abandoned the silk mass of the rich green over-gown she was folding. She eyed her daughter with a painful mixture of sympathy and resignation. ‘So I thought when I was presented with marriage, but sometimes, dear child, there’s simply no choice.’ The widow smoothed her dark skirts, her hands quick and restless, then stepped to the chest, which held cups and a flagon of ale. Not over-tall, her figure was well proportioned, her eyes grey-green and aware, her hair fair, untouched by grey, worn in a neat plaited coronet. She moved with capable, energetic movements as she poured and returned to hand a cup to her daughter.

‘No choice? How can there be no choice! Ralph de Morgan,’ Rosamund announced, not mincing her words, ‘is gross and balding. His clothes are rank with heaven only knows what! Did you see? He wiped the sauce from his fingers on his tunic. When his hands last came into contact with warm water I know not. And as for his breath when he kissed my cheek …’ She whirled in a circle, her hair within its ribbon confines flying, and punched the bed hangings with her fist. ‘He’s disgusting!’

‘Ralph is not a pleasant prospect, I agree—but your brothers are determined—’

‘Brothers? They are no blood of mine! I’ve had enough of self-opinionated men telling me what to do and what not to do. What will be good for me and what I would be unwise to consider. I will not do it!’

‘No. Ralph is not an attractive man. So … portly!’

‘Portly? He is fat! I would rather wed the poor ragged creature, filthy and scabbed, who sits daily outside the Cathedral and begs for alms.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. And I don’t think the beggar would actually want you!’ The two ladies considered the dubious prospect for a short moment. ‘But, dearest Rose, you need a husband,’ Petronilla advised. ‘You should have been married years ago.’

‘I know. I agree that there could be advantages. But I want …’ In her mind’s eye Rosamund saw the man of her childhood dreams, lingered over the much-loved image. ‘He must be young. Handsome, of course, fair haired. Gentle and courteous, who will treat me with honour and consideration. A knight who is civilised and cultured, can read and write, and will not harry me into actions I have no wish to take.’ For a moment she lost herself in another improbable outcome. ‘And he must at least have an affection for me,’ she added finally. ‘I do not ask for love, but I have no desire to simply be a hapless pawn in a power struggle.’

‘Hmm. Now there’s a list.’ Lady Petronilla arched her brows, returning to the silk gown that slithered unmanageably under her hands. ‘But does such a paragon exist? A man who would let you have entirely your own way …? Well, I don’t know … And would you be happy if he did?’

Rosamund considered the matter. Marriage had not brought her mother much contentment. Why should her own experience be any different? Of course, there had been that one man … Now there was a memory to stir her to her very soul. Rosamund turned away so that her mother should not read the sudden sharp desire that closed like a hand around her throat.

Her Wild Hawk. Her Fierce Lord.

Gervase Fitz Osbern.

That one man … Some four years since now. The memory of him came easily into Rosamund’s mind, as if it had slid there before, at regular intervals, along a well-worn path. The man who had descended on Salisbury in the foulest of humours to hold a dangerously fraught interview with the Earl. She had never known exactly why. But a bucketful of bad blood had existed between Fitz Osbern and Earl William from the very beginning, obvious in the crackle in the air and the imminent threat of drawn blades as they exchanged views. And the Earl had planned to smooth the waters, to entice this enemy into an alliance. So he had offered Rosamund to him, to lure him into taking a Longspey wife.

She remembered as if it were yesterday being summoned so that the lord might look her over.

But he had not looked her over. He had barely cast an eye in her direction, after that first vicious stare when she had entered the room. He had not even done her the courtesy to appraise her merits as a bride. And after all her mother’s efforts to turn her out at her best, threading emerald ribbons through her braided hair. What an arrogant appraisal it had been before he turned his shoulder, one brief raking glance from head to foot that had all but stripped the clothes from her body. Even now at this distance she re-lived the moment that had brought a rush of unflattering colour to her cheeks and an edge to her temper. Not that he had noticed. The formidable knight was too busy refusing Earl William’s offer to consider her appearance or her feelings at being so summarily rejected. She had been dismissed almost before she had set foot in the room.

You would buy me with a Longspey woman? You’ll not succeed. There’s blood on your hands, my lord, that can’t be washed away by the gift of a simpering Longspey virgin.

The hard-held fury, the harsh menace in his voice. The shame that she had felt as if his rejection of her had been due to some fault of her own. It remained with her still, as did a clear image of the man’s face and stature. He might not have taken more than a passing acknowledgement of her but, no simpering maid at twenty years—and she doubted she had ever been known to simper!—Rosamund’s fascinated stare had been as direct and all-encompassing as his had not.

The Wild Hawk he had become in her dreams, savage and untamed, never knowing the hood or jesses, the leash of the falconer. What a pleasure he had been to look at. Tall and lean with the well-muscled body of a soldier, a lord who would ride and fight, a master of weaponry, although on this occasion he was richly dressed, with embroidered bands at hem and sleeve of his tunic. He might wear a sword, but the leather belt was gilded and jewelled. He had obviously come to make an impression. If she concentrated, even now she could imagine his dark hair, grey eyes, gold-flecked. Eagle features, she remembered. A will of tempered steel. Now, what would it have been like to wed such a man as he?

Barely polite, he had been uncomfortably forthright. I don’t seek a marriage with one of yours. One of his more discreet opinions. But then that one sweep of his hard grey eyes was an insult in itself. All I demand from you, my lord, is the return of my father’s property and recompense for the untimely death of my wife. If she had wed the Wild Hawk, he would not have let her have her own way, that’s for sure. He would order and demand and insist at every turn. Rosamund shivered at the prospect. That would be almost as bad as wedding Ralph de Morgan! Despite her own preoccupations, she found it in her heart to feel pity for the Wild Hawk’s poor dead wife.

Her breath hitched a little. At the last he had, surely against his will, touched her once. As he marched to the door, furiously disappointed, he was forced to pass within an arm’s length of her. He had stopped abruptly, thrust out his hand in command. She had placed hers there.

‘My lady!’

And he had kissed her fingers. Fleetingly. Mouth and hand as cold as his ire was hot. Yet it had burned her, the heat of it slamming her senses. She still recalled it, as if the brand were still there. Imagined in her moments of despair what it would be like to feel the insistent pressure of those lips on hers, the slick knowledge of his tongue, those hands against her breast where her heart pounded for some desired outcome of which she had no experience …