Shattered Vows(3)

Oliver didn’t rise to the bait as Aeffe would have done. He glanced down at his brown tunic and fingered the clean cream sleeve of his undershirt. ‘Festival? What festival?’

‘You can’t be that ignorant, you must know what day it is.’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Remind me.’ He sounded mildly interested, as though he were addressing a fractious child.

Rosamund frowned, his condescension irritated her. ‘It’s May Day.’

‘May Day. Ah, I see,’ he glanced at the trampled flowers and smiled. ‘These were for your sweetheart and Lance and I between us have ruined them. I see I must make reparation.’

Rosamund’s heart gave a little jump. There were two reasons for this and both astonished her. The first was that when Oliver smiled, the hard, bitter lines on his face were erased. His appearance changed to such an extent that she quite forgot how alarming he’d looked, bellowing at her from across the rockfall. He was no longer a frowning, suspicious nobleman, one whom she must outwit if she were to escape a beating. She looked at him with new eyes and saw a young and handsome man who was quite unlike any of the village lads. He was clean for one thing. He didn’t smell. As far as she could see, his only flaw was that one of his teeth had a small chip in it – the chip was only visible when he smiled.

But the second, most extraordinary thing, was that he seemed to be apologising to her. No man had ever apologised to her. Had she thought about it, she would have supposed it an impossibility. Men didn’t apologise. They might beat, they might cajole, they might even seduce, but they didn’t apologise. Men were never wrong. She goggled up at him, speechless with surprise. She must be dreaming. But she could feel the wind lifting her hair, playing with it. This was happening. She was standing on the edge of the beach, she could feel shingle beneath her bare feet, she could hear the waves. And this proud man, no peasant’s son, was apologising to her, to Rosamund the miller’s daughter.

She could forgive him anything after this. Even that irritating air of condescension. She wanted to savour this. Lord, the man was apologising to her.

Watching her staring at him with her mouth agape, Oliver decided the girl – Rosamund, her name was Rosamund – must be simple. He reached out and put a finger under her chin to close her mouth.

‘How may I make amends?’ he asked softly. ‘What would you have me do?’

She may be lacking in wits, but he’d no wish to startle her. It was such a pity she was simple, for she was uncommonly pretty with fathomless blue eyes and glorious honey-coloured hair. Did she have a sweetheart? And how would he treat her, this lover of hers? Would he be gentle with her, or would he take advantage of her simple nature and use her before casting her aside?

Rosamund blinked, Oliver’s gentleness was yet another novelty. ‘You want to make amends?’

She felt like pinching herself. He would surely prove to be like other men – he couldn’t be real. Men didn’t apologise, men weren’t usually gentle. His behaviour was so outside her experience, so unlike her father...

Oliver made her spine tingle, it was as though he were a spirit. He wasn’t real. Real men didn’t look so strong, so handsome, or so clean. Used as she was to downtrodden, humble peasant men who hadn’t the means to wear fine, clean clothes, this man seemed to shine.

With a sudden shiver of excitement, Rosamund felt that she had recognised the truth. He was a spirit. Someone so handsome couldn’t be human. Had he been summoned up for her as part of this magical day? One of her last days as an unmarried woman...

Her superstitious mind latched onto the thought and embellished it. The grey of the sea was reflected in his eyes. Yes, now she understood, May Day belonged to the old gods and they had brought him to her. The old gods had sent him riding in from the sea on his great horse and for today he was hers. It wasn’t something to consider too closely, lest he vanish like the morning mists. She smiled up at him, delighted with her fantasy.

‘What reparation shall I make?’ Oliver asked, bending to pick up the forget-me-nots so he could give himself time to accustom himself to her smile.

Oliver couldn’t remember when a maid had looked at him like this, she was staring at him as though he were a god and he was human enough to enjoy it. She was completely natural, there wasn’t a trace of artifice or malice in that smile. And her eyes met his directly. She couldn’t be more different from the simpering, scheming ladies he’d met since his return to England. Their eyes never fell on him without reminding him of his mother’s shame. There’d been scorn and pity in their every glance. He’d heard the titters as they’d whispered about him behind their hands and he’d forced himself to affect insouciance, though he felt like throttling them all.