Claiming(2)
Rowena gripped the arm of the chair for strength, willing the fear and anger that raged inside not to emerge. “Settled? It is already settled. With due respect, my Lord, my father’s wishes for the estate have been well known by everyone concerned for years. He has divided it between his three daughters, with Gresham Castle and its surrounding estates being my share.”
Sir William did not reply immediately but a sly glimmer of a smile rested briefly on his lips before he took a sip of his wine, his steely gaze all the while focused on her. He was playing her. The bastard was making her suffer. But she would not show weakness before him. She reached across for her wine and took a small sip, replacing the goblet with the same deliberate control. She brought her hands loosely together and raised an eyebrow in query.
“Your liege lord has charged me with informing you that he agrees to your father’s wishes. Your sisters do indeed inherit their portions as you say. But this estate? No. Your esteemed father has passed you over in favour of Sir Saher de Bohun. Sir Saher is now lord of Gresham Castle and its estates.”
She didn’t move a muscle. It was as if ice, crushed and made liquid, had been poured into her body. It felt an age she sat there as dismay, fear, and anger raged inside her.
It was only when Sir William finished his wine and gave her a smug smile that she rose and smiled back. She knew she smiled because she felt her lips curl. But she felt no smile within, only sickness.
“No. You must be mistaken. My father would never have done such a thing. Now, if you’ve quite finished I have business to attend. I have no time to listen to such tales.” She turned to go, clicking her fingers to summon the dogs to her side.
“These are no tales, my lady.” The unfamiliar deep voice echoed around the large space. She snapped her head around, searching the shadows for its owner.
“Who’s there?”
He stepped forward from behind a screen, until his outline was illuminated by a halo of orange firelight. He looked like the devil himself.
“Lady Rowena,” Sir William’s voice had a smug tone which didn’t go undetected. “Allow me to introduce Sir Saher de Bohun, Lord of Gresham. He is a relative of your father’s.”
Anger broke the chill. She looked him up and down. “Of course he is. It’s surprising how many relatives emerge when a wealthy man dies.”
Sir Saher came close to her, too close, but she refused to back away. Despite her own good height, he was at least a foot taller than her and broader built than any Gresham man. His skin was browned by the sun, his muscles hard and his eyes and jaw harder still. “Quite a performance, Lady Rowena. I’m impressed.”
“Impressed? I have no need, nor wish, to impress you.” She turned back to Sir William. “Who will vouch that he is who he says he is?”
“None other than your liege lord, the Earl of Norfolk, Lady Rowena, and the King himself. There is no doubt. Sir Saher has been on the King’s business these past few years and is now here on his own business. Sir Saher is lord and master of Gresham Castle and its estates. And that, my lady, is fact. Your liege lord anticipated you might be… unaccepting, shall we say, and requested that I ensure the peaceful handover. And now that has been accomplished, we will take your leave.”
“There will be no peaceful handover. There will be no handover at all. The land is mine.”
Saher raised an eyebrow and his hard grey eyes—the colour of flint—sparked with amusement. “You exceed your reputation, lady. I’d heard that you are your father’s daughter, but I had imagined some softening of his character.”
“You imagined wrong. You’ll not be taking my place as head of this estate. I am in charge and always will be. I suggest you leave immediately.”
The smiled broadened, the lines around his eyes crinkling into an intensely irritating smile. “Now why would I do that, when I’ve only just arrived? Be seated, lady, and listen.”
“I do not take orders from anyone, sir. Least of all in my own Hall.”
“Priest,” Sir William interrupted. “Pass Lady Rowena the scroll. Let her see with her own eyes her father’s wishes and those of the Earl and King, and have done with this nonsense.”
The priest, who’d been nervously holding a scroll in his ink-stained hands, unrolled it and passed it to her. “It says—”
She snatched it from him. “I can read.” She scanned the parchment, confusion building with each passing word. She stopped abruptly when she saw her father’s distinctive signature. It was his hand. Betrayal, sickening and lurid, filled her stomach. She turned slowly to this man, this stranger, this barbarian, and took the document and tore it in half. The rending of the precious scroll shocked the observers into silence. She looked from one to the other of them. “This is what I think of the document. Whatever my father did, or did not do, I own the estate and I run the estate. And as to the rest, it will never happen.”