Buch lesen: «Lord Greville's Captive»

Anne grabbed the hilt of the sword. It came free of the scabbard with a satisfying hiss of metal.

She spun around. Simon had started to move toward her, but he was too late. As he took the final step she brought the tip of the blade up to rest against his throat like a lover’s caress. Simon stopped abruptly. The smile in his eyes deepened to something like admiration.

“I cannot believe,” he said, “that I was so careless.”

Lord Greville’s Captive

Harlequin^® Historical

Praise for international bestselling author and RITA^®Award finalist Nicola Cornick

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Deceived

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Nicola Cornick
L ORDGREVILLE’S CAPTIVE

Available from Harlequin^®Historical and NICOLA CORNICK

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Prologue

Grafton, Oxfordshire, England

Summer 1641

It was high summer and the village of Grafton was garlanded for a feast to celebrate the betrothal of the Earl of Grafton’s only daughter to the eldest son of Fulwar Greville, the Earl of Harington. This dynastic match was no surprise, for the two Earls were old friends, one-time comrades in arms and godfather to each other’s children. It was a day of great rejoicing.

In her chamber in the west wing of the old manor house, Lady Anne Grafton’s women were helping her dress for the banquet.

‘Do you like Lord Greville, Nan?’ Anne’s young cousin Muna asked, as she slid the petticoats over Anne’s head in a ruffle of white. ‘He seems to me quite stern and cold.’

‘Like his sire,’ commented Edwina, Anne’s former nurse, with a shiver. She pulled Anne’s laces tight. ‘They do not call him the Iron Earl for naught.’

Anne laughed, stopping abruptly as the pull of the laces stole her breath. ‘Oof! Edwina, you are smothering me!’ She slipped obediently into the red velvet gown that her nurse was holding for her. ‘Uncle Fulwar is the kindest man in the world,’ she said, muffled. ‘As for Lord Greville—’ She stopped. The truth was that she did not know Simon Greville well, for all that their fathers had served together in the wars on the continent. Simon was eight years older than she and already a battle-hardened commander who had been commended for his bravery. Muna was right—there was something distant and a little stern in his demeanour, as though all that he had seen and done in his life had already made him older than she by far more than years.

In the week that the Earl of Harington and his son had been at Grafton, Anne had not spent any time alone with Simon. It was not expected. It might be her hand in marriage that he had come to sue for, but it was her father’s permission he needed, not hers.

And yet, there had been a moment that had taken Anne quite by surprise. Simon had ridden in late one evening when the full moon was rising high over the tall crops in the fields. Anne had, naturally, been curious to see him; although she understood that it was her duty to marry this man, there was a part of her that hoped that she might find him personable as well. Thus it was that she had been leaning out of the mullioned window, in a most hoydenish fashion, when the horses had clattered over the drawbridge and into the courtyard.

She had known that she should draw back in all modesty, but something had held her still, watching. The air had been warm from the heat of the day and full of the scent of honeysuckle. There had been no sound except the flutter of the doves settling in the cote.

Simon Greville had swung down from the saddle and then he had looked up, directly at Anne’s window. Instinct had prompted her to draw back. Curiosity had held her still. He had a hard, handsome face tanned deep by the sun, and he had raised his plumed hat and brought it sweeping down in a low bow. His hair was thick and dark, and a wicked smile had lit his eyes as he looked upon her. To her astonishment Anne had felt a shiver run all the way down her spine. All thoughts of duty flew straight out of the window. She had a suspicion that it might be an absolute pleasure to marry Simon Greville.

‘Look at my lady’s face!’ Edwina said now, her own beaming. ‘You like him well enough, do you not, my pet, and quite right too! I’ll wager Lord Greville is a lusty man who will make you happy.’

One of the maids giggled.

‘Edwina!’ Anne pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. She was seventeen, old to be unwed and painfully aware that her father’s protectiveness and his negligence in arranging her marriage meant that she knew little of these mysterious matters. There were girls far younger than she who were already mothers.

‘Peace, I beg you,’ she said. ‘I marry Lord Greville because it is Papa’s will.’

