April Munday (22 page)

“You must make no noise,” he whispered.

“I lost my knife,” she said, standing on her toes so that her lips were close to his ear and he wondered briefly what she meant, then understood as she bent down to take the knife from the second of the men he had killed. She smiled weakly at him, grimacing with the pain. It was not the smile he had grown used to, but it was better than nothing. She truly was a wonderful woman.

Knowing that she would keep close behind him without being told, Richard set off towards the stairs, listening carefully for any noise that would alert him to the arrival of Robert or anyone else. But their passage through the house was uninterrupted.  When they arrived at the gatehouse Richard thought he might risk taking Rosamunde across the drawbridge. There was little to be gained in taking her through the moat if it was not necessary, since they would both have to ride back through the snow in wet clothes. But there was a sudden shout from inside the house and he heard raised voices as the news of Sir Walter’s death was spread throughout his people. Seeing that they would be exposed on the drawbridge, Richard sheathed his sword and took the cloak from Rosamunde’s shoulders. “We must swim,” he said, indicating the moat.

“I do not know how.” Even now, she did not panic, but looked at him expectantly.

“I will swim and you will trust me to get you to the other side.” She nodded.

It was easier than he had expected to get Rosamunde in the water and she did not struggle against him as he began to pull away to the far side of the moat. As he had expected the drawbridge was pulled up immediately. Convinced that there would now be people watching he changed his plans slightly and they emerged from the moat to the side of the house rather than in front of it.

“Run with me,” Richard said and took her hand. He doubted there would be archers on top of the walls yet and if there were their aim would be very poor in the dark. They found the horse and Richard mounted, pulling Rosamunde up in front of him. He pulled off his tunic and tied it to the saddle. It would only serve to make them both colder. He had left a cloak draped over the flanks of the horse to keep it warm and he now wrapped it around them both, holding Rosamunde tightly against his chest. He had expected some protest, but she slipped her arms around his waist and laid her head over his heart as if it belonged there. He was cold and tired and his leg had never hurt like this, but he was happy. He had Rosamunde. She was hurt, but she would heal and she would know who had saved her, even if he had come too late to stop Sir Walter bedding her. Now they must travel back to the castle. He could not wait for daylight. Fortunately the moon was bright and they came upon his tracks quickly. Rosamunde shuddered against him a few times and he knew she was crying. He held her tighter against him, until she gasped in pain.

“I am sorry. We need to get warm as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving me from him.”

“I was only keeping my promise to your father.” But he pulled her closer to him more gently in the hope that she would understand that that was not his only reason.

Rosamunde had never felt as cold as this in her life, yet she also felt strangely warm. She had been cold even before they had plunged into the moat. Sir Walter’s house was cold and she had been almost naked for some time. Although Sir Walter had beaten her so much that she had been more aware of the pain than the cold, she was still cold. Now she could not even feel her bare toes. All of her body and some of her head were covered by the cloak. But Richard was cold, too. Their wet clothes were dripping and cold water was pooling where she sat on the saddle and it made her even more uncomfortable. She shivered uncontrollably. Richard held her so close it was almost as if he wanted to make them one. She could not be embarrassed by their closeness; they must both get warm as soon as possible or they still might die this night. She tightened her arms around his waist. He had come for her and rescued her. She was safe from Sir Walter forever thanks to him. She had not dared hope that anyone would come before the morning and here he was, bearing her away to her home before the night was barely started. She was overcome with gratitude and relief and leaned against him more.

She was aware of everything about him. He, too, was shivering slightly. His exertions in crossing the moat must have warmed him. His breathing was heavier than usual, although it soon slowed to the normal rate that she knew so well. Every now and again his body would stiffen and he would take in a short breath through his teeth. “Were you hurt?” she asked anxiously. She knew nothing yet about what had happened before he had appeared in Sir Walter’s bedchamber. She had not noticed any blood on him, but she had not been of a mind to notice much about him, except that, miraculously, he had come for her. It was possible that one of the men that Sir Walter had set to guard him had got a blade past his guard. The long ride would have hurt his leg badly and perhaps he had not been able to defend himself properly. She hated the thought that he had been hurt for her sake.

