Anne O'Brien - Conquering Knight, Captive Lady

As for the girl … The lasting impression was one of—well, it was difficult to bring a complete picture to mind. He had barely registered her as other than a composed young woman with pale skin. A pallor that had warmed with bright colour along her cheekbones as he had bent his disdainful eye on her. Firm lips and a direct stare, more a challenge from an opposing knight than a soft glance from a well-born maiden. That was it. She had looked at him as if he did not come anywhere near to her high-vaunting standards as a husband. As if he was a marauding brigand just emerged from the Welsh mountains. Green eyes. Too direct, he recalled, too combative. Attractive, without doubt. But biddable, obedient? He would wager not. Nothing like Matilda. Not the sort of female he would ever want as a wife, whatever her breeding, whatever her connections.

As he left the audience chamber, failure rampaging through his blood, he had found himself standing close to her. She must have used lavender to wash her hair—the scent wound though his senses as she took a step back. And he had remembered, almost before it was too late, the courtesy with which he had been raised, and, digging deep through the fury, had enough nobility to make his farewell to her. He had kissed her hand. Why could he still experience that one moment with such amazing clarity? How the light texture of her fingers had for the briefest of moments cut through the anger in his head. Cool, smooth. Delicious skin like silk against his mouth. There had been that astonishing urge to kiss more.

Gervase deliberately pushed aside such unbidden thoughts with a grimace, clenching his jaw against the discomfort of his body’s response. He did not want her then, nor did he now. The erection that strained for release was merely a symptom of lack of female company in recent months. Easily remedied.

Besides, the de Longspey incident was all in the past. He could not even recall the girl’s name. Gervase shifted warily in the saddle. So why had he remembered her at all?

Rosamund de Longspey had put her plan into immediate operation. A proposed visit to the fair in Salisbury, with a wagon to bring home any goods, two manservants, two armed guards and Edith, her mother’s maidservant, had become a headlong flight to Clifford without Earl Gilbert being the wiser until it was too late. They spent the first night in their new home wrapped in their cloaks in one of the unfurnished chambers in the west tower. The lord’s chamber would require much work to make it habitable. Nor would they trust any of the filthy quilts or covers to be had in the castle. So the night was a cold and sleepless one. The bread when she broke her fast was hard and unpalatable. Rosamund was thus in an ill-tempered mood when, on hearing a commotion in the bailey, she emerged to discover her gates open and an unknown knight with a force of soldiers in process of taking control of her castle from under her very nose.

‘Stop! What in God’s name are you doing …? You have no right …’

‘Might is right, Lady.’ The sword in the knight’s determined grip caught the weak rays of the sun, glittering along its honed edge. The tip of it hovered over the very centre of her breast, although he did not allow it to quite rest there. His feral grin was as arresting as the lethal weapon. ‘As of this moment, with this sword in my hand, I hold the power here. You do not.’

Rosamund froze on the spot. Suddenly, without warning, the point of the sword fell. Thank God! But Rosamund’s relief was short lived when the knight took a stride forward to close the space between them. Before she could retreat, she found herself caught within his arm, tightly banding around her waist. For that one breathless moment she feared for her safety and her honour. Then, to her amazement, the fear disappeared. His arms might pinion her to the length of his body, but they held her safe, secure against unnamed dangers. Barely able to catch a breath, her heart leaping in her breast.

Then as reality struck home and she raised her fists against his chest. But, furiously struggling, she made no impact at all on that solid wall of muscle. Rosamund looked up into his face, fighting now against a tingle of fear, of desperation. To see those cold grey eyes looking down into hers with what she could only interpret as hatred.

Would he assault her? Dishonour her? Who had not heard tales of such fiendish attacks, where no woman from the lowliest of servants to the lady herself was safe from rape and brutal treatment? Is that what he intended, here in full view of every man and woman in the castle? The threat of such humiliation iced her blood.

‘Let go of me,’ she demanded, hammering at his impervious chest with her fists.

‘I would be delighted to,’ he snarled.

Except that his grip tightened further, lifting her off her feet. Forced to grasp his shoulders for balance, Rosamund cried out in fear.

‘Don’t squawk in my ear, woman.’ Suddenly, with a tightening of the muscles in his back and thighs, he was lifting her higher to spin her aside. ‘It would solve my problem immediately if you were run down by one of my out-of-control baggage wagons, of course. But your brother the Earl might take it amiss. I don’t want him descending on me with an avenging army any time soon.’

Unnoticed in the mass of people and animals, one of the baggage wagons, clumsily manoeuvred, had creaked dangerously close, its burden of packages and barrels leaning precariously. As she glanced round, the wheel brushed against her skirts. If she had remained where she had been, she could well have been crushed under its weight.

The knight waited until the horses harnessed to the wagon had been led to safety, then, as soon as she was out of its range, he released her abruptly, letting her drop to her feet with a sardonic appreciation of her ruffled state. ‘There, lady. You’re safe to continue your objections if you so wish. Though I warn you, they’ll do no good.’

Perhaps not, but Rosamund could not—would not!—simply accept this turn in her fortunes. ‘But this is my inheritance, my dower.’ She fought her way through her scrambled thoughts. ‘Clifford is within the gift of the Earl of Salisbury—and now it is mine.’

‘Only by default, lady.’ The knight who had announced himself to be simply Fitz Osbern turned his attention to instructing his squire to supervise the unloading of the baggage wagons, bulging with supplies from Hereford. ‘Clifford was given to my ancestor by the Conqueror for services rendered. It was stolen from my father by the late Earl William. By the letter of the law it belongs to the Fitz Osberns—and now Clifford at least has returned to its rightful owner.’ He shouted an order to his sergeant-at-arms. ‘All I have to do is reclaim Ewyas Harold and Wigmore. A small force has been sent to each.’

‘Reclaim? But they are mine too.’ Rosamund could feel panic building again, layer upon layer, straining to escape her control.

‘Then it will not be a difficult task for me, will it? My men are in possession, as you can see, so there is nothing further to discuss. Now, if you would take yourself off to your chamber until I have time to deal with you …’ He sheathed the sword, a harsh rasp, and cast an experienced eye over the disposition of his troops.

Rosamund simply stared at him in stark amazement, fury replacing her fear. He had simply dismissed her as of no account. Take yourself off out of my way! is what he clearly meant! She narrowed her eyes to assess him as he stood in her courtyard, ownership written all over his straight shoulders and raised chin, taking stock of her castle. And what she saw did not please her at all. A bloodthirsty ruffian, was her first impression. He was not a man used to argument or his will being questioned, that much was clear. His eyes were a cold grey, dark and stormy, reflecting the colour of the winter river that flowed past their gates. Crow black and untidy, his hair was ruffled into thick waves by the chill wind, sweat-matted from the close confines of the Phrygian cap that he had pulled off and tucked in his belt, and his cheeks shadowed by any number of days’ growth of beard. His tunic and hose, his knee-length boots, were much as his cloak, wet and mud splattered. Filthy, she decided with distaste and a little sniff, refusing to take into account the state of the mired roads. But what did she expect? Cultured elegance? Fine courtly manners? Not from this man!