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.
Chapter Four
The de Longspey party was up betimes, all their possessions packed. Rosamund was not foolish enough to believe that Fitz Osbern would not be true to his word. Her plan was risky. A dangerous wager. Had her blood father not been fond of wagers? Until one had killed him when he had risked a raid on a neighbouring Marcher lord’s prize cattle, and that lord retaliated with a storm of fatal arrows. But there were no arrows here to kill and maim. At worst a cold wind and heavy showers, but discomfort would be the only danger. The prize, if her plan worked, would be weightier than gold. Her freedom more precious than any jewel.
She would show Lord Fitz Osbern that she was not a woman to be underestimated.
‘Wear your warmest clothes,’ she advised. ‘As many layers as you can. And leave the quilts unpacked to be placed on top of the wagon. And …’ she fixed both the Dowager Countess and Edith the serving woman with an intimidating eye ‘… not a word of complaint.’
Fitz Osbern and de Mortimer watched from the gatehouse tower as the little cavalcade started out, four of their own men in attendance as promised to ensure safe passage to Hereford. Deliberately the Lord of Monmouth had absented himself when the ladies had broken their fast, so there had been no final communication between them. There was nothing more to say. He had made his intentions clear enough. No need to bandy words again with the girl. He saw them move slowly from the gates beneath him with relief.
‘That sees the end of my immediate problem.’ He turned his back to walk down the stairs into the bailey, looking up to address de Mortimer over his shoulder. ‘Will you leave, Hugh? I can’t offer you comfortable hospitality yet, but you’re welcome to what I have.’ He gave a wry grimace in acknowledgement of their disreputable surroundings.
‘Tomorrow, I think.’ Still inclined to keep the little party in view, de Mortimer made to follow.
‘I shall start some rebuilding here.’ Fitz Osbern, oblivious to his friend’s distraction, was surveying the flooded inner court. ‘And then I shall—’
‘My lord, my lord …’ The voice echoed from a guard above their heads. ‘I think you should come and look …’
They climbed once again to the gatehouse battlements. Looked over. Frowned. Within little more than two hundred yards of the gate, on the flat piece of flood plain between castle, river and village, the well-loaded wagon had come to a halt. Fitz Osbern’s mounted escort dismounted. Quilts were being shaken out, some of the packages unloaded on to the grass. The soldiers, after some conversation with the more eye-catching of the distant figures who waved her arm in obvious dismissal, turned their horses to return to the castle.
‘God’s blood!’
‘I did warn you,’ Hugh remarked. ‘The lady has a war-like look in her eye. She looks as if she intends to stay. She’s pitched her camp, you could say …’
Ignoring
