‘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. And as of this moment, with this sword in my hand, I hold the power here. You do not.’

Rosamund froze on the spot, 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. 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.

Dear Reader

Rosamund, my heroine, escapes from her family to take refuge in Clifford Castle, which today is an atmospheric ruin on the bank of the River Wye in the Welsh Marches, not many miles from where I live. A tale is told of a lady who, in medieval times, was besieged there, taken prisoner by a local robber lord and forced to accept his hand in marriage. When the King came to hear of it he descended with an army, punished the lord for his despicable exploit and offered the bride her freedom and a purse of gold. Instead of snatching at the chance, the lady refused the King’s justice and would not be parted from her impetuous husband.

And that, I thought when I read it, is the stuff of romance. I could not resist such a glamorous opportunity. It inspired me to explore the wilful passion between Rosamund and her own robber lord, Gervase Fitz Osbern. I have created for them a difficult path to travel before they can accept that one cannot live without the other, as I am certain the original lovers too experienced. Rosamund has to learn that sometimes a man needs to be seduced into a compromise, without his knowing it, when all the time he thinks that his is the controlling hand. Whilst Gervase, almost too late, realises that military force is not the way to his lover’s heart.

I hope that you enjoy Rosamund and Gervase’s journey of discovery as much as I did writing it.

As for Mills & Boon, I owe them so much—not least that they gave me my first opportunity to write historical romances for my own, and your, pleasure. I know you will join me in wishing them Happy Birthday for their magnificent centenary.

Anne

About the Author

ANNE O’BRIEN was born and has lived for most of her life in Yorkshire. There she taught history, before deciding to fulfil a lifetime ambition to write romantic historical fiction. She won a number of short story competitions until published for the first time by Mills & Boon. As well as writing, she finds time to enjoy gardening, cooking and watercolour painting. She now lives with her husband in an eighteenth-century cottage in the depths of the Welsh Marches.

Recent novels by the same author:

THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS

PURITAN BRIDE

MARRIAGE UNDER SIEGE

THE DISGRACED MARCHIONESS* THE OUTRAGEOUS DEBUTANTE* THE ENIGMATIC RAKE*

*The Faringdon Scandals

Conquering

Knight, Captive Lady

Anne O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For George, the hero of all my romances.

Prologue

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.

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 for the rest of her life. If not, the castle at Lower Broadheath was now hers, a pretty estate in gentle countryside. Earl William had been generous and even-handed.

‘My lord thought that you would perhaps wed again.’ Father Benedict smiled benignly on the widow who showed no hint of tears at her loss.

Lady Petronilla silently inclined her head, but Rosamund was not fooled. If Rosamund read it right, her mother had no intention of seeking another marriage, no matter how wealthy or superficially attractive the lord. She was now free to do as she chose. Two husbands in a lifetime and both of them unsatisfactory, Lady Petronilla had been heard to say in private moments, were quite enough for any woman.

I would just like the chance at one! Rosamund forced her fingers to unclench. For there was one matter here that had not been touched upon.

‘Father Benedict.’ Rosamund fixed her direct gaze on the cleric. ‘What provision has been made for me? I shall at least need land suitable for a dowry.’

‘Ah … Yes, Lady Rosamund …’ Father Benedict cleared his throat. ‘The Earl saw fit to grant three strongholds.’ He nodded at Rosamund with an encouraging smile, entirely false, she decided. ‘Three fortresses,’ he repeated, ‘and the income from the land and manors attached to them. For your own enjoyment and for your dower, Lady Rosamund.’

The fortunate lady raised her brows. ‘And where are these three fortresses, Father Benedict?’ Her voice was low, a little husky, usually with great charm, if not as on this occasion infused with deep suspicion.

‘On the border, my lady.’

‘The Welsh border? Be more exact, if you will, Father.’

The chaplain cleared his throat again with a quick glance toward the new Earl, who nodded in agreement. ‘You have possession of the castles and lands of Clifford, Ewyas Harold and Wigmore in the Welsh Marches, my lady.’

‘As you say—along the very border with Wales.’ Rosamund looked down to where her hands had just re-clenched in her lap, face smoothly unreadable, but her mind clearly engaged. ‘And will these three fortresses attract a husband for me?’

There was a loud guffaw from Earl Gilbert, hastily smothered. Walter did not even bother to hide his grin.

‘There’s no need to concern yourself, Rose,’ Gilbert replied heartily. ‘You’ll not be left destitute and unwed.’ She saw something like naked cunning in her stepbrother’s broad face before he lumbered to his feet and walked across the room to her, to take and pat her hand consolingly. ‘My father was remiss in this. Never fear. I am in the process of arranging all to your comfort, with three such valuable fortresses to attract attention from a suitable husband.’ He chuckled unnervingly. ‘No one will ever say that a de Longspey was left unprovided for.’

Behind Rosamund’s grateful smile, anger simmered. By the time she was alone with her mother in the privacy of the solar, it had become a surge of pure passion.

‘So I am now an heiress! With three castles to my name in the depths of the Welsh Marches, any one of them to be my home! It would be,’ stated Rosamund, green eyes flashing, all attempts to govern her temper abandoned, ‘like being buried alive. I have decided. Nothing will persuade me to go there.’

Rosamund’s decision did not outlive the day. Barely had the mid-day meal been cleared than she was summoned to the new Earl’s private chamber. She eyed him warily. Gilbert, in the magnificence of his father’s accommodation, looked even more pleased with himself if that were possible, and addressed her with obnoxious good humour as soon as she appeared in the doorway.

‘Rose. Some excellent news, as I promised you. This is a day for developments, it seems. Did I not tell you to leave everything in my care? The messenger has arrived.’ He flapped a travel-worn document in her direction. ‘Your marriage. I have in mind a knight who will take you for the castles you hold. It will be a most advantageous match.’ Sure of his argument, he held her gaze at last. ‘You’ve remained unwed far too long.’

Rosamund took a breath, a premonition heavy in her belly. So that was it. Set a trap to catch a prize on the Welsh border as she had suspected. And she was the bait in the trap. Now she knew the reason for Clifford and Ewyas Harold and Wigmore. She breathed out slowly.

‘Who is it?’

‘Ralph de Morgan of Builth. Quite a landowner in that area.’

‘Ralph de Morgan?’ He was a not infrequent visitor to the de Longspey household. The name instantly conjured up an image of the knight. Rosamund’s palms grew damp against the skirts of her robe as that image became a weight on her heart. ‘But he’s older than Lord William was!’ Possibly an exaggeration, she admitted, but not by much.

‘He’s an important man, Rosamund.’ Gilbert leaned forward to make his point, preserving his smile. ‘And newly widowed. He wants a bride who will increase his holdings within England. And for my benefit, he’ll help to hold the March secure. I doubt you’ll do better. He offers a substantial settlement.’

‘I can imagine!’ Who would not to wish to consolidate a connection with the powerful de Longspeys?

‘You have no choice in the matter, dear sister,’ stated the Earl as if he could read the rejection in her mind. ‘It’s arranged. Ralph has agreed and the terms are acceptable. He’ll come next week to renew your acquaintance, as a suitor for a bride.’

Rosamund controlled her reply magnificently. ‘Very well, Gilbert.’

Gilbert eyed the quiescent lady doubtfully. ‘Hear me, Rosamund. You’ll not antagonise him.’

‘No, Gilbert. How could you think it?’ She smiled serenely.

But I would not wager my new jewelled girdle on it!

Escape to Clifford suddenly seemed an object of desire.

One meeting with Ralph de Morgan was enough to convince her of all her fears and to drive Rosamund into open rebellion. In a cloud of resentment she burst into the widowed Countess’s bedchamber, where that lady was supervising her maid Edith in the packing of her possessions for the journey to Lower Broadheath.

‘That’s settled it. I can’t do it.’

Lady Petronilla abandoned the silk mass of the rich green over-gown she was folding. She eyed her daughter with a painful mixture of sympathy and resignation. ‘So I thought when I was presented with marriage, but sometimes, dear child, there’s simply no choice.’ The widow smoothed her dark skirts, her hands quick and restless, then stepped to the chest, which held cups and a flagon of ale. Not over-tall, her figure was well proportioned, her eyes grey-green and aware, her hair fair, untouched by grey, worn in a neat plaited coronet. She moved with capable, energetic movements as she poured and returned to hand a cup to her daughter.