Edwina smiled. ‘That is all very well and good, pet, and indeed as it should be.’ She bustled around Anne’s head, fixing a circlet of silver in place. ‘But I have been thinking about the wedding night.’

Anne looked up. She remembered Simon Greville’s dark gaze upon her and gave a little shiver.

‘I have been thinking,’ Edwina continued, ‘that as you have no mama to speak to you, I should take that role.’ She gestured to Muna. ‘Come closer, pet. You must listen too, for no doubt you will soon be wed as well.’

Anne sighed. ‘Must we endure this, Edwina? I have a feeling that Muna and I shall be monstrously embarrassed at what you have to tell.’

Muna giggled. ‘Madam Elizabeth from the village told me that, as long as I kept quite still and closed my eyes and did not move, no matter what my husband did to me, I should prove a very satisfactory wife.’

‘Lord have mercy,’ Anne said drily. ‘I do not think that sounds very satisfactory at all, Muna.’

Edwina put her hands on her hips and huffed. ‘’Tis not a matter for jest, my lady. The demands of a husband can come as a shock to a gentlewoman. Why, my own husband kept me busy nigh on five times a night.’

Muna clapped her hands to her mouth. ‘Five times! Every night?’

‘I heard tell that he was a very lusty fellow,’ Anne said, smiling. ‘I am not sure whether you are to be congratulated or commiserated with, Edwina. Did you ever get any sleep?’

‘You are not taking this seriously,’ the maid grumbled. ‘Well, do not come complaining to me when you receive a shock on your wedding night!’

‘I promise I shall not complain,’ Anne said. ‘And,’ she added firmly, ‘I should like a little time alone, if you please, before the feasting starts.’

They went grumbling, Edwina herding Muna and the younger maids before her, closing the door on their chatter. Anne sank down on the window seat with a heartfelt sigh. She had so little quiet. The burden of managing the household had fallen on her shoulders since her mother had died. Always there was someone or something demanding her attention, from the maids who fussed and fluttered around her to the villagers who brought her their problems and requests, knowing that she would present their petitions to her father with soft and persuasive words. She loved the people of Grafton and she knew they loved her. Her entire life had been lived out in this land. And now through this betrothal she knew that the Earl of Grafton was seeking to ensure her a safe future, knowing that his health was starting to fail and that Grafton and its lady needed a strong lord to defend them.

Anne felt the prickle of tears in her throat. She swallowed hard, and deliberately turned her thoughts aside from her father’s ill health. The room was hot, its walls confining. Suddenly she did not wish to sit waiting here for the summons to the betrothal feast. The air would be fresher in the garden.

So it proved. She skirted the kitchens, where the cook was bellowing at the scullions and sweating to provide the finest banquet that Grafton had ever seen. The villagers were already flocking to fill the ancient tithe barn and share in the feast. But no one saw Anne as she slipped through the doorway into the walled garden and walked slowly through the parterre to the sundial at the centre. The shadows were lengthening and the smell of the lavender was still in the air. She ran her fingers over the sundial’s smooth surface. Sometimes it felt as though time stood still at Grafton. In her memories there was always the sun.

‘Lady Anne.’

Anne jumped, a small cry escaping her lips. She had not seen the man who was standing in the shadow of the doorway, but now he came forward, his footsteps crunching on the gravel, until he was standing before her.

‘I beg your pardon,’ Simon Greville said. ‘I did not intend to startle you. Your father is looking for you, Lady Anne. We are ready for the feast.’

Anne nodded. Her heart was beating swiftly, not only from the shock of his sudden appearance but also from the knowledge that they were alone for the first time. During the previous week they had ridden out together, danced under the indulgent gaze of the household and conversed on generalities. But suddenly it seemed precious little upon which to build a marriage; even as Anne reminded herself of her duty, the fear clutched at her heart.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Excuse me, Lord Greville.’

Simon did not move. He put out a hand and caught her arm. ‘A moment, Lady Anne.’

Anne looked up. The evening sun was in her eyes and she could not see his expression. She waited, her heart racing.

Simon slid his hand down her sleeve to capture her fingers in his. His hand was warm, the shock of his touch sufficient to send a shiver through Anne’s entire body.

