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How hopeless her uncle must feel as Lord Mornay’s prisoner. Even had she been tempted to run away, Rosamunde could not have deserted him now. She had brought the ransom in her cousin’s place and she must pray that it would be sufficient to secure her uncle’s release.
The knight who had rescued her, and his men, had gone in ahead of her. He and his men were dismounting even as her horse clattered over the wooden drawbridge. The knight had taken off his heaume and was speaking to a thin man who wore the robes of a steward. The steward glanced at her and then leaned forward to say something no one else was meant to hear.
Rosamunde’s throat felt tight and her heart was beating fast as someone came to help her down. She breathed deeply, because she had a terrible feeling that her escort was no other than Lord Mornay himself. He must have been angered when she’d accused him of being a ruthless robber, no better than the rogues from whom he had saved her. As she struggled to compose her thoughts, the steward came hurrying towards her.
‘Lady Angelina? Am I right—you are the daughter of Count Torrs?’ he asked, and bowed low as she nodded her assent. ‘I am Mellors, steward here, and my lord has sent me to welcome you to the castle. He has business that keeps him from greeting you himself. I am to show you to your chamber. He will speak to you when he has time.’
‘Lord Mornay knows that I have brought my father’s ransom?’
‘Yes, lady.’ The steward gave her an odd glance before turning to lead the way inside. ‘My lord knows why you are here, but for the moment he is too busy to see you.’
‘You will please tell Lord Mornay that I wish to see him as soon as possible. I have no desire to remain here for longer than necessary.’
‘It may be best if you wait until my lord is ready,’ the steward replied. ‘He has much on his mind at the moment.’
‘You will please give him my message.’ Rosamunde lifted her head in a haughty manner, imitating her cousin.
‘It might be best to wait, my lady,’ Maire whispered at her side. ‘You do not wish to make him angry.’
She bit her lip but made no further request, a little shiver going through her as she mounted the stone steps to the room at the top of the west tower.
‘You have not told the lady that her father has already been released?’
‘You asked me to leave it to you, my lord.’ ‘Had she arrived a day sooner, she might have heard it from his own lips, but the count is already on his way to the Low Countries to meet in secret with others who seek Richard’s freedom. Two of my friends have gone with him, to protect him and keep him safe until his mission is complete.’
‘The lady seems impatient to leave, my lord.’
A wry smile touched Raphael’s mouth. ‘If she has heard stories of my father, it is hardly surprising. She may be in some danger, Mellors. If Prince John hears what I’ve done, he might seek to take her captive and gain his ransom that way. Besides, we discovered her at the mercy of a robber band, and there are many others in this country. Prince John’s taxes have made the people desperate and they care little for his law. It may be best if the lady remains here under my protection until her father comes back to claim her.’
‘Do you wish to see her?’
‘Please ask the lady to join us at supper in the hall. I have more important tasks for the moment—Prince John’s messenger awaits an answer to his letter to my father. I must send him my answer before I attend to other business.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Mellors inclined his head and walked away. Raphael sat at his board and drew parchment, ink and a quill towards him. He frowned as he began to write. The prince must be informed that Lord William Mornay was dead and his son returned from the Holy Land. It would not do to antagonise the prince, for much might be gained by Raphael appearing to be a man after his father’s heart. If the prince learned that Raphael had sent money with Count Torrs to help King Richard return to England and the throne, he might try to stop the gold reaching its destination. Better for Raphael to keep his silence and wait until the chance came to serve his king. If Prince John was determined to usurp his brother, he might plot to have him murdered when he set foot on English soil.
Besides, Raphael had recognised the woman he’d noticed at the quayside in France. She had not known him because of his heaume, but he knew her. He needed a little time to sort out his thoughts before he saw her again.
Chapter Three
Alone in the room at the top of the tower, Rosamunde looked down at the courtyard. She had been left waiting for two hours and her apprehension was growing. She had not been locked in her chamber but since there was no possibility of her leaving the castle without permission she supposed Lord Mornay did not feel the need to imprison her.
Why had he not sent for her? Did he hope to break her will by leaving her to reflect on her probable fate? She raised her head, feeling a surge of anger against the man whose face she had not yet seen. She would not show fear or let him break her resolve. Indeed, she would not wait here until she was sent for. Her father might be an impoverished knight, but she was of good blood, and Lord Mornay had no right to treat her like this.
Leaving the chamber, she ran down the stairs. In the hall, there were a few servants beginning to set up boards on trestles for the evening meal but no sign of the steward. Approaching one of the servants, she lifted her head proudly.
‘I wish to see Lord Mornay. Please take me to him at once.’ The man stared at her for a moment, seeming stunned. ‘Do as I bid you, sirrah.’ She assumed her cousin’s haughty manner. ‘Disobey me and I shall have you whipped.’