‘No choice? How can there be no choice! Ralph de Morgan,’ Rosamund announced, not mincing her words, ‘is gross and balding. His clothes are rank with heaven only knows what! Did you see? He wiped the sauce from his fingers on his tunic. When his hands last came into contact with warm water I know not. And as for his breath when he kissed my cheek …’ She whirled in a circle, her hair within its ribbon confines flying, and punched the bed hangings with her fist. ‘He’s disgusting!’

‘Ralph is not a pleasant prospect, I agree—but your brothers are determined—’

‘Brothers? They are no blood of mine! I’ve had enough of self-opinionated men telling me what to do and what not to do. What will be good for me and what I would be unwise to consider. I will not do it!’

‘No. Ralph is not an attractive man. So … portly!’

‘Portly? He is fat! I would rather wed the poor ragged creature, filthy and scabbed, who sits daily outside the Cathedral and begs for alms.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. And I don’t think the beggar would actually want you!’ The two ladies considered the dubious prospect for a short moment. ‘But, dearest Rose, you need a husband,’ Petronilla advised. ‘You should have been married years ago.’

‘I know. I agree that there could be advantages. But I want …’ In her mind’s eye Rosamund saw the man of her childhood dreams, lingered over the much-loved image. ‘He must be young. Handsome, of course, fair haired. Gentle and courteous, who will treat me with honour and consideration. A knight who is civilised and cultured, can read and write, and will not harry me into actions I have no wish to take.’ For a moment she lost herself in another improbable outcome. ‘And he must at least have an affection for me,’ she added finally. ‘I do not ask for love, but I have no desire to simply be a hapless pawn in a power struggle.’

‘Hmm. Now there’s a list.’ Lady Petronilla arched her brows, returning to the silk gown that slithered unmanageably under her hands. ‘But does such a paragon exist? A man who would let you have entirely your own way …? Well, I don’t know … And would you be happy if he did?’

Rosamund considered the matter. Marriage had not brought her mother much contentment. Why should her own experience be any different? Of course, there had been that one man … Now there was a memory to stir her to her very soul. Rosamund turned away so that her mother should not read the sudden sharp desire that closed like a hand around her throat.

Her Wild Hawk. Her Fierce Lord.

Gervase Fitz Osbern.

That one man … Some four years since now. The memory of him came easily into Rosamund’s mind, as if it had slid there before, at regular intervals, along a well-worn path. The man who had descended on Salisbury in the foulest of humours to hold a dangerously fraught interview with the Earl. She had never known exactly why. But a bucketful of bad blood had existed between Fitz Osbern and Earl William from the very beginning, obvious in the crackle in the air and the imminent threat of drawn blades as they exchanged views. And the Earl had planned to smooth the waters, to entice this enemy into an alliance. So he had offered Rosamund to him, to lure him into taking a Longspey wife.

She remembered as if it were yesterday being summoned so that the lord might look her over.

But he had not looked her over. He had barely cast an eye in her direction, after that first vicious stare when she had entered the room. He had not even done her the courtesy to appraise her merits as a bride. And after all her mother’s efforts to turn her out at her best, threading emerald ribbons through her braided hair. What an arrogant appraisal it had been before he turned his shoulder, one brief raking glance from head to foot that had all but stripped the clothes from her body. Even now at this distance she re-lived the moment that had brought a rush of unflattering colour to her cheeks and an edge to her temper. Not that he had noticed. The formidable knight was too busy refusing Earl William’s offer to consider her appearance or her feelings at being so summarily rejected. She had been dismissed almost before she had set foot in the room.

You would buy me with a Longspey woman? You’ll not succeed. There’s blood on your hands, my lord, that can’t be washed away by the gift of a simpering Longspey virgin.

The hard-held fury, the harsh menace in his voice. The shame that she had felt as if his rejection of her had been due to some fault of her own. It remained with her still, as did a clear image of the man’s face and stature. He might not have taken more than a passing acknowledgement of her but, no simpering maid at twenty years—and she doubted she had ever been known to simper!—Rosamund’s fascinated stare had been as direct and all-encompassing as his had not.

The Wild Hawk he had become in her dreams, savage and untamed, never knowing the hood or jesses, the leash of the falconer. What a pleasure he had been to look at. Tall and lean with the well-muscled body of a soldier, a lord who would ride and fight, a master of weaponry, although on this occasion he was richly dressed, with embroidered bands at hem and sleeve of his tunic. He might wear a sword, but the leather belt was gilded and jewelled. He had obviously come to make an impression. If she concentrated, even now she could imagine his dark hair, grey eyes, gold-flecked. Eagle features, she remembered. A will of tempered steel. Now, what would it have been like to wed such a man as he?

Barely polite, he had been uncomfortably forthright. I don’t seek a marriage with one of yours. One of his more discreet opinions. But then that one sweep of his hard grey eyes was an insult in itself. All I demand from you, my lord, is the return of my father’s property and recompense for the untimely death of my wife. If she had wed the Wild Hawk, he would not have let her have her own way, that’s for sure. He would order and demand and insist at every turn. Rosamund shivered at the prospect. That would be almost as bad as wedding Ralph de Morgan! Despite her own preoccupations, she found it in her heart to feel pity for the Wild Hawk’s poor dead wife.

Her breath hitched a little. At the last he had, surely against his will, touched her once. As he marched to the door, furiously disappointed, he was forced to pass within an arm’s length of her. He had stopped abruptly, thrust out his hand in command. She had placed hers there.

‘My lady!’

And he had kissed her fingers. Fleetingly. Mouth and hand as cold as his ire was hot. Yet it had burned her, the heat of it slamming her senses. She still recalled it, as if the brand were still there. Imagined in her moments of despair what it would be like to feel the insistent pressure of those lips on hers, the slick knowledge of his tongue, those hands against her breast where her heart pounded for some desired outcome of which she had no experience …

Rosamund blinked away the scene. Well, the outcome of the clash between two such strong-willed men had put paid to any such possibility of the man taking her to his bed. The Wild Hawk hadn’t got the land or the recompense he sought, Earl William had not got his alliance and she hadn’t got a husband. Her unwilling lover had stiffened, his head bent, hair curling like black silk against her wrist. Then he had dropped her hand as if it had scorched him, leaving her without a backward glance. That was the last she heard of him.

And yet, Rosamund had found those strong features haunting her thoughts. Not a handsome man, his features too harsh for pure symmetry, but an arresting one. A powerful man with a dark glamour who would draw the eyes of any woman. A man who would let nothing stand in his way of seizing what he wanted. What would it have been like to have wed that Wild Hawk, to be his and his alone? To have given up her prized virginity to a man who prowled and smouldered and demanded. Four years on and she was still in possession of that prize, and no one valued it—except the despicable Ralph. She would probably take it to her grave. What value then?

‘Rose …’

She blinked again, aware that her mother was beginning to fret under her own fierce and protracted stare. That was all long ago. Now her Hawk was probably as fat and unappetising as Ralph de Morgan, living in some cold secluded castle with a wife and children around his feet. Without doubt, he would have ridden roughshod over her just as much as the de Longspeys, which would not have been to her taste.

‘Well, Rose, if Gilbert is set on it—’ Petronilla’s voice broke in to her uneasy recollections ‘—how can we stop it?’

A glint appeared in Rosamund’s eye, which should have warned her mother. ‘I know exactly how to do so. I am going to take up my inheritance.’

‘In Clifford?’

‘Yes. It’s mine and I can live there if I wish. You can come with me or go to Lower Broadheath. Will you come?’ A little smile touched her lips as she watched Petronilla consider, knowing the outcome. Of course her mother would come. She would admit that to change Rosamund’s mind would be like trying to change the direction of the wind, and she might as well save her breath, but she was not so careless a parent as to allow her only child to journey into the wild terrain in the west unaccompanied.

‘I will come with you,’ Petronilla confirmed. ‘Of course I will. Do you need to ask?’ And then, with a sigh as reality struck, ‘But Gilbert will stop you.’

‘No, he won’t. I have a plan.’

‘But, Rose, it’s so far.’

‘Exactly! Far enough to get me out of the marriage with Ralph de Morgan. Once there, I’ll be safe. I can live as I wish.’ Rosamund’s eyes gleamed with indomitable courage and sheer excitement at the planned adventure. ‘If I flee to Clifford, rejecting all ties with Salisbury, Gilbert—and Ralph too—might just write me off as a lost cause. I doubt either of them will bother to send a force after us, to drag me back to Salisbury in chains or lock me in a dungeon until I am obedient. We shall both be free of the selfish demands of opinionated men. Which, I think, will suit both of us very well.’

