in a sudden burst of agony.
Why must he be haunted by the vision of her broken body night and day? She called out to him for justice and he could give her none. He was angry with himself for letting the lady Angelina beneath his guard. Her scent had inflamed his senses and her spirit had amused him, but then, when she had assumed that he was his father, something had snapped in his head.
God knew he was no saint! Raphael admitted freely that he’d done things of which he was ashamed. He’d killed men in battle and given no quarter. He’d stood by without comment when Richard had ordered the execution of the Muslim prisoners at Acre, which had led to a bloody retaliation by Saladin, and he’d hurt his wife … No matter how much he tried to forget it, the memory of her tears returned to haunt him.
‘Please tell me, what is wrong, husband? What have I done to displease you?’
‘You’ve done nothing. Do not be foolish, Messalina. I would not see you cry, but I cannot always be here at your side. I am a man and a warrior. I must meet with my fellow Christian knights this evening.’
‘They will persuade you to return home and you will leave me.’
‘I would never leave you. I love you.’
‘No, you desire me; it is not the same. If you loved me you would not go tonight. I fear …’ Messalina had looked at him imploringly. ‘I love you, Raphael. If you care for me at all, do not leave me this night.’
He’d ignored her tears, resenting the soft arms that clung to him and her sweetness, which was sometimes cloying and made him feel as if he were being smothered. Messalina had constantly needed reassurance that she was loved and adored. Raphael had tried to show her his feelings in the way he understood, which was with kisses and presents, but she had wanted something more—something he had not been able to give. Was it a lack in him? He bitterly regretted that he’d left her that night despite her tears. If he’d been there he would have fought to the death to try and save her.
Thrusting the bitter memories from his mind, Raphael sat down at his board and tried to concentrate on the letter he had not yet finished. With an oath of disgust, he screwed it into a ball and threw it to the ground. Dipping his quill in the ink, he began again. He would not use guile or disguise. A simple message telling the prince of his father’s death and his own return would be enough.
Why had his stomach turned at the thought of playing a double game? Could it have anything to do with the scorn in the lady Angelina’s eyes when she’d accused him of ravishing another man’s wife?
Raphael had never taken an unwilling woman.
‘Damn her,’ he muttered. He scrawled his signature then frowned as he saw he had used de Valmont, the name he’d chosen to take when he had been knighted by Richard. He was Lord Mornay now and Lady Angelina could not be expected to know that he was not his father. He should tell her the truth, explain that he had already set her father free and that she was at liberty to return to her home or stay here under his protection until Richard returned to the throne and her father could fetch her home.
Rosamunde glanced at herself in the handmirror of burnished silver; it had belonged to her mother and her father had insisted that she keep it, for otherwise it would be sold to pay his debts. The image was not clear but she knew that she looked as well as she could. A lock of her hair was plaited and curled about her head at the front, the rest hanging loose to the small of her back. She wore no cap or jewels for she had none,
but she was dressed in a dark-green tunic of fine wool that Angelina had given her because her own were too shabby.
She had been sent for some time ago, and she was ready, yet still she delayed, reluctant to face Lord Mornay again. For a moment in his arms she had wanted to melt into his body, to let him do as he would with her, her lips begging for kisses. How could she be lost to all modesty? To enjoy the caress of a monster such as he was to be lost to all sense or decency.
She had expected an older man, a man steeped in vice and depravity. Her first impression of the handsome, virile man had been that he could not possibly be the evil monster Fitzherbert had warned her of. Yet his behaviour subsequently had seemed to confirm it. No true knight would subject a lady to such a dishonourable display of temper. For he had been angry. She had felt the passion and fire in him, and for a moment she’d feared that he would take what he wanted, but he’d drawn back, giving her a chance to escape.
Why, if he was all that people said of him, had he allowed her to escape him with her modesty intact?
Rosamunde was puzzled. Had she built an unreal picture of her uncle’s enemy in her mind—or was there truly an evil monster beneath that handsome façade?
‘You should go down, lady,’ Maire told her. ‘If you do not the lord may be angry.’
‘He is already angry because I disobeyed him.’
‘Take care, lady. You are his prisoner here. He can do whatever he wishes with you. If you do not wish to lose your virtue, you must make him see that you are chaste and devout.’
‘I doubt that either chastity or devotion will win my freedom if he is determined to keep me here,’ Rosamunde replied. ‘Yet I must go down, for I am hungry, and if I disobey him he might starve me into submission.’
Leaving her chamber, Rosamunde began to walk down the spiral stairwell of worn stone. Her mouth felt dry and her steps were slow for she was apprehensive of her next meeting with Lord Mornay. She had disturbed him when he was busy but he might have more leisure to pay her attention this evening.
Lost in her thoughts, she did not hear the sound of soft-soled shoes as someone ascended the stairs, so when they met face to face midway she was suddenly breathless.
‘My lord. I was about to attend you, as you commanded.’
He was so tall and strong, his shoulders broad, the muscles rippling beneath the thin wool tunic he wore over dark hose that evening. He had changed since she’d last seen him and smelled of soap that was slightly perfumed with a woody essence which made her senses reel. His hair looked darker at the roots but he wore it long and the sun-bleached ends just brushed the braided neck of his white tunic. Yet he was somehow gentler, more of a knight and less the savage now.
‘Command? I sent you an invitation to dine with my people and me in the hall. You seem to imagine you are a prisoner, lady. What have I done to deserve your anger?’ he asked.
‘I … Nothing, except take my father captive and demand that I bring the ransom in person.’
He was standing so close to her, towering above her, so masculine and powerful. She caught her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs as if it were a caged bird seeking to escape the bars of its prison.
‘Please believe that I mean you no harm,’ he said. He held out his hand. ‘Come, lady. We shall go down together. Later, after we have dined, I shall explain much that you do not know. Until then I must ask you to trust me.’ He needed to be careful what he said and where he spoke to her. Apart from his steward Mellors, who had already proven his loyalty, he was not yet certain who amongst his inherited household staff he could trust.
Rosamunde took his hand and allowed him to lead her down the last few steps and through the great hall. The trestles and boards had all been set up now and were laid with wooden trenchers. At the high table there was a huge silver salt and either silver or pewter goblets stood at intervals down the board. Dishes of fruit, dates and nuts brought from overseas were set along the centre of the board for the guests to nibble at between courses, and the platters of pewter shone like dull silver.
She was conscious that all eyes were on her as she was led to a place of honour beside him. He waited until she was seated, then turned to the expectant gathering.
‘As you see, my friends, we have a special guest this evening. I ask you to lift your cups to toast the lady Angelina.’
The men stood,