The man lifted his hand and pointed towards a door to the right of a rich tapestry hanging on the wall at the far end of the hall. Rosamunde nodded her head, feeling a little ashamed. She never spoke to servants in that manner, but she was supposed to be her cousin and she had to make the vile Lord Mornay believe her. He must have heard of Angelina’s beauty and might be disappointed by Rosamunde’s face. She must do nothing that might make him suspect she was not the lady Angelina.
Hesitating outside the door for a moment, she lifted the latch and entered without knocking. A man was sitting at a board on which were spread various books and papers. He had been writing and did not look up as he said, ‘Yes, Mellors? What is it?’
‘I wish to know why you have kept me waiting—and why you did not tell me who you were on our way here,’ Rosamunde said before she lost her nerve. ‘I am the daughter of a nobleman and I demand respect. Please allow me to pay my father’s ransom and leave.’
‘So anxious to leave? I wonder why?’
The man lifted his head and looked at her. Rosamunde was so shocked that she could hardly hold back her gasp of surprise. Surely he was the man she’d seen before they had left port in France? He had stared at her as she’d been about to go on board the ship and she’d thought that she recognised him, though she’d been uncertain. Now that she was closer, her doubts deepened. This man’s eyes were devoid of warmth and his mouth hard. He could not possibly be the youth who had rescued her kitten from that vicious dog those years ago. Yes, there was a strong resemblance, but it was very likely only the colour of his hair and eyes.
‘Why have you come here, lady?’ His gaze narrowed. ‘My steward asked that you remain in your chamber until you were sent for. I have important matters that keep me busy until then.’
‘Why will you not let me pay the thousand gold talents and leave? It need only take a moment and my father may be released. We shall trouble you no further, sir.’
‘Thousand? I believe you only brought five-hundred gold talents with you, even though you were asked for a thousand.’
‘It is all I was given,’ Rosamunde faltered, uneasy as she saw his mouth harden. No wonder Angelina had been desperate to send her cousin; she must have kept half of the money for herself. ‘The remainder will be paid once my—father is released.’
‘Indeed?’ Eyes that had been as cold as mid-winter ice suddenly crackled with blue fire. ‘Supposing I am not prepared to release him for only a fraction of the money demanded?’
‘Then you are a wicked rogue and deserve to be thrashed,’ Rosamunde burst out. It was foolish to lose her temper this way but she could not control her disappointment. He looked something like the youth she’d lost her heart to years earlier, but he was a cold, hard man. He could not possibly be Raphael—could he? ‘If I were a man I would challenge you to combat and kill you.’
‘You might try.’ He stared at her for a moment and then laughed. ‘You are a bold wench, Lady Angelina. What are you prepared to pay for your father’s release—besides the gold?’
‘Oh!’ Rosamunde’s heart raced. Fitzherbert had been right; this man would not be content with merely the ransom money. He wanted more—the surrender of her modesty. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing, sir? I have heard what you did to other unfortunate women—of the poor lady that walked into the river because her husband no longer wanted her after you had disparaged her.’
The smile left his face, his lips turning white as he glared at her. ‘Now you are too bold, lady. Return to your chamber until you are sent for or you might be sorry.’
‘I am not a servant to …’
Rosamunde quailed as he took a step towards her. She wanted to run away but stood her ground, looking at him defiantly. For a moment he hesitated, then reached out and drew her against him, his right arm about her waist as he held her pressed tight to his body. She could feel his strength and power and her knees turned to water. For a moment her head whirled and she had a foolish desire to melt against him, to subdue her will to his.
‘You deserve your punishment, wench,’ he muttered and bent his head to take possession of her lips.
Rosamunde struggled wildly, but his arm was like a band of iron holding her tight. His mouth was hard, demanding, as if he sought to subdue her to his will, to show her who was the master here. As her head swam, she opened her mouth to protest but his tongue moved to block her words, touching hers. The feelings he aroused were strange and yet pleasant. She moaned, because the sensations sweeping over her were so bewildering, and then she pushed her hands against his chest as common sense returned.
He let her go abruptly and stepped back, a look of such anger on his face that she was terrified. Now she truly believed all the stories she had been told.
‘Go back to your chamber or I might not be responsible for my actions.’
Rosamunde gave a yelp of fright, turned and ran from the room. She fled through the hall and up the stairs and did not stop until she reached her chamber.
Raphael cursed as the door closed behind the woman. What on earth had made him react that way? Holding her close, his body had responded in a way he had not expected, arousing passions he’d believed dead. He’d known her at once as the woman he’d seen on the quayside in France. She had been dressed less richly then and he’d imagined she was a relative of the beautiful lady she’d accompanied on board ship. She was certainly haughty enough to be the daughter of a nobleman, though something was not quite as it seemed, for the boots she had worn that day in France had been old and worn through. He had a feeling that she was playing a part, pretending to be other than she was, but that did not excuse his behaviour. She was undoubtedly a lady and did not deserve to be treated like a harlot.
