‘And don’t you?’ The question was out before she could prevent it.
His teeth gleamed. ‘You are the very sum of my desires. Ma dame, tell me – am I to return you to the mill, or will you come back with me to the castle? I’m anxious to have your answer.’
His voice was perfectly cool. Unemotional. And he’d posed his question – am I to return you to the mill? – in much the same tone that he’d use if he was asking her whether she thought the weather was likely to be fair or foul.
Rosamund thought of Alfwold, of humble, honest Alfwold, who had braved his lord’s wrath for her sake, but who nonetheless left her quite unmoved. And she looked at the tall, loose-limbed warrior at her side. He was so handsome with his grey, thick-lashed eyes. With his thick black hair. And she loved the shape of his mouth, she could kiss him forever.
She studied his dark features and held back a sigh. His looks were one thing, what she needed to see was some spark of feeling...
He was staring at the stars again. So calm. Yet her heart beat fast for him, it beat for Oliver de Warenne. Alfwold the stone-dresser left her unmoved.
Her hand lay where she had put it, across his waist. Experimentally, watching for his slightest reaction, she curled and uncurled her fingers. Through the fabric of tunic and undershirt, she felt his stomach muscles tighten. He was not as indifferent as he would have her believe. She moved her hand slowly down to his hip and marked how his head turned and their gazes met. He didn’t say a word but his eyes darkened. Casually drawing circles with her fingertips, Rosamund allowed her hand to wander up his chest.
The hand around her waist tightened and he covered her hand with his, killing the movement. His eyes were as black as the night.
Her shoulders slumped. He had reacted to her touch, but what of it? Oliver was young and virile, likely any girl could win a response from him.
‘Rosamund, your answer, if you please.’
‘Why give me a choice when it seems I am yours for the taking?’
He picked up her hand and opened it, spreading out her fingers. ‘I thought I’d explained, I don’t think it is right that you should be torn from your family against your will.’ He brought her forefinger to his lips and kissed it. ‘But it would seem there’s a strong liking between us, and if you’re willing, I’m content. But you must be willing, I’ll not force any maid.’ He turned his attention to her next finger and when he kissed that too, she felt herself warm inside.
‘You taste salty,’ he said. ‘Come, Rosamund, give me your answer.’
‘I find it surprising that you would consider the views of a simple villager.’
‘Simple?’ He laughed. ‘I heard you with Marie, you’ve already learned some French.’ With a wicked grin, he released her hand and cupped her breast.
The devil, he was trying to prove he could win responses from her, employing her tactics against her! She tried to conceal her response – the tightening in her stomach, her quickening breath – but knew she had failed by the heat sparking in his eyes.
‘You see?’ His eyes gleamed silver in the moonlight. ‘At the speed you learn, you’ll be fluent in a week – we’ll make a gentlewoman of you yet.’
‘I’m not sure I want to be a gentlewoman. Not if it means riding roughshod over others to gain my desires.’ She resisted the urge to wriggle, to increase the pressure against her breast.
His forehead creased. ‘I am giving you a choice.’
He lifted that thought-stopping hand from her breast and twined his fingers with hers. If only he cared for her. He’d been honest – he’d told her plainly that he could never love her. Was that the truth?
Why couldn’t he love her? Because she was a peasant? Sad to say, most of the inhabitants of the castle would see no wrong in forcing a villager to be the squire’s lover. Everyone knew that Baron Geoffrey and his family saw the villagers as cattle, as beasts of burden, and Marie had confirmed it. Marie had also said that Oliver was one of them.
Oliver was to be knighted. He was to be married to Lady Cecily. Not many maids would turn their noses up at the chance of becoming a knight’s lover. Here was an opportunity to taste the life that her humble birth had denied her. Baron Geoffrey doubtless thought he was giving her a great privilege. He knew Oliver hadn’t forced her. Would the outcome have been the same if her lord thought she’d been forced? Rosamund had no way of knowing, but she suspected it would be very much the same. She was a chattel.
No, the thought of offering Rosamund a choice hadn’t entered any of those superior, aristocratic minds. Except Oliver’s. He was offering her an escape route, and it would seem that he meant it. She really could choose.