‘I have your father’s permission to wed you, Lady Anne,’ he said, ‘but I do not yet have yours.’

Anne stared. ‘You do not need mine, my lord.’

Simon smiled into her eyes. ‘Yes, I do. I will not force an unwilling maid. So speak now, Anne of Grafton, if you do not wish to take me as your husband, for soon we shall be troth-plight.’

His hands tightened on hers as he waited for her answer. Anne searched his face, so dark, so stern. She felt a little quiver of apprehension.

‘I will do my duty—’ she began.

‘I do not want your duty.’ Simon sounded angry now. ‘I want you.’ He moderated his tone. ‘And I had thought—forgive me—that you might in some small way feel the same…’

Anne remembered the moment in the courtyard when she had first set eyes upon him. Then she remembered Edwina’s words about the wedding night. An involuntary smile curved her lips.

‘Well, I—’

She got no further, for Simon leaned down and kissed her, his hands suddenly mercilessly hard on her slender frame, his mouth hungry. Anne’s exclamation of shock was smothered beneath the relentless demand of his lips. Her head spun and the blood pounded in her veins.

He released her gently and she steadied herself with one hand against the mossy stone of the sundial. She was trembling down to the tips of her toes. She pressed her fingers against her lips in confusion and the beginnings of desire.

‘So is that a yes?’ Simon demanded. His eyes were bright and hard with passion. Anne saw it; for the first time in her life, she understood the truly awesome strength of her own power and felt the excitement flood her body. To be able to do this to such a man…She could bring him to his knees. She felt dizzy at the thought.

‘I am considering it,’ she said demurely. ‘’Tis true, my lord, that you are very pleasant to look upon…’

His lips twitched in response, but she could feel the impatient desire in him, barely held under control. ‘Thank you,’ he murmured. ‘And?’

‘And I have…enjoyed…the time that we have spent in each other’s company…’

‘And?’

‘And indeed I think you must kiss very nicely, my lord, although I have no means of comparison.’

Simon made a movement towards her, but she evaded him, dancing away down the path. She was laughing now, the exhilaration burning in her veins.

‘So having given consideration to your offer…’

She paused, looked at him. He caught her wrist, pulled her close and held her still.

‘Yes?’ he said.

‘I will marry you,’ she whispered, as their lips met again. ‘With all my heart.’

Chapter One

Grafton, Oxfordshire, England

February 1645

The snow had been falling all day. It hung like a shroud between the besieged manor house of Grafton and the army that encircled it a bare half mile away. Now, as the church bell tolled midnight, the darkness had an unearthly glow that struck a chill into the men’s hearts. In the morning they were to do battle, but for tonight they huddled in the byres and barns of the village, around the fitful fires. They drank the last of their ale, talked in low voices and tried not to think of the morrow.

When the knock came at the door, Simon Greville thought at first that he had imagined it. He had already met with his captains, they had talked of their strategy for the morning and had retired to wait for dawn and get what little sleep they could. He had given specific orders that he should not be disturbed further that night. Yet the knock came once again, soft but insistent, on the barn door. Simon was not angered to have his instructions gainsaid, but he was curious. His authority was such that only in the direst emergency would his men disobey his direct command.

He strode across the room and flung wide the door. It shook on its hinges and a flurry of wind swept in, bringing with it night chill and a scattering of snowflakes. The candles guttered and the smell of tallow stung the air.

‘What is it?’ He knew that he sounded brusque. Even he, renowned for his steady nerve, could be forgiven a certain shortness of temper the night before a battle.

It was the youngest of his captains who stood there, a youth barely out of his teens called Guy Standish. He was looking terrified.

‘Your pardon, my lord. There is a messenger from Grafton Manor.’

Simon turned away. He might have known that the Royalist garrison in the house would try this last-ditch attempt to beg a surrender and avoid bloodshed. He had been waiting all day for them to try to negotiate a truce. And now it had happened. It was typical of the cowardice of the King’s general, Gerard Malvoisier, to try to bargain for his miserable life.

