Broadheath, where she deserved to be in all comfort. Rosamund’s conscience had been on the point of pushing her to abandon her defiance to make that decision. There was, after all, a limit to the power of pride when dealing with those she loved, so few as they were. But now against all hope the bane of her existence was here, sitting his horse before her with all the arrogance she had come to recognise, and so she would not weaken. She raised her chin against a probable rejection.
‘Well, my lord?’
The stare was as cold as the rain that trickled down her spine. The voice as harsh as the wind that moulded her sodden skirts against her legs. But the words were the golden chime of victory.
‘You have won, lady. I have come to tell you that I agree to your terms.’
Rain dripped from the end of her straight nose, spangled her lashes. Translucent as a pearl, her skin glowed through the moisture. Fitz Osbern found it difficult to look away as he dismounted and stood before her. She was probably soaked to the skin through every inch of her clothing, her face was pale, her eyes wide with tension. He could see her whole body was braced against the chill that would have made her teeth chatter if she had allowed it. But her courage was unbroken as her head was unbowed, as she was magnificent in her determination to achieve her goal. A pity it was at his expense. The muscles in his gut tightened in—well, in concern, he told himself as she shuddered with a sudden cold blast of wind. But his anger was stirred as well, a faint ripple of it beneath the admiration, that she had bested him.
‘You will agree to them? All of them?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He inhaled, praying for patience. ‘I want you to return with me.’
‘For as long as I wish?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you will not force me out again?’
‘No.’ A veritable growl. ‘As I agreed. Not unless it is by your own choice.’
‘And I can have the solar and the private chamber for my own use?’
‘Have I not said as much?’
‘On your oath, my lord.’ He saw her eyes shine through the wet.
‘Do you want blood as well? On my oath, lady.’ He clapped his hand to his chest somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, a deliberately dramatic gesture.
The lady managed a brisk nod. ‘Then we will return.’
‘Amen to that. Let’s all get under cover before we die of this infernal downpour.’ He tore his eyes from her brilliant gaze and bent to help Edith to her feet, then Petronilla, who was neatly folding quilts around her. ‘Leave those, my lady. I will see to it.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I am grateful.’ The clutch of her hand on his expressed her heartfelt gratitude, easing his acute sense of defeat at her daughter’s hands.
‘Thank de Mortimer for your rescue. I was tempted to leave you here all night.’ But his eyes were warm, belying his hard words as he handed the lady over to the care of one of his men-at-arms.
As he had expected, he found no gratitude whatsoever in Rosamund’s face, only the triumph of a victory snatched against all the odds. But he saw that she waited until her mother and the maid were cared for, lifted on to horseback, watching as they were carried back the short distance to the gatehouse, before she considered her own comfort. Then she looked across at him, dishevelled and muddy as she was, the challenge still there, but also the vestige of a plea that he knew she would never willingly voice. As well as a deep weariness—it seemed to him from more than merely making her stand against him in appalling conditions, but as if the battle she had just fought was a bloody conflict, vital to her. Any remaining anger toward her dissipated. All he felt was a desire to lift the burden—whatever it might be—from her shoulders.
He held out his hand, palm up.
‘Come, lady, sheath your sword. You can fight the battle another day. I think you’ve done enough for now.’
She considered him, even now resisting. ‘I’ll walk back. It’s a mere step. I don’t need—’
Stubborn to the last! Why did that not surprise him? ‘No!’ He stopped her. ‘You will accept my offer of help. And you’ll not argue the point.’ Fitz Osbern swung up on to his horse, leaned and reached down his hand, in invitation or demand, whichever way she chose to see it. He would brook no denial. And Rosamund, presumably reading the determination stamped on his firm mouth, his tense jaw, accepted, without comment, and in one lithe movement was lifted to the saddle before him where he settled her firmly in his arms and, with a click of his tongue, a shortening of the reins, urged his horse into a walk.
The girl sat rigid, precariously balanced, holding her body away from him as if she could not bear that he should touch her. If his stallion spooked, she would surely fall off.
‘I won’t bite,’ he murmured against her wet hood, impatience returning. ‘Or not yet at any rate. And I’d rather not have to stop and dismount to pick you up out of the mud.’
Although she made no reply, he knew that she had heard. She stiffened. Then, with a little sigh, she leaned back against his chest and the support of his arms.
So Gervase, with curling strands of his enemy’s hair escaping her hood and brushing his chin, contemplated what might lie ahead considering the terms he had just agreed to. He was not optimistic for the outcome. For one thing, it could have no permanency. She could not stay at Clifford for ever, no matter what he had promised. Some suitable arrangement must be made for her. But the de Longspey heiress was too wilful by half, with no sense of what was reasonable behaviour. He simply could not see a clear path here.
The stallion side-stepped as Bryn loped beneath his hooves, causing Gervase to settle the woman more firmly against him. She did not resist. Indeed, he felt her fingers close on his arm and her body settle more closely against his, her spine relaxing. But then he recalled the previous day when some species of fear—or so he had thought—had robbed her face of all colour. Perhaps he should take the time to discover the cause of such a reaction to his threat to turn her out. As for the moment, he was forced to acknowledge a pleasure in simply holding her close, the curve of her breast against his forearm.
Fitz Osbern dismounted in the bailey. He reached up to Rosamund and, his hands at her waist, helped her to slide down to her feet. Rosamund would have stood alone, calling on her dignity to hold her erect and still defiant, but the cold and damp had had their effect, stiffening her limbs. She staggered as her cold feet took her weight, so that momentarily she clung to his arms for balance, grateful when he held her.
His first words startled her.
‘Did I do that?’
Looking down, she saw the faintest of shadows of a bruise on her wrist. And remembered that he had restrained her the previous night. ‘Yes.’
‘I will never hurt you again.’ Soft-voiced, Fitz Osbern gently touched the mark with his fingertips, then astonished her further by bending his head to press his lips there.
‘Don’t …!’
‘Don’t what?’
‘I don’t want your attentions …’ She snatched her hand away. Surely he would feel the tumultuous blood pulsing,