Her sudden arrival had startled him, because Messalina would never have dreamed of disobeying an order from either her father or Raphael. She had been modest and sweet—and she had been foully slain, her death still unavenged. The pain slashed through him once more, making him smash his fist against the stone wall of his chamber in a sudden burst of agony.
Why must he be haunted by the vision of her broken body night and day? She called out to him for justice and he could give her none. He was angry with himself for letting the lady Angelina beneath his guard. Her scent had inflamed his senses and her spirit had amused him, but then, when she had assumed that he was his father, something had snapped in his head.
God knew he was no saint! Raphael admitted freely that he’d done things of which he was ashamed. He’d killed men in battle and given no quarter. He’d stood by without comment when Richard had ordered the execution of the Muslim prisoners at Acre, which had led to a bloody retaliation by Saladin, and he’d hurt his wife … No matter how much he tried to forget it, the memory of her tears returned to haunt him.
‘Please tell me, what is wrong, husband? What have I done to displease you?’
‘You’ve done nothing. Do not be foolish, Messalina. I would not see you cry, but I cannot always be here at your side. I am a man and a warrior. I must meet with my fellow Christian knights this evening.’
‘They will persuade you to return home and you will leave me.’
‘I would never leave you. I love you.’
‘No, you desire me; it is not the same. If you loved me you would not go tonight. I fear …’ Messalina had looked at him imploringly. ‘I love you, Raphael. If you care for me at all, do not leave me this night.’
He’d ignored her tears, resenting the soft arms that clung to him and her sweetness, which was sometimes cloying and made him feel as if he were being smothered. Messalina had constantly needed reassurance that she was loved and adored. Raphael had tried to show her his feelings in the way he understood, which was with kisses and presents, but she had wanted something more—something he had not been able to give. Was it a lack in him? He bitterly regretted that he’d left her that night despite her tears. If he’d been there he would have fought to the death to try and save her.
Thrusting the bitter memories from his mind, Raphael sat down at his board and tried to concentrate on the letter he had not yet finished. With an oath of disgust, he screwed it into a ball and threw it to the ground. Dipping his quill in the ink, he began again. He would not use guile or disguise. A simple message telling the prince of his father’s death and his own return would be enough.
Why had his stomach turned at the thought of playing a double game? Could it have anything to do with the scorn in the lady Angelina’s eyes when she’d accused him of ravishing another man’s wife?
Raphael had never taken an unwilling woman.
‘Damn her,’ he muttered. He scrawled his signature then frowned as he saw he had used de Valmont, the name he’d chosen to take when he had been knighted by Richard. He was Lord Mornay now and Lady Angelina could not be expected to know that he was not his father. He should tell her the truth, explain that he had already set her father free and that she was at liberty to return to her home or stay here under his protection until Richard returned to the throne and her father could fetch her home.
Rosamunde glanced at herself in the handmirror of burnished silver; it had belonged to her mother and her father had insisted that she keep it, for otherwise it would be sold to pay his debts. The image was not clear but she knew that she looked as well as she could. A lock of her hair was plaited and curled about her head at the front, the rest hanging loose to the small of her back. She wore no cap or jewels for she had none,
but she was dressed in a dark-green tunic of fine wool that Angelina had given her because her own were too shabby.
She had been sent for some time ago, and she was ready, yet still she delayed, reluctant to face Lord Mornay again. For a moment in his arms she had wanted to melt into his body, to let him do as he would with her, her lips begging for kisses. How could she be lost to all modesty? To enjoy the caress of a monster such as he was to be lost to all sense or decency.
She had expected an older man, a man steeped in vice and depravity. Her first impression of the handsome, virile man had been that he could not possibly be the evil monster Fitzherbert had warned her of. Yet his behaviour subsequently had seemed to confirm it. No true knight would subject a lady to such a dishonourable display of temper. For he had been angry. She had felt the passion and fire in him, and for a moment she’d feared that he would take what he wanted, but he’d drawn back, giving her a chance to escape.
Why, if he was all that people said of him, had he allowed her to escape him with her modesty intact?
Rosamunde was puzzled. Had she built an unreal picture of her uncle’s enemy in her mind—or was there truly an evil monster beneath that handsome façade?
‘You should go down, lady,’ Maire told her. ‘If you do not the lord may be angry.’
‘He is already angry because I disobeyed him.’
‘Take care, lady. You are his prisoner here. He can do whatever he wishes with you. If you do not wish to lose your virtue, you must make him see that you are chaste and devout.’
