Shattered Vows (11 page)

And then he lowered his head and their lips clung. And Oliver forgot the need to take care, for they were moving in perfect unison. It was as though they had made love a hundred – a thousand – times before. Their rhythms matched exactly.

Rosamund removed her hand from Oliver’s so she could run it down his back and hold his hips to her. She heard him gasp her name. He was muttering incoherently. Love-words. Foreign love-words. She was warm all over – hot in every vein. And Oliver was moving within her, building the heat. Giving his heat to her. Faster and faster. Taking her with him to a place where the world exploded into a million glittering fragments, leaving them lying weak and spent in each other’s arms.

The candle burnt down some way before Oliver made to ease away, and when he did, her sleepy protest gave him pause.

‘Stay,’ she murmured.

He rolled onto his back and settled her in his arms. ‘I’m not going anywhere, we’re locked in, remember?’

‘Oh, aye. So we are.’ She snuggled close and pressed her lips to his chest.

Oliver ruffled her long, love-tangled hair. ‘Well, my angel, I take it from your smile that you have no regrets.’

Long lashes lifted and Oliver felt a pang almost of pain at the adoration he glimpsed in them. Not adoration – affection.
She likes me, that is all.

‘No regrets,’ Rosamund said brightly.

Rosamund was lying. Her heart ached. She felt as though she was being torn in two – she didn’t want to leave him. Ever. She couldn’t bear the thought of going back to the mill.

Chapter Four

I
n the pre-dawn darkness, the hall of Ingerthorpe Castle was quiet, with only the occasional snore breaking the silence. During the night, the pot boy Tate had been ousted from the fireside by another servant, but he’d found another source of warmth – he was curled up with Sir Geoffrey’s favourite bitch and her litter of pups.

High in the tower bedchamber, Rosamund lay in Oliver’s arms wondering what had disturbed her. She couldn’t see him, but his warmth was comforting, and his deep, even breathing came softly through the dense blackness. It must be early – the dawn chorus had yet to begin. Inhaling slowly, she breathed in his scent. Her lover. There was little time left but she wanted to remember everything about this – the strong arms holding her so securely; the long legs lying casually tangled with hers; the hand at her waist. And this feeling of utter peace.

If only it could last forever. Her eyelids prickled. When the first streaks of light shot across the sea, she would have to find her rose-coloured gown and leave – they probably wouldn’t even allow her to break her fast with him.

She rubbed her cheek against his chest and sighed. She’d awoken to a sensation of peace, but it was fast disappearing. Her eyes strained in the direction of the window. All was dark. So little time remained...

She ran her fingertips over his cheek. His morning beard felt harsh. Scratchy. She kissed his chin, and the grip on her waist tightened.

‘Rosamund? It’s morning already?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

The large body stirred. She heard a contented yawn, and smiled into the darkness, snuggling closer, trying to hang onto the feeling of peace. Of belonging. He stroked her hair.

‘So soft,’ he muttered, huskily. ‘Like you, my angel. All soft and giving. Kiss me, Rosamund.’ She felt his lips first on her jaw and they moved slowly, inexorably, to her mouth. Her insides melted, and her arm stole around his neck. She pressed herself against him, unbearably happy. And unbearably sad.

***

Afterwards when they were still, it gave her a jolt to realise that she could see grey eyes smiling at her.

‘Dawn!’ She burrowed into him.

‘They will release us soon,’ he said, idly tracing patterns on her back.

She lifted her head. ‘And you are glad?’ Her voice was taut and brittle.

‘Glad?’ Broad shoulders lifted. ‘I but state a fact. It’s morning and the game they forced on us is ended.’

She clenched her teeth. ‘Is that what this was to you? A game?’

Oliver ruffled her hair and her heart contracted with longing. His loving had felt so tender, so considerate. Surely he must feel something for her...?

‘It was a very pleasurable game, my angel.’

‘But only a game?’

‘Rosamund, I warned you. I cannot love you.’

‘Cannot, or will not?’

His face took on a closed look, and she knew she had blundered.

‘Oliver, don’t, please. Hold me.’

A seagull screeched outside and then came the sound she dreaded – footsteps pounding up the stairs. Oliver heard them too. Releasing her, he shifted away, lying on his back with his head pillowed on his hands. His face became a mask of indifference. She blinked – she had seen him turn a cold face to her, she had seen his eyes look very remote, but there’d always been a spark of warmth somewhere...

But now – her heart missed a beat – his mouth, the beautiful mouth that had kissed her so tenderly, was a narrow line. His face was set. Hard. Anyone seeing him would think him made of iron, not human flesh and blood.

