Conquering Knight, Captive Lady

‘She says what?’

De Byton repeated the conversation with relish and a rare disgust for all womenkind, at that moment fully appreciated by Fitz Osbern. ‘She’s intransigent, my lord. She’ll hear it only from yourself, my lord.’

‘Will she, now?’ The icy flash of anger did not bode well. Fitz Osbern leaned on the battlement and fixed his attention on de Mortimer, an idea developing. He faced his friend, expression bland.

‘A simple solution. You could fetch them in, Hugh. Your words would be kinder than mine. You have a gift when appealing to the soft heart of a woman …’

‘No. I won’t. You’re going to have to grasp the dagger’s edge, Ger. It’s you she wants, your assurance. You have no choice.’

Nor did he, Gervase acknowledged, as he wiped the rain from his face. She had won her battle. But what would be the consequences for him? Uncomfortable with his line of thought, he shrugged his shoulders against the weight of his wet jerkin. What would it be like for him to have this woman as effective chatelaine of his castle? When it should have been Matilda, his young wife who had not lived long enough to make the place her own. He frowned at the unwanted memory. A soft, pretty, fair-haired girl, who would have been a good wife to him, carried his children, presented him with an heir to the Fitz Osbern lands; with tuition from him, she would have held the reins of power in his name. But Matilda was dead and in her place, if he weakened, he would have this de Longspey woman on his hands, who needed no lessons from him in exerting her will, and who would surely see his retreat as a victory over him, and take it as a precedent.

He did not want that. He definitely did not want that.

Yet Gervase looked out at the sad little party under their soaked coverings and exhaled loudly. No, he had no choice but to take them back. Even if it meant Rosamund de Longspey stepping on the hem of Matilda’s increasingly shadowy gown.

‘I dislike surrender,’ Gervase snarled.

‘No such thing,’ De Mortimer replied cheerfully. ‘See it as an organised retreat before superior forces.’

‘God’s bones!’

‘Well, lady, I’m here, as you requested.’

‘I did not think you would come.’ Rosamund scrambled from under the covering despite the relentless downpour, face raised to him, noting the heavy scowl, but determined to hold firm. Regardless of the rain, regardless of her heavily thudding heart, she fixed her eyes on his, praying that he would not think the raindrops on her lashes were a sign of female weakness.

‘What do you want from me?’ Fitz Osbern demanded.

‘To return. I’m sure de Byton informed you of my terms, my lord.’

Rosamund had almost given up. She would admit to it. She knew that her mother would stand with her to the bitter end, but how could she be so thoughtless of Lady Petronilla’s welfare for much longer? She was on the very edge of ordering that they load up the wagon and find shelter in the village. Or even in Hereford itself before she took her mother on to Lower Broadheath, where she deserved to be in all comfort. Rosamund’s conscience had been on the point of pushing her to abandon her defiance to make that decision. There was, after all, a limit to the power of pride when dealing with those she loved, so few as they were. But now against all hope the bane of her existence was here, sitting his horse before her with all the arrogance she had come to recognise, and so she would not weaken. She raised her chin against a probable rejection.

‘Well, my lord?’

The stare was as cold as the rain that trickled down her spine. The voice as harsh as the wind that moulded her sodden skirts against her legs. But the words were the golden chime of victory.

‘You have won, lady. I have come to tell you that I agree to your terms.’

Rain dripped from the end of her straight nose, spangled her lashes. Translucent as a pearl, her skin glowed through the moisture. Fitz Osbern found it difficult to look away as he dismounted and stood before her. She was probably soaked to the skin through every inch of her clothing, her face was pale, her eyes wide with tension. He could see her whole body was braced against the chill that would have made her teeth chatter if she had allowed it. But her courage was unbroken as her head was unbowed, as she was magnificent in her determination to achieve her goal. A pity it was at his expense. The muscles in his gut tightened in—well, in concern, he told himself as she shuddered with a sudden cold blast of wind. But his anger was stirred as well, a faint ripple of it beneath the admiration, that she had bested him.

‘You will agree to them? All of them?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ He inhaled, praying for patience. ‘I want you to return with me.’

‘For as long as I wish?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you will not force me out again?’

‘No.’ A veritable growl. ‘As I agreed. Not unless it is by your own choice.’

‘And I can have the solar and the private chamber for my own use?’

‘Have I not said as much?’

‘On your oath, my lord.’ He saw her eyes shine through the wet.

‘Do you want blood as well? On my oath, lady.’ He clapped his hand to his chest somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, a deliberately dramatic gesture.

The lady managed a brisk nod. ‘Then we will return.’

‘Amen to that. Let’s all get under cover before we die of this infernal downpour.’ He tore his eyes from her brilliant gaze and bent to help Edith to her feet, then Petronilla, who was neatly folding quilts around her. ‘Leave those, my lady. I will see to it.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I am grateful.’ The clutch of her hand on his expressed her heartfelt gratitude, easing his acute sense of defeat at her daughter’s hands.

‘Thank de Mortimer for your rescue. I was tempted to leave you here all night.’ But his eyes were warm, belying his hard words as he handed the lady over to the care of one of his men-at-arms.

As he had expected, he found no gratitude whatsoever in Rosamund’s face, only the triumph of a victory snatched against all the odds. But he saw that she waited until her mother and the maid were cared for, lifted on to horseback, watching as they were carried back the short distance to the gatehouse, before she considered her own comfort. Then she looked across at him, dishevelled and muddy as she was, the challenge still there, but also the vestige of a plea that he knew she would never willingly voice. As well as a deep weariness—it seemed to him from more than merely making her stand against him in appalling conditions, but as if the battle she had just fought was a bloody conflict, vital to her. Any remaining anger toward her dissipated. All he felt was a desire to lift the burden—whatever it might be—from her shoulders.

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 …!’