Chapter Two

Fitz Osbern arrived in Hereford as the winter night closed in, rain still falling steadily. He settled his men as usual into the range of buildings that made up the Blue Boar, stayed only for a cup of ale, a platter of bread and tough meat of dubious origin, then replaced cloak and hood to begin a round of the ale houses and taverns.

Knowing the habits of his quarry, it did not take long. In the Red Lion he caught sight of just the man who would answer his needs. A thickset soldier with years of experience on his shoulders, he was in the act of raising a tankard to his lips, Fitz Osbern strode up behind him and clapped him on the back. He choked over the ale.

‘God damn it!’ The irate drinker wheeled round, tankard discarded so that it rolled wetly on the table. His hand flashed to the dagger at his waist, all the honed instincts of a hardened campaigner, until he grunted, grinned as he wiped his hand down over the front of his ale-spotted tunic. ‘Ger! I might have known. But you might value your life …’ Hugh de Mortimer swept the point of the short-bladed dagger in a menacing circle, before placing it on the table top and pushing forward a stool with one booted foot.

‘As if you could stick me with that pretty toy, before I had you on the floor under my boot.’ Gervase sat, cast off his cloak. ‘Still frequenting stews such as this for your entertainment?’ His lips curled at the rank smoke, the unpleasant mix of scents of rancid onions and sour ale, of damp and unwashed humanity. Hugh’s weathered face softened into a smile of easy camaraderie of long standing, which Gervase returned as they finally clasped hands in greeting. Hugh continued to wear his years well. There were a good dozen years between them, but they had fought side by side over those years to keep the March at peace. Grizzled, stocky, the Marcher lord enforced his authority with steely blue eyes and a common touch that made him popular and easy to approach.

‘For your information, Ger, I’m here for any news of interest,’ the Marcher lord chided gently, yet with the authority of experience and the scattering of grey in his hair. From his power base in Hereford, Hugh de Mortimer had taken it upon himself to keep his finger on the tumultuous pulse of the March in the name of the King. ‘I had a meeting with one of my informants here.’ Hugh eyed Gervase, the growth of beard, the black, rain-matted hair. ‘Thought you were in Anjou.’

‘I was. Just returned.’ Stretching out his right leg, a groan indicating a recent injury from a fall from his horse, one that still ached in cold wet weather, Gervase ran his hand over his rough chin and cheeks with distaste. ‘Some hard travelling with little time for home comforts. As for the crossing …’ His expression said it all. ‘I was bound for Monmouth. And then I heard some interesting news on the road this side of Gloucester.’

A gleam lit the keen blue eyes. ‘Salisbury?

‘Salisbury. That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d know more if there was anything to know. Your lines of communication are excellent. Tell me what’s afoot.’

‘Salisbury’s dead,’ Hugh confirmed, turning smartly to business. ‘That’s what you wanted to hear.’

‘So it’s true.’

‘And you are thinking of the future of Clifford.’

‘How would I not?’

‘That this is your chance to get it back?’

‘I don’t know. I doubt it. The son and heir has as much an iron fist as his father. The lands will be held secure. I doubt the change in ownership will make much difference. And I’m too far stretched with the Anjou possessions to engage in a major conflict, however much I might desire the castle.’

Hugh’s hand closed over the Fitz Osbern’s wrist, pulled him closer. ‘But listen, Ger. Rumour has it that the new Earl’s primary interest will not be in the March after all. That he has not inherited Clifford, or the other two border castles. Nor has his brother Walter.’

Gervase paused, ale halfway between table and lips. Blood sang through his veins, a sudden bubble of warmth to lift his spirits.

‘If not Gilbert, then who?’

‘The Earl’s daughter. A girl from his second marriage. He married Petronilla de Clare a dozen years ago. So this daughter must be young—a mere child, I think.’

‘A child?’ Gervase tapped his fingers against the cup at the new slant on affairs.

‘That’s what my sources tell me. It might be in your interest after all to spy out the land.’ A sly smile on Hugh’s face, at odds with the ingenuous open stare.

‘It might. Well, now! Clifford in the hands of a child, a girl.’

Fitz Osbern sat and thought, staring down into his ale.

Clifford. The name had been engraved on his consciousness when a small child, written there in a forceful hand by his father. By rights the little border fortress was his, part of the Fitz Osbern estates. He knew it well, had once lived there for a short period when he was first wed to Matilda de Vaughan. Urgently, he pushed that unwelcome memory away to concentrate on what he recalled of the stronghold itself. For the most part a rough-and-ready, timber-and-earth construction, with only a token rebuilding in stone to provide basic living accommodation. But that was not important. What was, was that it held a strategic position on the River Wye, where the river could be forded, and was one of the original Fitz Osbern lands granted to his ancestor after the Conquest by the grateful Conqueror. It was undeniably part of his inheritance.

But then Clifford had been filched from his father, Henry, Lord Fitz Osbern, by the Earl of Salisbury when Lord Henry was campaigning in Anjou and he, Gervase, was holding court in his father’s name in Monmouth. All was done and dusted by the time his father returned, or before he could raise his own force and march to Clifford from Monmouth. By that time Salisbury was smirking from behind the walls.

And so Clifford had become a constant thorn in the Fitz Osbern flesh, of loss and humiliation that had worn his father down. Not in the best of health, he had seen it as a disgrace, a stain on his honour. A suppurating sword wound had carried him off to his grave only twelve months after. Gervase’s frown grew heavier. Any attempt by Gervase to recover the castles by force would have had Salisbury descending on him with the weight of a full battle force backed by all his Longspey wealth and influence, not to mention King Stephen’s ear.

But now Stephen was dead, so was Salisbury. And Clifford was owned by a child …

‘Does it mean so much to you?’ Hugh had watched the play of emotions over what he could see of his friend’s features. ‘It’s small, needs total refurbishment if you mean to keep a siege at bay. I doubt there’s been much rebuilding or improvement since the first wooden tower and earth ramparts were put into place. Does it matter so much that you reclaim Clifford?’

‘Oh, yes.’ There was no mistaking the light in Gervase’s eyes. The utter conviction in his voice. ‘It means everything.’

‘Because of your father.’

‘Because of him. And family honour, I suppose.’ A pause. ‘And because of Matilda …’

‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten …’

‘I hadn’t.’ Gervase’s hands clenched round the mug. ‘I’ll never forget. She died there, and I was not there to save her.’

The flat emotion in his face dissuaded Hugh from pursuing that line. He cleared his throat. ‘So what will you do?’

‘Tomorrow I ride for Clifford. I can hardly pass up so perfect an opportunity, now can I?’

‘No. Want company?’

Gervase searched the Marcher lord’s face. What better support could he ask for when planning a raid into hostile territory? A firm sword hand and a courageous spirit. A wealth of sound advice. Of recent years he had become used to acting on his own authority. Isolated, his mother said in moments of sharp honesty. Perhaps a friendly face at his shoulder would be welcome …

‘Well?’ Hugh prompted. ‘Do you want me or not?’

Gervase noticeably relaxed, nodded. ‘I do. If you have a mind to come and see me crow over my victory—then by all means.’

‘Let’s drink to it.’

With a combined force, on the following morning the two men took the road west out of Hereford toward Clifford. The day broke with a sharp wind and bright scudding cloud. The Black Mountains now came into sharp focus, rising out of the plain before them. Their objective, the small border fortress, stood on the south bank of the Wye to the north of the main ridge.

The company rode at ease in such familiar territory. Hugh stretched his limbs in the saddle, flexed his shoulders. He might appreciate town life—soft living, Gervase had called it—but it was good to ride in congenial company again. Conversation ranged wide, but gradually they circled to more personal matters. Hugh was quite prepared to take advantage of the long family association and touch on a sensitive nerve, the nerve he had neatly avoided the previous night. He knew Gervase would resist, but in the clear light of day broached the subject anyway.

‘You, Ger, need a wife.’

‘I know.’ The reply was level enough. ‘I could say the same for you.’