“No, it is my leg. It has been many months since I rode a horse any distance. Margaret’s treatment is good, but I don’t think she intended my first real ride to be quite so long or fast. Do not fear; I will get you home again.” He stiffened again, as if home was not a pleasant thought. Then he relaxed slightly. “You will want to know that Thomas was still alive when I left.”

He did not sound certain that they should find Thomas still alive when they returned, but it was good to know that there was some hope. She shifted her body slightly, so that she was no longer putting any weight on his injured thigh, but he pulled her back again. “You will not be able to balance like that.”

“But it will cause you pain,” she protested.

“No more than I already have.”

She shivered violently and he pulled her roughly back against his chest. “The sooner one of us is warm the sooner the other is too.” He sounded exasperated and she wondered what she had done to annoy him. It did not matter. It was so much more comfortable to be held against him like this. She could almost forget the events that had led up to this moment – almost. Now her fear was subsiding she realised how frightened she had been. Not just of Sir Walter. She had been frightened that Richard would not come, but he had and come alone by the look of it. He had risked his life for her, as her father had commanded him. He was indeed a man of honour to take his promise to her father so seriously. She could not hope that it was anything more than his honour that had made him her rescuer. He was a man of honour, not a lover.

Richard’s undertunic was loose and she felt his bare chest beneath her cheek and she brought one of her hands up from his waist to lay a palm above his heart. She sighed once, then gave way to the tears that had threatened since she had seen Thomas attacked. They were tears of rage as well as relief. She barely noticed that the hand that Richard had been using to hold her now stroked her back. All she knew was that she was with him and she was safe.

Eventually Rosamunde’s tears subsided and she loosened her hold on Richard’s waist and her breathing became calmer. The palm that she had placed so trustingly on his chest, however, remained. He could not allow himself to become distracted by her; there were still many miles to go and the pain his leg was distraction enough. He began to fear that it would not hold out until they reached the castle. He had not known such pain since the leg had first been broken, but he was alive and Rosamunde was alive and free from Sir Walter. Nothing else mattered.

He returned his hand to Rosamunde’s waist. Gently he moved her hand from his chest to his waist so that their bodies were closer again and she was held more securely. The ground was icy beneath the horse’s feet and there was always the danger that Richard would lose the path and they would fall into a ditch, breaking the horse’s legs. He had not rescued Rosamunde only to kill her on the journey home and there was still the possibility of pursuit. He doubted that anyone would come after them immediately and if they did the pursuit would probably be ineffectual, but he would not rely on that. Sir Walter was dead; whoever was now in charge might be a better man. He seemed to remember that Thomas had mentioned a son who was full-grown. He might be adequate to the task of chasing a tired horse carrying two tired and cold people through unknown countryside at night. Richard was listening constantly for any sound that might mean they were being pursued.

Despite his efforts, Rosamunde was distracting him. Her chest rose and fell against his, pushing her cold breasts against him as she shivered in the cold. Her cold nipples pressed into his skin and he thought how many ways he could warm her body if they stopped. He shook that thought off; he had not rescued her from a rapist to impose himself on her in that way.

He could not get the sight of her on Sir Walter’s bed out of his mind. She had been neither afraid of Richard, nor embarrassed and had not seemed to care that she was half-naked before him. He knew that this could not be so; it could only be that her ordeal had been so great that she had forgotten the state of undress that she was in. He hoped she would forget that he had seen; she was the virtuous woman that he had sought all these years and she should not have to bear the memory of her shame.

Rosamunde stirred against him, making herself more comfortable. In the warmth of the cloak their wet clothes were finally drying and their bodies warming. Now he began to feel the fullness of her breasts against him. Her shift was so fine it might as well not been there for all the barrier it offered and his undertunic was just as fine. Even though she began to warm, still her nipples rubbed against him. Now he was warmed by his desire for her as well. He did nothing to check the desire; the warmer he was the warmer he could make her. They rode in silence for many miles.

