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.’