Ah! So that’s the game! Feint and parry to distract the opponent. De Mortimer decided to play along. ‘No, I do not. I was married for well over twenty years. I have two fine grown sons as heirs, now with young families of their own, to carry on my name and rule the Mortimer lands. I loved Joanna dearly. I do not want another wife at my time of life. I’m too set in my ways to start to conform to the demands and needs of another woman in my home. I like my own way too much.’

‘Not even to warm your bed on a cold night?’ Gervase slid a glance at the man who still carried himself with the vibrant energy of a younger man. The grey streaks, the fine lines beside eyes and mouth, were misleading.

‘There are other ways, if that’s what I choose. Such as a very personable merchant’s widow in Hereford who would like nothing more than to be a permanent addition to my bed if I raised my hand and smiled in her direction. So, no, I don’t see myself taking the oath again. But that’s side-stepping the issue—as you well know.’ His gaze sharpened and pinned Gervase, his advice becoming brutal. ‘Imagine me in the role of your late lamented father! You have no heir and you need one. You could be killed by a stray arrow or a well-aimed sword-cut today … tomorrow. You cannot burn the flame at the fair Matilda de Vaughan’s altar for ever. How long is it since she died? Five years now? Accept it, she’s lost to you. So you must turn your thoughts elsewhere. What are you going to do about it?’

The level voice acquired a distinct edge. ‘Find another, I suppose. Matilda, I should tell you, is not an issue. I doubt I’ll ever burn a flame for any woman.’ Gervase’s lips twisted in a wry smile. ‘Far too poetic for my liking. You sound like one of those damned troubadours, Hugh!’

Hugh barked a laugh. ‘When will you find another?’

‘When I have time.’

‘Any possibilities?’ Hugh persisted. ‘I suppose you have some preferences in the woman you will wed.’

‘Yes, of course I do.’ Gervase, obviously unwilling to spar with de Mortimer and determined to put an end to the discussion, rattled them off as if compiling a list of requirements for a battle campaign. ‘What any man of sense would choose. Well born, passably attractive, of course. Biddable, obedient, well tutored in domestic affairs, an efficient chatelaine who can hold the reins of my households—you know the sort of thing.’

Hugh hid a smile. He did indeed. The milk-sop sort of wife who would present no difficulties or challenges for Gervase. Who would not question or comment or contradict, but behave with perfect compliance. Soft and malleable as a goose-down cushion. And just as smothering and dull.

‘Had any offers lately?’ he asked innocently.

‘Not of late. Unless you count the de Longspey girl.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Salisbury offered me one of his family, to tie and hobble me into a neat alliance.’

‘Well, that surprises me.’ Hugh cast about in his mind for knowledge of de Longspey females. ‘Who was it?’

‘I’ve forgotten,’ Gervase admitted, annoyed at the tinge of heat in his face at this turn in the conversation. ‘I don’t think we were actually introduced. I was not interested and so refused.’

‘So you were rude and brutal.’

‘I was honest! What I was, as I recall, was grieving for my father’s death, and not willing to be bought off.’ He paused. Huffed a breath. ‘If you want the truth—then, no, I was not temperate. I have regretted it since.’

‘Was the lady not—ah, passably attractive, biddable, obedient, then?’

Gervase smiled, laughed with genuine humour. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘I despair of you, Ger. But don’t leave it too long,’ was all de Mortimer could find to say.

‘As soon as I have this matter of Clifford settled, I’ll turn my mind to it.’

They worked their way around a particularly water-logged stretch of road, the horses’ hooves squelching in the heavy mud. The sun vanished and the rain began again.

‘What will you do if the child is already in residence at Clifford?’ Hugh suddenly asked on a thought.

‘I don’t expect it.’ Gervase’s brows rose. It had not crossed his mind. ‘Why would she? I would expect her to remain in Salisbury until she’s old enough to be wed. Clifford is no fit place for a child—and a girl.’

‘Probably not. But it might be so.’

‘Then I shall pack her back into her travelling wagon with her nurse, her clothes and her toys and her kitten or whatever she has brought with her—and send her back to her de Longspey brothers in Salisbury. What did you expect that I would do? Consign her to a dungeon?’

‘No, Gervase.’ A hint of censure, even of warning, touched the Marcher lord’s mouth for an instant. ‘I would expect you to treat her with all honour and courtesy.’

‘Don’t doubt it. I shall do exactly that.’

With the seed inadvertently planted by Hugh in his mind, Gervase found his thoughts returning to that disastrous interview with Salisbury, remembering primarily being overwhelmed with an anger that threatened to slip beyond his control. It made uncomfortable remembering. In retrospect, with his father just dead, he should never have done it. It had always been an impossible goal, but in his grief Gervase had made an attempt to regain his rightful property by an appeal to justice. Which Earl William had refused, but had then tried to buy him off with a de Longspey bride. No, he had not been as temperate as he might have been. As if he would ever accept a woman from the murderous de Longspey stable. He recalled storming out of the luxurious rooms in the Salisbury town house with barely a thought for the unfortunate girl who had been tricked out for his inspection. No, not the best of moves. And, worst of all, it had left Clifford securely in the hands of Salisbury. But no Fitz Osbern worth his salt would commit himself to living in Salisbury’s pocket as a dependent lord. It had pleased him mightily to fling the offer of a wife back in the Earl’s self-righteous face without a moment’s thought.

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?

Chapter Three

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!

Rosamund frowned. As the knight moved, she noticed he favoured his right leg, a slight limp. Probably acquired in a tavern brawl or a drunken disagreement over dice. He was nothing but a mercenary, a robber baron, and not a moment ago she had been dragged into his arms, held hard against his chest. Disgust filled her, not least at her reaction to him. She could not find this man attractive! Her intense annoyance coloured her next words when she saw that he was quite prepared to dismiss her like a servant and leave her standing there in the mud of her own bailey.

‘How dare you take what is mine! You’re nothing but an uncivilised lout!’

Which got his attention well enough. Emotion flashed across his face. With shocked fascination she saw the slash of colour along the high cheekbones as he looked down at his tormentor, a particularly cold stare. For a long moment he contemplated her in silence, allowing Rosamund the opportunity to chide herself. What a time to make so unwise an attack. Then, when the weight in her chest had grown to major proportions, he grinned and sketched a mocking bow, strangely at odds with the mud and grime. The smile was not friendly. His eyes and his words froze the marrow of her bones.

‘In the circumstances, lady, you should be praying that you are wrong in your estimation of my appearance and character. If I was an uncivilised lout, I would have designs on your person as well as your castle.’ He took a stride forward. To her dismay Rosamund took one in retreat, but Fitz Osbern did not halt. Instead he stepped intimidatingly close. Rosamund, disconcerted, found herself lifting a hand to smack it firmly in self-protection against his chest. And drew in a sharp breath.

It burned. She could feel the heat of him, as she had before, as it crept from that inadvertent touch of her spread fingers to engulf her whole body. And not merely a physical warmth. Her heart seemed to swell with it, filling her breast so that her breathing shortened. Her belly shivered with nerves. Every inch of her skin seemed suddenly to be conscious of his looming presence. He might not be touching her, but she felt the hot slide of his glance over her flesh. Aghast, Rosamund swallowed against the dryness in her throat. She could feel the flame of it in her cheeks, and cursed her pale complexion that mirrored every thought. Could think of nothing to say, could only stare at him wide-eyed as his heart beat steadily beneath her palm.

Then, to her relief, the knight stepped back.

‘I assure you, I have no designs on your person,’ he growled. The grin widened to show even teeth. Wolfishly, she considered. ‘As for yourself, lady, you are remarkably proud and haughty, considering that you are entirely at my mercy.’

Flushing again, vividly to the roots of her hair, Rosamund found her voice. ‘At your mercy? I am no such thing!’

‘No? I don’t suggest that you challenge me on that point.’ He looked her up and down as if about to say more, changed his mind. ‘Enough of this. I have things to do here, lady. We’ll discuss this … this little difficulty … over dinner at mid-day. If nothing else, we must arrange for your transportation elsewhere. So if you would be so good as to order the provision of hot food for my men with my steward, and for ourselves …’

Without a backward glance, Fitz Osbern strode off toward the stables, leaving her standing. My steward! Her clear brow furrowed into a scowl, her hands tightened into fists. She would have tapped her foot if her shoe had not been firmly anchored in the mud. Order the food! As if I were a servant at his beck and call! Stalking past her mother without a word, she climbed the stairs into the hall, head high, realising that she had no choice, that she would get nowhere with this situation until they faced each other again and hammered out the legalities. She refused to chase after him to demand his attention. So she would organise the meal. Present him with the documents of her legal ownership. And then force him to leave. Although how she would achieve such a conclusion she had no very clear idea. Whatever she had or had not learned about him in that short confrontation, he was not a man open to persuasion.