After a while her silence began to scare him, until he realised that she had fallen asleep and relief washed over him. If she slept she would recover. Rosamunde was not a weak woman, he could acknowledge that now, but even she would take some time to get over this. Sir Walter had taken her by violence, but she would come to terms with it and Richard might be able to help her. There was no sign of any pursuit and had they not come upon Guy and the soldiers from Corchester. It started to get light and Rosamunde awoke, although she still said nothing. While she had slept, Richard had not had to think about how her body felt against his quite so much, but now that she was awake she began to move against him in her efforts to make herself comfortable. As before, her hard nipples pressed against his flesh and he had to control his reaction to her.

 As the early morning became lighter, Richard began to recognise the landscape. He and Thomas had come out to inspect the trees in this valley a few days earlier. The river ran down through a wood and into the valley that took the river down to the sea past the duke’s castle. He finally reined in the horse at the top of the valley that he now knew so well, finally believing they would not be caught. The castle that he had thought so ugly when he had first seen it stood out against the snow, bright in the sunlight. Now it had become familiar. He did not think it pretty or even attractive, but it had become his home. He no longer wished to return to France. He had long stopped considering these people and their language barbaric; they were his friends and their language was his. Most of what his mother had told him about England was true; it was cold and damp and the colours were dull, although he knew that summer would bring something different. From stories and tales told around the fire in the evenings he had a better idea of the land in which he now lived and its history. His mother had always told him that she had stayed in France because she had fallen in love with his father and preferred France to England. He knew now that she had arrived in Paris as a lady in waiting to the treacherous Queen Isabella who was plotting to remove her husband from his throne and replace him with her lover. Now he wondered if it hadn’t been the threat of a civil war in England that had disposed her to love his father and his country, rather than return when the queen and her lover invaded their country. He would never know; he would prefer to think that she had stayed for his father’s sake as he would stay here for Rosamunde’s. He would never return to Provence if there was a chance that he could be near her.

The lack of motion had disturbed her and she lifted her head from his shoulder to smile up at him. “You have kept your word to my father.”

“May I then claim my reward?” He spoke without thinking, but he knew what he wanted from her.

“What reward would you have that is within my power to grant?” She frowned, as if calculating the small wealth that she held in her own right.

“A kiss.” She gasped. He was about to withdraw his request when she spoke, “You are correct that I can grant you that reward,” she said, offering her face to him.

He bent his face toward her and took his reward. He was tentative at first, intending to be careful of the cuts and bruises on her face, but, as she did not pull back, he became more insistent. He held her head through the thickness of her glorious chestnut hair and was answered by her fingers threading through his own hair. He teased her lips with his tongue until she opened them and he was lost. It seemed that Rosamunde was as eager for the kiss as he, for she pulled his head closer and learning from him, sent her own tongue to explore his mouth.

It seemed to him that many lifetimes had passed before they finally broke apart by mutual consent, both breathing heavily.

He expected her to look away, but again she confounded him, holding his gaze as if she expected something more. Her arms were twined around his neck, the length of her body pushed against his. He swallowed; he had missed something. Could it be that Rosamunde loved him already? She had given him no sign, but of course, she would not.

He had expected to have to work hard to persuade her to love him. He had not considered the possibility that she could love him already. He had nothing except himself to offer. He loved her, he knew that now. She was no longer a virgin, Sir Walter had made sure of that, but she was still Rosamunde. He could not undo what had been done, but he could offer Rosamunde a way out. She had said that she would go into the convent, but he would offer her marriage. He had married, unknowingly, one woman who was not a virgin, now he would marry another knowing exactly how she had fought for and lost her virginity. Rosamunde was tarnished and could not expect to marry the kind of man her father or she would want. Richard was the son of a count. He had nothing now but his rank. Rosamunde could not expect anything better and she might yet prefer the convent to the cripple who had nothing, but none of that mattered if she loved him. She had kissed him as if she loved him.