Two weeks before, Malvoisier had murdered Simon’s younger brother, who had gone to the Manor under the Parliamentarians’ flag of truce. Malvoisier had sent Henry back in pieces, no quarter given, but now he evidently expected Simon to spare his worthless life. Once again Simon felt the ripping tide of fury that had swamped him when he had learned of Henry’s death. A fortnight had allowed no time for that grief to start to heal. He had had the anguished task of writing to their father with the news as well. Fulwar Greville, Earl of Harington, supported the King whilst his sons were loyal to the Parliamentarian cause. And now Simon had written to tell their father that one of those sons was dead, fighting for a cause that betrayed their father’s fealty.

Simon knew that his and Henry’s defection had broken their father’s heart. He had the deepest of respect for the Earl, despite their political differences. And now he felt a huge guilt for allowing Henry to die. All he could do was to turn that anger and hatred on to Gerard Malvoisier, stationed at Grafton. There would be no mercy for the besieged army in the Manor house, not now, not ever. It made no odds that Grafton—and its mistress—had once been promised to him. The Civil War had ripped such alliances apart.

Standish was waiting.

‘I will not see the messenger,’ Simon said. ‘There is nothing to discuss. The time for parley is long past. We attack on the morrow and nothing can prevent it.’

His tone was colder than the snow-swept night and it should have been enough, but still Standish lingered, his face tight with strain.

‘My lord…’

Simon spun around with repressed rage. ‘What?’

‘It is the Lady Anne Grafton who is here, my lord,’ the boy stammered. ‘We thought…That is, knowing that it was the lady herself…’

Simon swore under his breath. It was clever of Malvoisier to send Lady Anne, he thought, knowing that she was the one messenger he would find difficult to turn away in all courtesy. They were on opposing sides now, but it went against the grain with him to show a lady anything less than respect, Royalist or not. Besides, he had been Anne Grafton’s suitor four years before, in a more peaceful time before the bloody Civil War had come between them. There were memories there, promises made, that even now he found difficult to ignore.

But this was war and he had no time for chivalry. His brother’s brutal death at Malvoisier’s hands had seen to that.

‘I will not see her,’ he said. ‘Send her away.’

Standish looked agonised. Despite the cold there was sweat on his brow. ‘But, sir—’

‘I said send her away.’

There was a clash of arms from further down the street and then the sound of raised voices and hurrying footsteps, muffled in the snow.

‘Madam!’ It was the anguished cry of one of the guards. ‘You cannot go in there!’

But it was already too late. The barn door crashed back on its hinges and Lady Anne Grafton swept past Guy Standish and into the room. The snow swirled in and the fire hissed.

Lady Anne flung back the hood of her cloak and confronted Simon. She was wearing a deep blue gown beneath a fur-trimmed mantle and looked every inch the noble-born lady she was. Her face was pale, her hair inky black about her shoulders. She looked like a creature of ice and fire from a fairy tale.

Simon felt his heart lurch, as though all the air had been punched from his lungs. He had not seen Anne Grafton in four years, for their betrothal had been broken almost as soon as it had been made. He heard Standish gasp as though he, too, was having difficulty remembering to breathe properly. Every man who besieged Grafton had heard the tales of the legendary beauty of the lady of the manor, but even so the impact of her appearance was quite literally enough to take a man’s breath away.

It was not a comfortable beauty. Anne Grafton was small and slender, but for all that she had an aristocratic presence that could command a room. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and winged black brows. There was no softness in it at all. Her eyes were very dark, only a couple of shades lighter than the ebony hair that spilled over the edge of her hood, and in them there was a fierce light that reminded Simon of a wild cat. This was no cosy armful to warm a winter’s night.

At the beginning of the siege Simon had heard his soldiers joke about taming the wild beauty of the Lady of Grafton. They had said it softly, knowing he would stamp down hard on any ribaldry or licentiousness in the ranks and knowing too that the lady had once been promised to him. Now he watched those same boastful soldiers shift and shuffle, held spellbound by Anne’s beauty but utterly unnerved by her defiant pride. Neither of the guards made any attempt to restrain her and Standish looked as though he would rather extract his own teeth than be obliged to confront her. Simon almost smiled. The Anne Grafton that he had known had been an unawakened girl of seventeen. This woman was a very different matter—and an enemy to respect.