‘I doubt that either chastity or devotion will win my freedom if he is determined to keep me here,’ Rosamunde replied. ‘Yet I must go down, for I am hungry, and if I disobey him he might starve me into submission.’
Leaving her chamber, Rosamunde began to walk down the spiral stairwell of worn stone. Her mouth felt dry and her steps were slow for she was apprehensive of her next meeting with Lord Mornay. She had disturbed him when he was busy but he might have more leisure to pay her attention this evening.
Lost in her thoughts, she did not hear the sound of soft-soled shoes as someone ascended the stairs, so when they met face to face midway she was suddenly breathless.
‘My lord. I was about to attend you, as you commanded.’
He was so tall and strong, his shoulders broad, the muscles rippling beneath the thin wool tunic he wore over dark hose that evening. He had changed since she’d last seen him and smelled of soap that was slightly perfumed with a woody essence which made her senses reel. His hair looked darker at the roots but he wore it long and the sun-bleached ends just brushed the braided neck of his white tunic. Yet he was somehow gentler, more of a knight and less the savage now.
‘Command? I sent you an invitation to dine with my people and me in the hall. You seem to imagine you are a prisoner, lady. What have I done to deserve your anger?’ he asked.
‘I … Nothing, except take my father captive and demand that I bring the ransom in person.’
He was standing so close to her, towering above her, so masculine and powerful. She caught her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs as if it were a caged bird seeking to escape the bars of its prison.
‘Please believe that I mean you no harm,’ he said. He held out his hand. ‘Come, lady. We shall go down together. Later, after we have dined, I shall explain much that you do not know. Until then I must ask you to trust me.’ He needed to be careful what he said and where he spoke to her. Apart from his steward Mellors, who had already proven his loyalty, he was not yet certain who amongst his inherited household staff he could trust.
Rosamunde took his hand and allowed him to lead her down the last few steps and through the great hall. The trestles and boards had all been set up now and were laid with wooden trenchers. At the high table there was a huge silver salt and either silver or pewter goblets stood at intervals down the board. Dishes of fruit, dates and nuts brought from overseas were set along the centre of the board for the guests to nibble at between courses, and the platters of pewter shone like dull silver.
She was conscious that all eyes were on her as she was led to a place of honour beside him. He waited until she was seated, then turned to the expectant gathering.
‘As you see, my friends, we have a special guest this evening. I ask you to lift your cups to toast the lady Angelina.’
The men stood, lifting an assortment of horn, pewter or wooden drinking vessels according to their status. Having drunk her health, they sat down and the meal began. Fresh bread, soups, messes of meat and worts, neats’ tongues, roasted boar and a great carp covered in rich sauce and onions were brought in succession to the table.
Rosamunde ate sparingly of the dishes presented to her. Neither her uncle nor her father had kept a table like this other than when entertaining important guests; she thought Lord Mornay must be rich. How much of his wealth had come from robbing his neighbours?
She sipped her wine and found it sweet, much more pleasant on the tongue than the rough vintage she was accustomed to. She tasted the pigeon in red wine and ate a little roasted capon followed by stewed plums and a junket of wine and curds.
‘You hardly eat, lady. Is the food not to your taste?’
‘I am not used to such rich fare, sir. I have eaten sufficient, thank you.’
‘You must try a peach. I insist.’ Lord Mornay reached for a succulent peach and began to peel it for her. He handed a slice to her on his knife. ‘I had these brought from Normandy. I have inherited an estate there and if the fruit is picked before it is quite ripe it travels well enough to be pleasing at table.’
Rosamunde stared at him, because to send for fruit from his estate in Normandy was such an extravagant thing to do, and she could not imagine what it must have cost to bring the fruit to a ship and then across the channel. She tasted the slice he had cut for her and smiled.
‘That is truly delicious. My uncle had peaches growing in his garden in Normandy but they were not as sweet as these.’
‘Your uncle?’ Raphael’s eyes narrowed.
‘Yes,’ Rosamunde dropped her gaze because she’d spoken without thinking. ‘My uncle of Saxenburg—my father’s brother.’
‘Ah, yes, I see. I know little of your family, lady. Do you have brothers, sisters, cousins?’
She could not look at him as she replied, ‘My uncle of Saxenburg has two sons. I have also a cousin on my mother’s side; her name is Rosamunde Meldreth.’
‘Then she must be the very beautiful lady I saw you with at the harbour in France.’
‘Yes, my cousin is very beautiful.’ Her heart was beating wildly and she dared not look at him.
‘You are beautiful too,’ he said. ‘In a different way.’
‘I do not think I am beautiful,’ she contradicted him flatly.
‘You should leave such judgments to others.’
Rosamunde could feel her cheeks burning. She reached for her wine and sipped it. Her hand was trembling and she had to hold the cup with both hands to steady it.
‘Why do you tremble? Are you afraid of me?’