But that was not all she had learnt. And it was equally unacceptable. Rosamund found herself wiping her damp palm down her skirts. His touch still burned there.

Lady Petronilla remained standing at the foot of the staircase, a fascinated witness to the little scene, an avid spectator of a clash of wills that could not but fill her with anxieties for the future. She might have been unable to hear all the words spoken, except when Rosamund raised her voice beyond what was seemly to call the knight an uncivilised lout—perhaps not the best thing to do on first acquaintance—but the tone of the whole exchange had been abundantly clear. Sometimes Rose was too much her father’s daughter for everyone’s comfort. And now what? The Fitz Osbern men were quite incontrovertibly in control, occupying the gatehouse and the towers of the central court, their equipment stowed and their horses occupying the stables. Petronilla slid a glance over to where the elder of the two knights still stood where he had remained throughout, at his horse’s head, hands clasped on his sword belt as he watched the proceedings with an undisguised appreciation. Now, sensing her interest, he looked across at her, his smile gaining a rueful quality. For some reason his quiet confidence, his tolerant smile and the gleam in his eye as it met hers across the width of the bailey brought a warmth to her face. She felt his sympathy, his quick understanding of the uncomfortable position that she had been thrown into, and it irritated her beyond bearing. She felt an urge to wipe the smile from his face. Before common sense could step in, she stalked across to his side.

‘I don’t know what you found to be so amusing in that little interlude,’ she remarked with stern censure. Had she known it, the lift of her chin was very like that of her daughter. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’

‘What?’ The smile duly vanished, the knight’s rough brows snapped together. ‘What did I do?’

‘Nothing! That’s the thing!’

Like her daughter, she turned on her heel and left him to mull over the enigmatic words as he wished, whilst Lady Petronilla wondered at her response to the knight and her temerity at castigating him for no reason at all.

Rosamund paced in the Great Hall—her Great Hall—her thoughts in confusion. As if her arrival at Clifford on the previous day had not been bad enough, with all its shocking revelation. As if the decisions she had been forced to make had not taken all her courage. And now this débâcle—this monstrous turn of events. From the moment when she had at set foot in the small settlement of some twenty timber-and-thatch houses on the bank of the Wye where the river could be forded with relative ease, everything seemed destined to go wrong. She had simply sat and looked in horrified awe at the central keep of Clifford, recently rebuilt in local stone, her inheritance and her chosen home. It was grey and entirely forbidding.

‘It’s not exactly welcoming, is it?’ Lady Petronilla, lips pressed into a straight line to prevent an exclamation of sheer horror, sat in the bailey of Clifford Castle and viewed the near prospect from the safe advantage of her mare’s back. Her hands clutched around the reins at what she saw.

‘God’s bones!’ Less restrained, Rosamund’s first impression of her new home was dire. Was this—this hellish outpost on the very edge of what she considered to be civilisation—to be her home?

‘Don’t blaspheme, Rosamund.’ But the Countess’s tone was mild. ‘It’s not as bad as all that.’ A rat scurried across their path, larger than most cats. ‘Or perhaps it is.’

Due to the striking de Longspey pennons in black and red, flaunted by their escort, the castle gates had been opened for them without question. The commander of the garrison, an elderly knight of lined and mournful visage named Thomas de Byton, stood elbows akimbo on the steps leading up to the entrance to the keep, sour and unaccommodating. He made no advance to acknowledge or receive the women who had turned up unwanted and uninvited on his threshold, but watched them with what Rosamund could only interpret as a jaundiced air. She could read his disapproval in his stance. Awaited his approach. When he made no move, she nudged her horse forward until she sat before him, her eyes on a level with his, as she had intended, and very direct.

‘Thomas de Byton.’ Her voice was clear, carried well. She had made it her business to discover the name of the man who held Clifford in her name, the protection of her property. ‘I am Rosamund de Longspey.’

‘Aye, my lady. I heard the Earl had given the castle to a woman.’

She ignored his words but, eyes widened, continued to hold his. ‘Perhaps you will make arrangements for the accommodation of my escort and for myself and the Dowager Countess.’

‘And for how long would that be, my lady?’

She lifted her chin an inch, stared down her nose. ‘For as long as I see fit. I intend to make my home here.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’ Sir Thomas turned, to stamp back up the steps, in no way discommoded by the interview.

‘One moment, Sir Thomas. If you please.’

He halted, half-turned, but did not retrace his steps.

‘If you would see to my horses and my baggage, I wish to inspect the private quarters.’

‘As you wish, my lady.’ With bad grace, he marched back down the steps and across the bailey to the thatch-and-timber constructions that housed the kitchens, resentment hovering round him like a swarm of flies in summer. She heard his muttered parting shot.

‘Let me know when you decide you don’t wish to stay, my lady.’

But she would stay. She must. The new Lady of Clifford braced for what was to come.

‘Well, it could be worse. Some improvements have been made.’ Petronilla surveyed the stone walls rising on every side to create an inner court.

‘I fail to see them,’ Rosamund lifted one soft leather boot to inspect the mud caked almost to the ankle. This inner courtyard enclosed within the defences of the stone keep was badly drained and awash with standing water. The walls were high, hemming them in, cutting off the light. The air was dank and chill and would be so, she suspected, even on the warmest of summer days. She shivered within her mantle. ‘It’s like being enclosed in a stone tomb.’

‘At least you have the comfort of a stone hall. Timber lets in the draughts so,’ Petronilla continued, trying to make the best of it. They looked around them at the five towers and the three-storied Hall, all connected by a strong defensive wall, a battlement walk around the top. ‘And our safety here is guaranteed, even if the outer bailey falls to an attack.’

‘Do you say?’ Rosamund poked at some decaying mortar between the stonework. ‘I think we should look at the rest before we go in.’ She followed Sir Thomas’s distant figure down into the bailey.

It did not take long. Rosamund’s sense of disgust deepened with every step. Other than the gatehouse and the keep, both of stone and substantial enough, the rest of the fortification was still the original timber palisade with an outer earth bank and ditch. The buildings in the outer bailey were timber and thatch—stables, kitchens, store rooms, as well as shelters for the scattering of cows and sheep that roamed and mired up the surface. She stepped cautiously around the animals. Should they not be fenced in somewhere? Chickens sat broodily along one roof ridge. In the corner beside the keep, easily recognisable by the rank smell, a midden spread its foul contents underfoot. Her nose wrinkling, Rosamund quickly put distance between herself and the offending heap. Who could have allowed the midden to be positioned there, so close to the habitation?

‘It could be worse,’ the Dowager gulped, as if repeating the words would make them so. ‘You’ve a secure water supply from the well.’

‘So I have.’ Rosamund suddenly smiled wryly at her mother, struck by the sheer awfulness of it all. ‘Stop being so cheerful!’ But this is where she must stay. ‘Let’s go in. You notice that our commander and my invisible steward—if I have one—are both keeping a low profile. I think it bodes ill.’

It did. The sight and the stench reduced the de Longspey women to a silence.

‘Oh, dear!’ Lady Petronilla managed at last.

The Hall showed evidence of hard and crowded living, being the nightly refuge of Sir Thomas’s men-at-arms. Dark in the most sun-filled of days, rank with smoke from the open fire that did not find the intended outlets in the thickness of the wall and with the rancid reek of animal fat feeding the rush lights, it was a scene from a church wall-painting of Hell, to frighten the sinful into a better life on earth.

‘These rushes have not been changed since last winter.’ In awe of such filth, Rosamund tried not to disturb them too much as she walked in, flinching from the fleas and vermin that would infest them. Any sweet scent had long gone, replaced by the stench from putrid scraps of food and worse from the savaging hounds that drew back snarling as she approached. Over all, the whole place reeked of unwashed humanity.

The furniture was minimal, splattered and scarred. A few benches and stools stood by the hearth. The single standing table on the dais had seen better days. There were no tapestries to decorate the walls. Indeed, it would have been a shame to hang them where their beauty would have been spoiled. The stonework ran with wet and soot from the fire.