The key grated and the door bounced open. Baron Geoffrey, Lord of Ingerthorpe, stepped into the room. He was breathing heavily on account of the stairs. Cheeks on fire, Rosamund held on to the bedclothes as though her life depended on it. Oliver didn’t move.

Sir Geoffrey gave her no more than a cursory glance and lurched straight into speech.

She gritted her teeth. God save her, he was speaking French. French was the language reserved for noblemen – she couldn’t hope to understand him. However, her lord’s tone was revealing. Mocking. Oliver was being teased.

Despite an overwhelming feeling of shame and embarrassment, Rosamund studied Baron Geoffrey. She had, of course, seen him many times before, but never at such close quarters. On the last occasion, he had been riding his warhorse. He’d thundered through Ingerthorpe like a demon from hell, scattering animals and villagers before him. Briefly, his eyes met hers. He gave her a knowing grin.

She bristled, she felt very conflicted. It had been wrong of Sir Geoffrey, very wrong, to lock her in with Oliver on her wedding night, but if she were honest, she couldn’t regret it. If the baron hadn’t locked in, she was likely to have gone to her grave never knowing what it would be like to bed with a man of her own choosing.

Sir Geoffrey went on speaking. He was trying to goad Oliver into responding.

Oliver’s cheeks darkened and he glanced at her. A muscle tightened in his jaw. ‘Rosamund, you’re gaping like a codfish,’ he drawled, in English. ‘It’s not very becoming.’

She snapped her mouth shut.

‘And Geoffrey,’ Oliver said, ‘courtesy demands we speak in a tongue Rosamund can understand, especially as your last comment so closely concerned her.’

Baron Geoffrey shrugged. ‘As you wish. Though why we should consider an ignorant little whore-’

‘I’m no whore! I’ll have you know I’d never-’ Rosamund broke off, aghast. For a moment she’d forgotten herself. This was her liege lord. Her lord. He could put her in the stocks, he could have her beaten...

Baron Geoffrey’s eyes gleamed. ‘
Mon Dieu
, cousin, don’t tell me I wasted a virgin on you? You lucky dog.’ He flung back his head and mocking laughter echoed round the walls. ‘Come, Oliver, aren’t you going to thank me? An innocent wench is a rarity.’

‘Why thank you for what could have been mine without your aid?’ Oliver said, coldly.

The baron lifted his eyebrows and stared at her. ‘How intriguing.’

Stiffening, Rosamund put up her nose. She was careful to keep her tongue firmly between her teeth.
This is my lord. I must take care...

Sir Geoffrey strode to the bed and grasped her chin. ‘She seems to have spirit.’ He shot Oliver an enquiring glance. ‘Was she willing once you got her between the sheets?’

Oliver’s face was as clear as new parchment. ‘It would be most unchivalrous to answer that.’

‘I’ll wager that she was.’ Sir Geoffrey paused. ‘Her husband spoke the truth, she is comely.’ Casually, he turned away. ‘I’ve a mind to try her for myself.’

Rosamund sucked in a breath. Beneath the bedclothes her hand found Oliver’s. When his fingers lightly squeezed hers, she breathed again. Oliver wouldn’t let his cousin take her.

‘What of your lady wife, my lord?’ Oliver asked.

‘My lady wife? What has Lady Margaret to do with this? For heaven’s sake, man, you know as well as I that high-born ladies know as much about making love to a fellow as I know about spinning yarn.’

Oliver’s mouth edged into a smile. ‘You could teach her. Just as you could learn to spin yarn if you set your mind to it.’

Sir Geoffrey drew his head back. ‘You are impertinent, cousin. A lady would be horrified at the mere suggestion. And as for me spin-’ He broke off, shaking his head. Clearly the thought of him spinning was too demeaning to mention.

Rosamund stifled a giggle. The image of her lord using a drop spindle was simply ludicrous, and it went some way to dispel the resentment she felt at the callous way he had treated her.

‘Infernal cheek,’ Sir Geoffrey muttered, scowling at Oliver. ‘So much for gratitude. And to think I had plans for you. Damned if I don’t change my mind.’

He reached for the door latch, but Oliver was out of bed in a trice. ‘Cousin?’ His voice was eager. ‘You have plans for me?’

Baron Geoffrey lifted his eyes – Oliver topped him by a hand-span. ‘Aye, I have plans for you. After you have proved yourself.’

‘Naturally.’ Oliver smiled.

