Lord Greville's Captive

Simon did not move. He put out a hand and caught her arm. ‘A moment, Lady Anne.’

Anne looked up. The evening sun was in her eyes and she could not see his expression. She waited, her heart racing.

Simon slid his hand down her sleeve to capture her fingers in his. His hand was warm, the shock of his touch sufficient to send a shiver through Anne’s entire body.

‘I have your father’s permission to wed you, Lady Anne,’ he said, ‘but I do not yet have yours.’

Anne stared. ‘You do not need mine, my lord.’

Simon smiled into her eyes. ‘Yes, I do. I will not force an unwilling maid. So speak now, Anne of Grafton, if you do not wish to take me as your husband, for soon we shall be troth-plight.’

His hands tightened on hers as he waited for her answer. Anne searched his face, so dark, so stern. She felt a little quiver of apprehension.

‘I will do my duty—’ she began.

‘I do not want your duty.’ Simon sounded angry now. ‘I want you.’ He moderated his tone. ‘And I had thought—forgive me—that you might in some small way feel the same…’

Anne remembered the moment in the courtyard when she had first set eyes upon him. Then she remembered Edwina’s words about the wedding night. An involuntary smile curved her lips.

‘Well, I—’

She got no further, for Simon leaned down and kissed her, his hands suddenly mercilessly hard on her slender frame, his mouth hungry. Anne’s exclamation of shock was smothered beneath the relentless demand of his lips. Her head spun and the blood pounded in her veins.

He released her gently and she steadied herself with one hand against the mossy stone of the sundial. She was trembling down to the tips of her toes. She pressed her fingers against her lips in confusion and the beginnings of desire.

‘So is that a yes?’ Simon demanded. His eyes were bright and hard with passion. Anne saw it; for the first time in her life, she understood the truly awesome strength of her own power and felt the excitement flood her body. To be able to do this to such a man…She could bring him to his knees. She felt dizzy at the thought.

‘I am considering it,’ she said demurely. ‘’Tis true, my lord, that you are very pleasant to look upon…’

His lips twitched in response, but she could feel the impatient desire in him, barely held under control. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. ‘And?’

‘And I have…enjoyed…the time that we have spent in each other’s company…’

‘And?’

‘And indeed I think you must kiss very nicely, my lord, although I have no means of comparison.’

Simon made a movement towards her, but she evaded him, dancing away down the path. She was laughing now, the exhilaration burning in her veins.

‘So having given consideration to your offer…’

She paused, looked at him. He caught her wrist, pulled her close and held her still.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘I will marry you,’ she whispered, as their lips met again. ‘With all my heart.’

Chapter One

Grafton, Oxfordshire, England

February 1645

The snow had been falling all day. It hung like a shroud between the besieged manor house of Grafton and the army that encircled it a bare half mile away. Now, as the church bell tolled midnight, the darkness had an unearthly glow that struck a chill into the men’s hearts. In the morning they were to do battle, but for tonight they huddled in the byres and barns of the village, around the fitful fires. They drank the last of their ale, talked in low voices and tried not to think of the morrow.

When the knock came at the door, Simon Greville thought at first that he had imagined it. He had already met with his captains, they had talked of their strategy for the morning and had retired to wait for dawn and get what little sleep they could. He had given specific orders that he should not be disturbed further that night. Yet the knock came once again, soft but insistent, on the barn door. Simon was not angered to have his instructions gainsaid, but he was curious. His authority was such that only in the direst emergency would his men disobey his direct command.

He strode across the room and flung wide the door. It shook on its hinges and a flurry of wind swept in, bringing with it night chill and a scattering of snowflakes. The candles guttered and the smell of tallow stung the air.

‘What is it?’ He knew that he sounded brusque. Even he, renowned for his steady nerve, could be forgiven a certain shortness of temper the night before a battle.

It was the youngest of his captains who stood there, a youth barely out of his teens called Guy Standish. He was looking terrified.

‘Your pardon, my lord. There is a messenger from Grafton Manor.’

Simon turned away. He might have known that the Royalist garrison in the house would try this last-ditch attempt to beg a surrender and avoid bloodshed. He had been waiting all day for them to try to negotiate a truce. And now it had happened. It was typical of the cowardice of the King’s general, Gerard Malvoisier, to try to bargain for his miserable life.

Two weeks before, Malvoisier had murdered Simon’s younger brother, who had gone to the Manor under the Parliamentarians’ flag of truce. Malvoisier had sent Henry back in pieces, no quarter given, but now he evidently expected Simon to spare his worthless life. Once again Simon felt the ripping tide of fury that had swamped him when he had learned of Henry’s death. A fortnight had allowed no time for that grief to start to heal. He had had the anguished task of writing to their father with the news as well. Fulwar Greville, Earl of Harington, supported the King whilst his sons were loyal to the Parliamentarian cause. And now Simon had written to tell their father that one of those sons was dead, fighting for a cause that betrayed their father’s fealty.

Simon knew that his and Henry’s defection had broken their father’s heart. He had the deepest of respect for the Earl, despite their political differences. And now he felt a huge guilt for allowing Henry to die. All he could do was to turn that anger and hatred on to Gerard Malvoisier, stationed at Grafton. There would be no mercy for the besieged army in the Manor house, not now, not ever. It made no odds that Grafton—and its mistress—had once been promised to him. The Civil War had ripped such alliances apart.

Standish was waiting.

‘I will not see the messenger,’ Simon said. ‘There is nothing to discuss. The time for parley is long past. We attack on the morrow and nothing can prevent it.’

His tone was colder than the snow-swept night and it should have been enough, but still Standish lingered, his face tight with strain.

‘My lord…’

Simon spun around with repressed rage. ‘What?’

‘It is the Lady Anne Grafton who is here, my lord,’ the boy stammered. ‘We thought…That is, knowing that it was the lady herself…’

Simon swore under his breath. It was clever of Malvoisier to send Lady Anne, he thought, knowing that she was the one messenger he would find difficult to turn away in all courtesy. They were on opposing sides now, but it went against the grain with him to show a lady anything less than respect, Royalist or not. Besides, he had been Anne Grafton’s suitor four years before, in a more peaceful time before the bloody Civil War had come between them. There were memories there, promises made, that even now he found difficult to ignore.

But this was war and he had no time for chivalry. His brother’s brutal death at Malvoisier’s hands had seen to that.

‘I will not see her,’ he said. ‘Send her away.’

Standish looked agonised. Despite the cold there was sweat on his brow. ‘But, sir—’

‘I said send her away.’

There was a clash of arms from further down the street and then the sound of raised voices and hurrying footsteps, muffled in the snow.

‘Madam!’ It was the anguished cry of one of the guards. ‘You cannot go in there!’

But it was already too late. The barn door crashed back on its hinges and Lady Anne Grafton swept past Guy Standish and into the room. The snow swirled in and the fire hissed.