‘So what about the private chambers?’ Rosamund started up the stairs to the next floor. ‘For where shall we sleep tonight?’

‘Not in here!’ Lady Petronilla lifted the hem of her skirts from the outrage.

The solar, intended as a comfortable refuge for the women of the household, contained nothing but evidence of soldiers sleeping there—a discarded boot and assorted pieces of raiment, jugs of ale, remnants of ruined food. Equally, the adjoining private chamber intended to heighten the authority of the lord and his lady had been taken over, Rosamund presumed, as the haunt of Thomas de Byton, and he had done nothing to remove his presence from it.

‘By the Virgin!’ Rosamund kicked over a pile of questionable material beside what should have been an impressive oak bedstead, then retreated from platters of food with their layers of fuzzy mould. The smell that hit them at the door heralded the existence of the garderobe, built into the thickness of the wall to empty into the ditch below. It was altogether an appalling place.

Rosamund decided not to investigate further. ‘I doubt this has ever been cleaned out since the stone keep was first constructed. It’s hard to believe that Ralph de Morgan would want it.’ She veiled her thoughts with dark lashes from her percipient mother, not liking their direction, unable to dispel the sharp bitterness that settled beneath her breast-bone. ‘As a dower it does not recommend me highly to a husband, does it? And yet Ralph de Morgan would take me, to acquire this. Simply because it controls the crossing of the Wye. The cow byres in Salisbury are better kept than this! Yet it was thought to be a suitable dower for me.’ She heard her voice rise, and strove without success to control the bleak vision of her future here. ‘Perhaps at my advanced age Ralph is the best I can hope for. I clearly have no great value in de Longspey eyes, except to entice a border lord into their clutches.’

‘Foolish girl! How could you think that you have no value! Believe me, Rose, this place will look far better after a good scrub!’ Petronilla managed a semblance of a smile as Edith called on the Virgin to give them succour. Only too well aware of the probable live occupants of the mattress, they made a discreet exit from the chamber. The fleas and bugs might be invisible, but the mice and rats were not. Nor the enormous spiders that had spun cobwebs over every corner.

‘I can think it well enough. Consider this. Earl William and Gilbert thought to attract a husband for me by using this … this midden as a dower. What value does that give me? What worth have I?’ But Rosamund squared her shoulders against the hurt. She would not let it crush her spirits. She could at least pretend that the pain of humiliation in her chest did not exist. ‘Perhaps the storerooms will give me hope.’

They did not. A cursory inspection suggested that Rosamund de Longspey owned nothing but a serious quantity of barrels of ale. A sad fact confirmed by the mid-day meal, served by an ill-washed kitchen boy in the squalor of the Great Hall. The array of dishes comprised, apart from the ale, nothing more than a thick mutton broth, a platter of boiled onions and coarse flat-bread, burnt at the sides.

They did their best with it in a horrified silence that at least gave Rosamund time to marshal her thoughts. She dipped her spoon into the fat that pooled glossily on the surface, pushing aside the gristle before pushing aside the bowl itself. She had three choices as she saw it. To accept defeat, retreat to Salisbury and Ralph’s noxious embrace. The shudder that ran over her flesh at the thought had nothing to do with the ferocious draught that had frozen her feet into splinters of ice. She could not do that. Why, oh, why had the Wild Hawk not agreed to take her? The shiver that rippled over her skin had even less to do with the cold, but a remembered awareness in her belly as his eyes had travelled over her body. It had lingered, a knot of heat, even when he had rejected her with nothing but the briefest of salutes to her fingers. Now to have his hands awaken her body …

Well, he hadn’t wanted her. And as she could not possibly take Ralph, so she must turn her back on marriage.

The second possibility—she let her affectionate gaze rest on the Countess who was in the act of pushing the platter of onions toward Sir Thomas with a gracious and entirely false smile. She could take up residence at Lower Broadheath with her mother and grow old in extreme and graceful boredom.

Or … she inhaled slowly as her eyes travelled round the stained walls of her Great Hall … she could remain here and claim her inheritance as Lady of Clifford.

‘If you wed Ralph de Morgan, you would not have to live here, Rose.’ Petronilla’s advice was tentative, but accurate.

‘Would you give yourself into Ralph de Morgan’s sweaty hands?’

‘No.’ The Countess sighed.

Rosamund had stiffened her shoulders. Despite the impossible horror of it all, she would remain here at Clifford, but there were changes to be made. Immediate and wideranging, and very much to her own liking. She would make this place her own. Was she not the undisputable Lady of Clifford? She remembered smiling serenely at the Countess and a suspicious Sir Thomas.

Now Rosamund scowled.

‘Changes to my own liking?’ she announced, coming to an abrupt halt in her pacing, her recollections overlaid by a bitter truth and a slick layer of dread. ‘What could I have been thinking? Any authority I thought was mine has just been denied me at the point of a sword.’

Just when she had made her decision to stay, to make the best of it, what did she find? That ruffian taking possession of her castle, her dowry, her only protection to stand between herself and Ralph de Morgan. Just when she had come to terms with her new home with all its imperfections, had forced herself to challenge the sneers of Sir Thomas, had accepted the hard work it would take to make it her own, it was snatched out of her hands by this disreputable riff-raff. This oaf!

‘Did you hear what he said? The audacity of that … that plunderer!’ Rosamund rounded on her mother as soon as Petronilla entered the Great Hall.

‘Yes. I could not help but hear it.’ Lady Petronilla looked back over her shoulder, thoughtfully, to the distant figures, the sounds of activity.

‘The castle is his and would I kindly see to the preparation of a meal!’ Rosamund raised her hands, smacked her palms together so that the sound echoed sharply in the high roof-space. ‘I have the documents, the seals of ownership. He can’t do this to me.’

‘I fear that he has.’

Rosamund gnawed at her bottom lip, frowned at her unperturbed parent. ‘You seem very calm with all this.’ Of late the Countess had a tendency to accept the vagaries of life with a lack of spirit, a worrying development, but now was not the time to discuss it. ‘I will not eat with him.’

‘We can’t starve, Rose. Besides, hunger is bad for the temper. You need to be cool here, Rosamund, when you decide what you will do.’ She looked at her daughter’s flushed face. ‘What will you do?’

The green eyes snapped. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Then let us set food before the two knights, as we should with all good manners toward our guests, and see what unfolds.’

Rosamund nodded at the wisdom of her mother’s advice. Otherwise, would she not show herself to be as uncouth as the man who had just held the point of his sword to her breast? But she would not retreat, as he would soon learn. ‘Very well. I will feed him. But mark this. I will not give my home up to some unprincipled Marcher ruffian—whoever he says he is—without a fight.’

‘No, dear Rose. Of course you won’t. But it might not be wise to antagonise him.’

If Gervase Fitz Osbern had any thoughts on his intimate encounter with the de Longspey heiress, he was not saying, although close acquaintances might have considered him more taciturn than usual. By mid-day the disposition of his troops was to his satisfaction. Not the strongest of fortresses, with only a wooden palisade, but he could not fault the recent constructions of the Earl of Salisbury. The stone structure of walls and towers on the natural rock-based mound forming a cliff above the river would hold all but the most determined army at bay. He frowned at Sir Thomas de Byton’s busy figure in the distance. He did not like the de Longspey commander, but the man was capable and quick to carry out orders. Gervase’s lips twisted. Preferred the authority of a man to that of a woman, no doubt. Perhaps he could be left to hold the castle in Fitz Osbern’s name. So as the winter sun struggled to the meagre heights of mid-day, Gervase and his men-at-arms repaired to the Great Hall. The servant girls hastily commandeered from the village had been busy. Scents of roast meats and newly baked bread wafted across the bailey. Tables had been put up on trestles. His men crowded in to take their seats. Fitz Osbern, with Hugh accompanying him, walked forward to the dais where the two women waited.

