Читать книгу Conquering Knight, Captive Lady - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 7

January 1158—a cold, wet winter four years into the reign of King Henry II.

Clifford Castle—a remote border stronghold in the Welsh Marches.

‘Stop! What in God’s name are you doing?’

‘As you see.’ The unknown knight who commanded the formidable force of soldiers might have been surprised to see the lady, but with barely a flicker of an eye chose to spurn her. Even when she continued to shiver in the bitter wind at the top of the flight of steps leading up from the enclosed space of the bailey to the stone keep. Even though that lady was clearly seething in an enraged whirl of mantle and veil, another lady similarly muffled to the tip of her nose against the elements at her shoulder. The knight proceeded to give brisk, efficient instructions to his men for them to dismount and immediately secure the fortress.

The lady opened her mouth. Shut it, tight-lipped. Eyes of green, clear as glass in an ecclesiastical window and just as sharp, her eyebrows beautifully arched and dark, she surveyed the organized overrunning of her castle in horrified silence. Under her veil the rich red-brown of her hair, a fox’s pelt with gold and russet depths, shining and glowing, as vibrant as the autumn fruit of the chestnut tree, was whipped into a messy tangle by the wind. She paid it no heed. For one of the few occasions in her life she could find no words to express the shock, the sheer fury, that held her motionless. But not for long.

‘What are you doing here? Who are you? Who opened the gates to you?’

‘I am Fitz Osbern.’ He barely took the time to glance in her direction.

The lady narrowed her eyes at the device that fluttered and snapped on the profusion of pennons attached to the soldiers’ lances. A mythical beast, dragon-like with a fierce snarl on its mask of a face, silver on black. Definitely not one she knew. Fitz Osbern—why was he here? As a marauding brigand? A robber lord? There were plenty of those in the March, wild and lawless men, answering to no man, not even to the King. He certainly looked the part. She scowled at the man who had by this time dismounted to stand, one hand fisted on his hip, in her bailey. Equally at the older knight, who had moved in silent support to his side, and the greyhound, as lean and rangy as its master, that loped and dodged with excitement between the horses’ hooves. Fitz Osbern … She pitched her voice above the general racket that had descended on her home. ‘I don’t understand what you are doing here.’

‘Which is a matter of supreme indifference to me, lady.’ Fitz Osbern flung the reins of his dark bay stallion to his young squire. ‘Bryn!’ He snapped his fingers to the hound, bringing him immediately to heel, then made to walk toward the far stabling, still issuing orders to his men in a tone that brooked no disobedience.

But this spurred the lady into action. Who he was or was not was entirely irrelevant. ‘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.