Rosamund hugged the bedcovers and knew herself forgotten. She sighed. That was a man for you. She had thought – hoped – that Oliver might have a fondness for her. Sight of him now merely proved that his heart was set purely on his advancement. Look at him – so desperate for promotion that he must stand naked before his lord, grinning like a fool. A wave of desolation swept over her.

She reminded herself that she was married to Alfwold. It didn’t help, she felt just as miserable. Oliver had warned her not to expect anything. He’d told her he didn’t want a clinging vine. He’d even told her he couldn’t love her.

Her gaze roamed hungrily over him. He was perfectly formed. She ached simply looking at him. The ache intensified as Oliver pushed back the lock of hair which was always falling out of place. So tall, and not an ounce of fat on him. Sir Geoffrey looked squat and flabby beside him.

It was strange to think that she had cradled Oliver’s dark head on her breast. A wave of regret swept through her. It wasn’t simply that she was losing a fine lover. Oliver had ensured that their loving had been on equal terms – she’d been given a tantalising glimpse of what life might be like if they lived in a world where men and women respected each other.

Rosamund wasn’t naïve, she’d been fortunate to have been locked in with Oliver. Another man might have taken her without compunction. But not Oliver.

Oliver reached for his chausses. ‘You would help advance a bastard,
mon seigneur
?’

Sir Geoffrey snorted. ‘Why not? My name is proof that your mother was not the first to bear a child out of wedlock. But you will have to earn your knighthood.’

Oliver bowed. ‘I will serve you as faithfully as I can.’

Baron Geoffrey’s lips curved and he glanced at Rosamund. ‘There’s no need to take things to extremes, I don’t expect complete fidelity.’

‘My lord?’

Sir Geoffrey went on looking at her and Rosamund found she was holding her breath.

‘I’ve a wife for you, Oliver,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘If you want your knighthood, you must marry her.’

‘Marry Rosamund?’ Oliver’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s impossible, she’s already wed and even if she weren’t, she’s a peas-’

Rosamund glared. How could he?

‘No, no, you misunderstand,’ Sir Geoffrey said, hastily. ‘There’s noble blood in your veins, I wouldn’t beggar you with the miller’s daughter.’

‘Sir Geoffrey!’ Rosamund’s chest heaved, she couldn’t keep quiet a moment longer. Oliver’s cousin might be her lord, but he was being insufferable. They were both being insufferable. ‘You may consider me a low-born wench who’s only fit for bedding, but at least I have manners. A beggar wouldn’t speak in so rude and churlish a manner.’

Sir Geoffrey’s mouth went white at the edges. Blinded by fury, Rosamund rushed on, unaware that with each word her accent was becoming more and more marked. ‘I wouldn’t dream of speaking so disparagingly about someone! If being noble entitles you to be so arrogant, then I tell you I’m proud to be a simple miller’s daughter.’ She sat very straight. ‘And hear this, my lord, I’d never soil myself with the likes of you.’

Sir Geoffrey sucked in a breath. ‘Would you not?’

As he bit the words out, Rosamund realised the enormity of her error. Sir Geoffrey was her lord and he couldn’t permit the miller’s daughter to undermine his authority in front of his squire. At the least, he’d want to teach her a lesson. When his eyes fastened on her mouth, she closed her eyes.

Merciful heavens, no!

Moistening his lips, Sir Geoffrey reached for her.

Oliver cleared his throat and stepped between his lord and the bed. ‘What on earth did she say? Cousin, I vow at times your tenants are completely incomprehensible.’ He placed a friendly hand on Sir Geoffrey’s shoulder. ‘It will take time for me to become used to this northern dialect.’

Baron Geoffrey’s face eased and he stepped away from the bed. ‘Made it difficult last night, did it, this lack of understanding?’

Oliver spread his hands. ‘What need for words?’

The baron’s bark of laughter echoed round the walls.

‘Cousin,’ Oliver smiled. ‘I confess you have whetted my curiosity. Am I to know the identity of my bride?’

‘There is a proviso, lad...’

‘I assumed there would be,’ Oliver said, dryly. ‘Nothing comes free in this life.’

‘How true, dear cousin, how true.’ Sir Geoffrey gave a decisive nod. ‘I will dub you knight, cousin, on condition that you wed my sister.’

Oliver’s brow wrinkled. ‘Isn’t Lady Blanche promised elsewhere?’

A smile lifted the corner of Sir Geoffrey’s mouth. Rosamund didn’t like the look of it, and her mind raced. She knew it was nothing to do with her, none the less she didn’t want Oliver to marry. However, she could see that from his point of view, marriage to Sir Geoffrey’s sister would be like a gift from heaven.