Very pretty, Gervase acknowledged dispassionately, his second meeting of the day with Rosamund de Longspey confirming his first impressions in the bailey, and he was not a man immune to a pretty woman. There his quick assessment had taken in her vibrant colouring and glowing skin, the cold wind having brought a delicate tint to her face. The formidably straight nose, and the strikingly beautiful arch of her brows, spoke of nothing but trouble for himself. A woman, not a girl—the rumours had been wrong—who had far too much sense of her own importance. Came of growing up in the household of the Earl of Salisbury where her will would never have been thwarted, if he knew anything about it. But how she could be the child of the second marriage he could not guess. Nor did she follow the usual de Longspey colouring or feature … There was a little tug at his memory, but one that promptly eluded him. No matter. She was not to his taste. And the mystery of the de Longspey heiress aside, Rosamund de Longspey was here and claiming the castle as her own and, thus, she was a hindrance to his plans, which had otherwise worked to smooth perfection. Unexpectedly, uncomfortably, he was conscious of where her hand had pressed against his chest, of her slim figure held within the protection of his arms—even if she had felt the need to belabour him with her fists. Until she had fought against him, for just one heated moment, she had fitted perfectly against him so that he was conscious of every curve and flat plane of her flesh against his—he pushed the memory away. She would not be allowed to hinder him. His father’s ruined inheritance and sullied pride had both been superbly avenged. The castle was his—as would be the other two Marcher fortresses before the week was out.

He caught the condemnation in the lady’s eyes as she watched him approach from the high chair on the dais, read the contempt in the bold and supercilious stare. An uncivilised lout, was he? He quelled a sudden urge to laugh, well aware of his careworn and mud-splattered appearance. He must look exactly that—a border robber without finesse. She doubtless saw him as a penniless adventurer, boorish and illiterate, with nowhere to call his home but some squalid fortress of mud and timber. Now this lady was quite a different cauldron of eels, and had dressed for the occasion. And he’d wager she’d done it deliberately. A vixen, was the Lady Rosamund. The silk gown with its embroidered edgings to hem and sleeves, the veil secured by a matching embroidered filet were completely impractical for life in such a fortress on the far-flung edge of the kingdom. Yet the deep green enhanced the glowing translucence of her skin, the intense colour of her eyes, the rose-pink of her pretty mouth … Gervase Fitz Osbern breathed deeply and brought his wandering attention back into line.

She was simply a problem that he must solve, a vixen to be turned out of her lair. So she had dressed to put him at a disadvantage, had she? As she had, standing on the dais before him, the advantage of height over him. Well, he could change the latter if he could do nothing about the former. He came to the dais, stepped up, and halted before this unlooked for problem to be solved. And it struck him as he glared down into the beautiful face. Despite the flash of wrath in her eyes and the challenge to his authority in her very appearance, if he were not careful he might just feel a need to … well, to protect her, he supposed.

Rosamund de Longspey barely reached his shoulder.

His thick lashes hid a sudden gleam in his eye. The lady would get no protection from him, however decorative or vulnerable she might appear. His first priority, very simply, must be to get her out of his castle.

Rosamund had set the scene carefully. She had deliberately taken the lord’s high-backed chair, the only such chair in the Hall, to stamp her authority on the proceedings. As it had given her great pleasure to oust Thomas de Byton from his habitual seat and force him to take a more lowly stool, now it would give her equal satisfaction to do the same to Fitz Osbern. She watched him approach, never once taking her eyes from his face. If he was aware of her cunning handling of the occasion, he gave no recognition of it. He turned his head to exchange some comment with the other knight who had arrived with him. So she took the time to re-appraise him. Well! He had not combed his hair, but had at least used his fingers to give it some semblance of order. He might have brushed his clothes free of the worst of the mud and had abandoned his cloak, although he still wore sword and dagger, but his boots needed more than a cursory clean. He still looked like a marauding brigand.

She rose slowly to her feet.

The knight halted before the dais, bowed with token good manners to the two women, then stepped up, almost planting his mired boots on the edge of Rosamund’s silk gown. Intimidatingly close to her, a menacingly looming figure, Rosamund found that she had to fight not to step back. She held her ground, but the knight merely dragged forward a stool and sat without comment, without courtesy, even before she and her mother had taken their own seats.

‘Ladies.’ He swept the pair with an indifferent and preoccupied gaze. ‘Let me make you known. I am Gervase Fitz Osbern. This is Hugh de Mortimer.’

Rosamund sat, inclined her head, very much the great lady. Her fears were justified. They were nothing more than border lords, both of them. No better than the leaderless rabble who preyed on the unwary. Nothing to compare with the sophistication of the noble de Longspeys and those who visited Salisbury from King Henry’s royal court. Thus there was a touch of arrogance in her cool reply.

‘I am Rosamund de Longspey. Let me make you known to my mother. Lady Petronilla de Longspey, Dowager Countess of Salisbury.’

‘We welcome your hospitality, lady. Smell’s good after a morning’s work.’ It was de Mortimer who responded, rubbing his hands together, his first words for Rosamund, but then his interest centred on the widow. ‘I knew your husband a little, my lady. I last met him at the coronation of King Henry four years back. I heard of your loss. You must regret his untimely death.’

‘Yes. Thank you. It was unexpected.’ The Countess accepted the condolences with unruffled grace.

‘I thought your daughter must have been younger. That you had not been married to Salisbury for so very long.’ There was a decided twinkle in de Mortimer’s eye. ‘I did not think you old enough to have a daughter of marriageable age herself.’

To her astonishment, Rosamund watched her mother’s face grow pink, her eyes hidden by a down-sweep of fine lashes. Rosamund did not think she had ever seen her mother react in such a charmingly self-conscious manner. But Petronilla’s reply was quite composed as she saw fit to explain. ‘Rosamund is not of Salisbury’s blood, my lord, but my daughter of my first marriage to John de Bredwardine. I was married at a very young age, you see. It is simply that she took my lord of Salisbury’s name on my marriage. Earl William … well, he insisted on it.’

‘I see. You have my sympathies, lady.’ De Mortimer’s response was brusque in words, but gentle in tone. ‘As I recall, the Earl was always a man to get his own way.’

Petronilla smiled hesitantly. ‘Indeed, sir, I …’

Rosamund could wait no longer. She must stake her claim to her position in this castle immediately. With a stern glare at her mother, who promptly lapsed into a flushed silence, Rosamund gave a signal to her steward, Master Pennard, to begin the meal. Jugs of ale were brought in, the large platters of food. Master Pennard, with weighty ceremonial, carried in the lord’s goblet, a poor pottery affair with a chipped edge. Rosamund watched with narrowed eyes. To whom would he present the goblet? The steward hesitated. His glance edged nervously from one to the other, then, with supreme tact, placed it with a little bow before her. Without expression, Rosamund inclined her head at the minor victory, then turned her attention to the man who sat beside her. He was already watching her with a sharp awareness in his eyes.

‘We have much to discuss, sir.’ She addressed herself directly to Fitz Osbern, who began to apply himself to the meal with enthusiasm after such an active morning. He was already tearing apart a circular loaf of bread, when he looked up.

‘There’s nothing to discuss, lady, as I see it. Except for your imminent departure from this place. I have ordered your horses and your travelling wagon to be made ready at first light tomorrow morning. It’s too late now—it’ll be dark within two hours. First light tomorrow will enable you to reach Hereford with comfort during the day. And then you can travel on to Salisbury at your leisure.’

Rosamund stared her amazement. So immediate. So damnably peremptory! So unfeeling of her plight. She leaned forward. ‘I think you do not understand, sir. This is my inheritance from Earl William for my dower. I have all the legal documents to the land.’

‘But as I explained, the castle was stolen by Salisbury from my father. So if we are talking legality here, the castle is mine.’

‘And you would actually turn me out?’

Unable to sit calmly, Rosamund stood, forcing Fitz Osbern to look up. Their eyes met and held, fiery green locked with wintry grey, with no understanding between them. Fitz Osbern raised his shoulders and turned his attention back to a steaming platter of roast mutton, drawing his dagger from the sheath at his belt.

‘Yes,’ he stated. ‘The accommodation is limited here. There’s only one private chamber. It’s not convenient to me for you to occupy it.’

‘There are five towers around the court, all with chambers, all suitable! I know. I slept in one last night.’ Her face paled and her heart thudded, but whether with anger at his presumption or the sudden fear that he had the power to do exactly as he threatened—to turn her out—she was unsure.

‘This is no place for you, lady.’

‘I will not go.’

He turned from the mutton with a deep sigh, giving her his full attention, making no attempt to curb his impatience as he clapped his dagger down on the board. ‘I am giving you no choice. I will send an escort with you as far as Hereford, if that is what you wish, if you fear to travel. Although you got yourself here unaided without difficulty … From Hereford you can make your own way home. I expect you’ll be well received at Salisbury.’ He shrugged again as if it did not matter unduly to him.

