Conquering Knight, Captive Lady. Anne O'Brien

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ ‘I will not be defied in my own home!’ She covered the distance down the steps and across the bailey in remarkable speed to grasp at a fold of his cloak with bold authority, grimacing at the slick coating of mud and rain that squelched beneath her fingers. ‘You have no right to give orders here!’

      ‘I have every right.’

      He shook her off as if, she thought, she were a troublesome hound puppy, and then had the temerity to turn his back on her—again.

      ‘This castle is my home—my property, my inheritance.’ Disturbed by the note of dismay that had crept into her voice, the lady snatched at his cloak once more to hold him still. ‘And yet you have the gall to ride in here and—’

      The knight came to a halt, so suddenly that she had to step aside or tread on his heels. He rounded on her, dark brows drawn together into a heavy bar, so that she found herself taking a step in retreat, and he surveyed her, up and down, from her muddied shoes to the rich curls escaping the confines of the veil in the brisk wind. ‘Your inheritance, you say? Who are you?’

      The lady’s chin rose infinitesimally. ‘I am Rosamund de Longspey.’

      ‘Longspey?’ The frown deepened, the eyes sharpened. ‘The Longspey heiress? But she’s a child.’

      ‘She is not.’ Rosamund made an inelegant noise not far short of a snort. ‘I am not.’

      The knight eyed her, clearly weighing up the situation. Then lifted his shoulders in careless dismissal. ‘So I see. But no matter.’

      The lady squared her shoulders. ‘It matters! This castle is mine.’

      ‘No, lady. It is not.’ Impatient now, he raised an arm in an expansive gesture to encompass his guards taking up position on the gatehouse, the palisade walk, his horseflesh being accommodated in the inadequate cramped stabling. ‘As it has no doubt become apparent to you, this castle of Clifford is now mine.’

      ‘Who says?’ Confusion and indignation warred on her face, even a shadow of fear, as Rosamund de Longspey curled her fingers into the dense fur lining of her mantle where he would not see her panic building.

      Fitz Osbern looked down his nose at the woman who reached hardly to his shoulder. And what a magnificent nose it was to look down, if the lady was aware of such inconsequential detail when cold grey eyes pinned her to the spot. High-bridged and predatory it was, with more than a touch of the autocratic.

      ‘I say it is mine. As does this.’ Drawing his sword with ruthless deliberation, he raised it, the tip pointed at the very centre of her breast, although he did not allow it to quite rest there. A feral smile slashed a white gash in the dark, unshaven face, but failed to warm that fierce gaze. ‘Might is right, lady. As of this moment, with this sword in my hand, I hold the power here. You do not.’

      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

      January 1158—two weeks earlier.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