Shattered Vows(46)

‘Don’t scowl at me, my lass.’ His speech was slurred. ‘I know how to bring a smile to those blue eyes. I’m as good as the next man.’ He grinned and winked pointedly at the dais. ‘In truth, I’m better than the next man.’

Rosamund wrenched her skirts free, side-stepped another determined grab at her skirts, and hurried towards the entrance hall. If this was going to be the way of things, she didn’t think she could stomach it for long. She needed fresh air.

Her admirer stumbled after her.

‘No, Edgar.’ Another guard was manning the hall door, and he held out his arm to bar his fellow from following her. ‘That lass is spoken for,’ he said, firmly.

She smiled gratefully, ran down the steps and out into the deserted bailey.

The night air was cool. It made a welcome change after the stuffy atmosphere of the hall and the ladies’ solar. Torches lit the walkway that ringed the top of the curtain wall. Noticing a ladder, she headed straight for it. There was no moon and it was doubtful she would be able to glimpse the sea, but she wanted to try. Carefully lifting her skirts in one hand, she climbed the ladder. At the top, her feet rang hollow on the board walk.

A lookout challenged her. ‘Who’s there? Who gave you leave to come up here?’

‘I’m Rosamund and-’

A footstep behind her had her catch her breath. Had the guard from the hall followed her? She swung round. Oliver. He was swathed in a thick, fur-lined cloak.

Oliver nodded at the watchman. ‘I gave her leave.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The watchman saluted and moved off.

Taking Rosamund’s elbow, Oliver steered her towards the eastern tower where the battlements overlooked the sea. The wind grew stronger with every step, it snatched her breath away. She glanced through a crenel towards the sea, but it was lost in a vast, wind-filled blackness.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, lifting her voice over the wind. ‘I didn’t realise I wasn’t allowed up here.’

‘If everyone decided to stroll about the battlements, there’d be no room for guards.’ Oliver frowned at her. ‘I thought you were in trouble and might need rescuing.’

‘Trouble?’

‘One of the guards has been ogling you all night.’

Rubbing her arms against the cold, she looked thoughtfully at him. Oliver couldn’t be worried about her reputation – given what had passed between them it was rather too late for that. And in any case, surely a man who expected to marry his lord’s sister wouldn’t think the miller’s daughter had a reputation worth losing! ‘I’m a fallen woman. From now on, whenever anyone looks at me, all they will see is a fallen woman.’

A sharp gust of wind snatched his reply. He raised his voice. ‘Come with me.’ Looping his arm firmly about her waist, he walked her back to the stepladder. A guard marched past, his boots drumming on the boards. ‘We can’t talk here, what with the wind and...’ he jerked his head at the guard ‘...other distractions. Down you go. I’ll steady the ladder.’

At the bottom, he pulled her across the yard towards the stables.

‘No.’ Rosamund hung back. ‘Not Lance. Please. Oliver, I don’t like riding. It was so uncomfortable with you on that saddle, and I couldn’t ride alone.’

He drew her inexorably past the brewhouse and paused beneath a flaring torch. ‘I’d like to speak with you away from the castle. Never fear, I shan’t use my uncle’s saddle, we’ll go bareback. Angel, it’s time you mastered your fear of horses – a squire’s lady should learn to ride.’

Rosamund stared. ‘You’re forgetting my lowly origins. I’m no lady, I’m one of your cousin’s humblest vassals.’

Oliver’s eyes gleamed and he cursed under his breath. ‘Very well, if you expect to be treated like a baggage.’ He marched her into the stables. ‘Stay there, and don’t move.’

Briefly, Rosamund thought about disobeying him. But where would she go? The castle gates would be shut until morning. She could hunt out a hiding place, but Oliver had been here longer than she had – he’d be sure to find her. She watched him slip Lance’s bit and bridle on. Here in the castle, she was no match for him. Outside it, however...

He led Lance into the bailey and swung easily into the saddle. He reached for her and dragged her up before him, impatiently arranging her skirts to preserve her modesty. Lance’s coat felt harsh through her stockings and gown.

‘But, Oliver, the drawbridge is up – what about curfew?’

He didn’t reply with words, he simply directed Lance to the gatehouse and hailed one of the guards. Coins chinked and the guard’s face split into a gap-toothed grin.