a quill towards him. He frowned as he began to write. The prince must be informed that Lord William Mornay was dead and his son returned from the Holy Land. It would not do to antagonise the prince, for much might be gained by Raphael appearing to be a man after his father’s heart. If the prince learned that Raphael had sent money with Count Torrs to help King Richard return to England and the throne, he might try to stop the gold reaching its destination. Better for Raphael to keep his silence and wait until the chance came to serve his king. If Prince John was determined to usurp his brother, he might plot to have him murdered when he set foot on English soil.
Besides, Raphael had recognised the woman he’d noticed at the quayside in France. She had not known him because of his heaume, but he knew her. He needed a little time to sort out his thoughts before he saw her again.
Chapter Three
Alone in the room at the top of the tower, Rosamunde looked down at the courtyard. She had been left waiting for two hours and her apprehension was growing. She had not been locked in her chamber but since there was no possibility of her leaving the castle without permission she supposed Lord Mornay did not feel the need to imprison her.
Why had he not sent for her? Did he hope to break her will by leaving her to reflect on her probable fate? She raised her head, feeling a surge of anger against the man whose face she had not yet seen. She would not show fear or let him break her resolve. Indeed, she would not wait here until she was sent for. Her father might be an impoverished knight, but she was of good blood, and Lord Mornay had no right to treat her like this.
Leaving the chamber, she ran down the stairs. In the hall, there were a few servants beginning to set up boards on trestles for the evening meal but no sign of the steward. Approaching one of the servants, she lifted her head proudly.
‘I wish to see Lord Mornay. Please take me to him at once.’ The man stared at her for a moment, seeming stunned. ‘Do as I bid you, sirrah.’ She assumed her cousin’s haughty manner. ‘Disobey me and I shall have you whipped.’
The man lifted his hand and pointed towards a door to the right of a rich tapestry hanging on the wall at the far end of the hall. Rosamunde nodded her head, feeling a little ashamed. She never spoke to servants in that manner, but she was supposed to be her cousin and she had to make the vile Lord Mornay believe her. He must have heard of Angelina’s beauty and might be disappointed by Rosamunde’s face. She must do nothing that might make him suspect she was not the lady Angelina.
Hesitating outside the door for a moment, she lifted the latch and entered without knocking. A man was sitting at a board on which were spread various books and papers. He had been writing and did not look up as he said, ‘Yes, Mellors? What is it?’
‘I wish to know why you have kept me waiting—and why you did not tell me who you were on our way here,’ Rosamunde said before she lost her nerve. ‘I am the daughter of a nobleman and I demand respect. Please allow me to pay my father’s ransom and leave.’
‘So anxious to leave? I wonder why?’
The man lifted his head and looked at her. Rosamunde was so shocked that she could hardly hold back her gasp of surprise. Surely he was the man she’d seen before they had left port in France? He had stared at her as she’d been about to go on board the ship and she’d thought that she recognised him, though she’d been uncertain. Now that she was closer, her doubts deepened. This man’s eyes were devoid of warmth and his mouth hard. He could not possibly be the youth who had rescued her kitten from that vicious dog those years ago. Yes, there was a strong resemblance, but it was very likely only the colour of his hair and eyes.
‘Why have you come here, lady?’ His gaze narrowed. ‘My steward asked that you remain in your chamber until you were sent for. I have important matters that keep me busy until then.’
‘Why will you not let me pay the thousand gold talents and leave? It need only take a moment and my father may be released. We shall trouble you no further, sir.’
‘Thousand? I believe you only brought five-hundred gold talents with you, even though you were asked for a thousand.’
‘It is all I was given,’ Rosamunde faltered, uneasy as she saw his mouth harden. No wonder Angelina had been desperate to send her cousin; she must have kept half of the money for herself. ‘The remainder will be paid once my—father is released.’
‘Indeed?’ Eyes that had been as cold as mid-winter ice suddenly crackled with blue fire. ‘Supposing I am not prepared to release him for only a fraction of the money demanded?’
‘Then you are a wicked rogue and deserve to be thrashed,’ Rosamunde burst out. It was foolish to lose her temper this way but she could not control her disappointment. He looked something like the youth she’d lost her heart to years earlier, but he was a cold, hard man. He could not possibly be Raphael—could he? ‘If I were a man I would challenge you to combat and kill you.’
‘You might try.’ He stared at her for a moment and then laughed. ‘You are a bold wench, Lady Angelina. What are you prepared to pay for your father’s release—besides the gold?’
‘Oh!’ Rosamunde’s heart raced. Fitzherbert had been right; this man would not be content with merely the ransom money. He wanted more—the surrender of her modesty. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing, sir? I have heard what you did to other unfortunate women—of the poor lady that walked into the river because her husband no longer wanted her after you had disparaged her.’
The smile left his face, his lips turning white as he glared at her. ‘Now you are too bold, lady. Return to your chamber until you are sent for or you might be sorry.’
‘I am not a servant to …’
Rosamunde quailed as he took a step towards her. She wanted to run away but stood her ground, looking at him defiantly. For a moment he hesitated, then reached out and drew her against him, his right arm about her waist as he held her pressed tight to his body. She could feel his strength and power and her knees turned to water. For a moment her head whirled and she had a foolish desire to melt against him, to subdue her will to his.
‘You deserve your punishment, wench,’ he muttered and bent his head to take possession of her lips.
Rosamunde struggled wildly, but his arm was like a band of iron holding her tight. His mouth was hard, demanding, as if he sought to subdue her to his will, to show her who was the master here. As her head swam, she opened her mouth to protest but his tongue moved to block her words, touching hers. The feelings he aroused were strange and yet pleasant. She moaned, because the sensations sweeping over her were so bewildering, and then she pushed her hands against his chest as common sense returned.
He let her go abruptly and stepped back, a look of such anger on his face that she was terrified. Now she truly believed all the stories she had been told.
‘Go back to your chamber or I might not be responsible for my actions.’
Rosamunde gave a yelp of fright, turned and ran from the room. She fled through the hall and up the stairs and did not stop until she reached her chamber.
Raphael cursed as the door closed behind the woman. What on earth had made him react that way? Holding her close, his body had responded in a way he had not expected, arousing passions he’d believed dead. He’d known her at once as the woman he’d seen on the quayside in France. She had been dressed less richly then and he’d imagined she was a relative of the beautiful lady she’d accompanied on board ship. She was certainly haughty enough to be the daughter of a nobleman, though something was not quite as it seemed, for the boots she had worn that day in France had been old and worn through. He had a feeling that she was playing a part, pretending to be other than she was, but that did not excuse his behaviour. She was undoubtedly a lady and did not deserve to be treated like a harlot.
Her sudden arrival had startled him, because Messalina would never have dreamed of disobeying an order from either her father or Raphael. She had been modest and sweet—and she had been foully slain, her death