‘But I cannot go back there.’ Her voice fell to almost a whisper as the uncertain future beckoned with all its horrors.

‘Why not? Would your brother not receive you?’

‘Yes. Of course he would. It’s not that …’

Rosamund’s ability to muster an argument vanished as the image of Ralph de Morgan came forcibly into her mind. If she returned to Gilbert’s jurisdiction … For a painful moment she swallowed, closed her eyes against the corpulent figure of Ralph with his ageing and unwashed body, suppressed a shudder. Marriage to him would be a thing of unending horror, of disgust. Her only knowledge of marriage was from the sad experiences of her mother, always discreet, but her sufferings were clear enough. One husband, her own father, a disgracefully uncouth knight with no polish and less breeding, who had treated Petronilla little better than a servant in his Hall. The other had all the polish and style any woman could want, but had been as cold as a fish, without the ability to love. Petronilla had had a lifetime of unhappiness. Did Rosamund want that? A life of hidden tears, of carefully controlled emotions that no one might guess at? A loneliness that was bone deep? All this would be hers. And then, worse then all the rest, there was the loathsome rankness of the man she would be forced to marry. She could not tolerate that. But nor could she explain why it was impossible for her to leave Clifford. It would destroy her pride to have this man look at her with pity in his face. Rosamund shook her head.

‘I won’t go,’ was all she could find to repeat. And, clenching her skirts, would have stalked from the dais except that Fitz Osbern, with the reflexes of a hunting hawk, put out a hand as she passed and grasped her wrist, firm as a vice. His voice was as harsh as his grip; once more his predatory eyes fixed on her face.

‘Lady. Do not mistake my intent. You’ll leave tomorrow if I have to lift you bodily into the wagon with all your possessions. Be ready at daybreak.’

Without success, Rosamund tried to yank her wrist free. The dread of the absent Ralph was immediately replaced by hatred of the terrifyingly present Fitz Osbern, and it drove her into speech, without thought or consideration for the outcome. With an impulsiveness that Lady Petronilla recognised all too well and made her heart sink, Rosamund uttered the first thought that came into her head.

‘If you do that, my lord, if you use physical force against me, I shall camp outside these gates until you either let me in again or I die from exposure to the rain and cold.’

‘Ha! A foolish idea! The empty threat of a thwarted child who wants her own way!’ A bark of laughter shook him, full of sheer incredulity. ‘How would you think of so outrageous an action? You won’t persuade me, whatever empty threats you make. I warned you not to resist me, did I not?’

‘Rosamund …’ murmured Lady Petronilla, who saw Fitz Osbern’s dark brows snap together and immediately dreaded the outcome.

‘No, Mother.’ Rosamund did not spare Petronilla even a glance. All her attention was centred on this man who would rob and ridicule her. ‘I will not be disinherited by this man. I will not be sent away from what is my own.’

‘Of course you will,’ Fitz Osbern replied. ‘When you have taken time to think of the advantages of your home, you’ll see the wisdom of it. A border fortress is no place for a woman alone, so you’ll be a sensible girl and take yourself back to Salisbury. In a month you’ll thank me for showing you the error your pride might have forced you to make.’ A condescending smile touched the firm lips. Which made matters even worse.

‘Oh, no!’ She braced her wrist against his powerful fingers, but he did not let go. ‘I shall sit outside my gates for as long as it takes. And if I do indeed die of cold, my death will be on your head. Are you willing to risk it, my lord?’ Her mouth curved with the challenge.

Which brought him up short. His fingers tightened. ‘Don’t question my authority, lady!’

‘Don’t you push me into defiance, my lord!’ And, snatching her wrist from his hold, Rosamund de Longspey swept from the dais and up the stairs to the solar without a backward glance. They watched her depart, her head held high. Until her mother, after a moment of pregnant silence, stood to follow with an apologetic smile.

‘I think I should warn you, sir.’ Her calm eyes were austere as they rested on Fitz Osbern. ‘It is unwise to underestimate my daughter. She tends to do exactly as she says.’

‘She’ll not defy me,’ Fitz Osbern remarked.

‘I’d not wager on it,’ Lady Petronilla replied over her shoulder. ‘She can’t afford to allow you to win.’

And then the Marcher lords were alone.

‘I think Lady Petronilla’s right, Ger. The girl might just do it, you know. She’s in the mood to.’ Hugh watched the final departing twitch of silk skirts around the turn in the stairs with serious contemplation and the faintest smile of admiration. ‘Are you, as the girl said, indeed willing to risk it?’

‘Risk? Nonsense.’ Gervase turned his attention back to the neglected food and used his dagger to slice into the mutton. ‘I wager it’ll rain tomorrow. A thorough drenching will spur her on her way quicker than any words of mine. And thank God for it! I suspect she’d be more troublesome to me than all the vermin in this place.’

Hugh de Mortimer was of a mind to agree. In his experience, women could be very tricky, and, he suspected, the daughter trickier than most. As for the widow … After her initial attack in the bailey, when her opinion of him appeared to be lower than if he were the rat just now scurrying along the edge of the wall toward the door, her composure in the circumstances was admirable. But what he would care to discover—he poked at some unappetising and unrecognisable dish of stewed vegetables—was what had put the depth of sadness in the widow’s eyes. He turned his attention back to the meat. But of course it was none of his affair.

It proved to be an uneasy night in varying degrees for all.

Hugh de Mortimer consigned his musings of the widow to a pleasant dream that could never be fulfilled, wrapped himself in his cloak in one of the vacant tower rooms and slept the sleep of the untroubled.

Fitz Osbern, with the experience of soldiering that enabled him to sleep anywhere, in any discomfort, was none the less kept awake by a range of insistent thoughts. No one ignored his wishes. No one! Not since he had come of age and taken over control of the Monmouth lands. Lady Maude, his forthright mother, had learnt that quickly enough when she had thought to order his affairs as she had done her husband’s. But that damned girl had. Defiant to the last, despite the fragility of the bones of her wrist under his fingers. And then there had been that definite mark of fear imprinted on her face, in those marvellous green eyes, when he had ordered her return to Earl Gilbert’s house, before the hot fury took over when she spat her defiance at him. He would not consider that.

Damnation. Worse than a nagging tooth! What could be so bad in her cushioned life that she could not recognise Salisbury as a haven of peace and comfort? Irritated with himself, Fitz Osbern pulled his cloak over his head and willed himself to sleep.

Petronilla, in her deliberate calm manner, well practised through years of marriage to men who had no consideration for her feelings, was equally irritated. Why in heaven’s name had she felt the need to explain her situation to the de Mortimer lord? Yet she had read such consideration in his face that she was tempted to smile at him … How foolish to be so flattered that she should blush like a girl! Had she not had enough of men? She would enjoy being a widow with a jointure and a home of her own. Besides, after tomorrow she would be unlikely to set eyes on Hugh de Mortimer ever again.

On which comforting thought she still found it impossible to sleep.

Whilst at her side in the west-tower chamber—the lord’s chamber still not clean enough to her liking—her daughter stirred and twitched and gave up on any possibility of sleep. Rosamund knew that she had wilfully stirred the flames into a blaze, and now she would just have to be prepared to face the consequences of making impulsive declarations. The hours before dawn could be usefully occupied in planning each careful step if, as she feared, she was ejected through her own gates. So she applied herself to her task, but not before she closed her hand around her wrist, and was once again aware of the heat, the power in the man’s grasp, the fierce but controlled anger in his body.

She closed her eyes against the little brush of memory that roughened her skin and sent a shaft of heat to her belly.

No. Rosamund’s eyes snapped open. She would not, could not allow him to defeat her. Nor could she allow him to step into her dreams. Because she knew exactly who Gervase Fitz Osbern was. He was her Wild Hawk, of course.

The man who four years ago had rejected her with no more than a second look. Beneath the grime of travel and the unshaven cheeks he was the same man whose striking face she hadn’t quite been able to forget. Although on close encounter she thought her memory must have been at fault. Fitz Osbern was obviously not the eye-catching individual she remembered, whose alliance Earl William had considered to be of some importance. The Earl of Salisbury would never seek to associate with this ruffian. Perhaps Fitz Osbern had fallen on hard times and been reduced to thievery and living off his wits. She sighed her disappointment that it should be so, then remembered her present grievance.

Hardly surprising that, given his total uninterest in her, both at Salisbury and here at Clifford, he had not even recognised her.

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