And then he saw Anne press her gloved hands together to quell their shaking. He realised with a shock that she was trembling, and with nervousness, not with the cold. That flash of vulnerability in her made him hesitate a second too long. He had been about to turn her away without a word. Now it was too late.

‘Madam.’ He sketched a curt bow. ‘I regret that my guards saw fit to let you pass. It was ill considered of you to venture here tonight.’

Anne looked at him. Her gaze was bright and appraising and beneath it Simon felt very aware of himself—and of her. No woman had ever looked at him like that before. They had looked on him with pleasure and with lust and with calculation, but never with this cool assessment, soldier to soldier. He could feel her weighing his valour. He drew himself up a little straighter and met her gaze directly.

Four years had changed her beyond measure; changed everything between them beyond recall. The Civil War had taken all that was sweet and precious and new between them and had destroyed it along with the lives and hopes of thousands of others. When he had gone to Grafton all those years ago, it had been at his father’s bidding and to make a dynastic match. He had not expected to be attracted to his potential bride. At twenty-five he had fancied himself a man of experience and he had been downright disconcerted to find Anne Grafton so irresistibly alluring. He had desired her. He had been more than half in love with her. And then war had followed so swiftly. He had taken the Parliament’s side and the King had summarily ordered the betrothal broken. And later, he had affianced Anne to Gerard Malvoisier.

It had been a long time ago, but it might only have been months, not years, so fresh it was in his mind. And now Anne Grafton was here and the unawakened fire he had sensed in her all those years ago when he had kissed her was blazing, powerful enough to burn a man down. He wondered what had awoken that spirit, then thought bitterly that during the intervening years of civil war, loss and sorrow had touched every man, woman and child in the kingdom. No one retained their innocence any longer in the face of such bitterness. Everyone had to fight and struggle to survive.

Anne came closer to him now and tilted her chin up so that she could meet his eyes. Her head only reached to his shoulder. He was over six foot tall. Yet it did not feel as though there was any disparity between them. She spoke to him as equal to equal.

‘Good evening, Lord Greville,’ she said. ‘I am here because I want to speak with you.’

Her voice was soft, but it held an undertone of iron. She did not beg or even ask for his attention. She demanded it imperiously. And yet when Simon looked more closely at her face he could see the lines of fatigue and strain about her eyes. It was desperation that drove her on rather than defiance or anger. She was very close to breaking.

Simon hardened his heart to the treacherous sympathy he was feeling for her. He did not want to speak with her at all. He wished that they had never met before and that his thoughts were not shadowed by memories of the girl she had once been. It was far too late for that, too late for regrets, too late for compassion. They supported opposing sides now. He knew that she was going to beg for the lives of the innocent inhabitants of Grafton Manor and he could not afford to hear such stories. Within every siege there were the helpless victims, the servants, the people caught up in the struggle who had no choice. It was brutal, but war was indiscriminate. His reputation was built on fairness and justice, but he was also known as a ruthless soldier. And he was not about to compromise now.

He rubbed a hand across his forehead. He looked at the two guards, who had skidded to a halt inside the door, clearly unwilling to lay violent hands on a lady. Now they stood ill at ease, hesitating and awaiting his orders. Guy Standish hovered in the background, looking equally uncomfortable.

‘I will not speak to you,’ Simon said. He dragged his gaze from hers and turned to the guards. ‘Layton, Carter, escort the Lady Anne out.’

No one moved. The soldiers looked agonised and scuffed at the cobbled floor with their boots. A faint smile touched Anne Grafton’s lips.

‘Your men know that the only way they can get rid of me is to pick me up bodily and throw me out,’ she said drily. ‘They seem strangely reluctant to do so.’

‘Fortunately I suffer from no such scruples,’ Simon said harshly. ‘If you do not leave of your own free will, madam, I shall eject you personally. And believe me, I will have no difficulty in picking you up and throwing you out into the snow.’

He saw the flare of anger in her eyes at his bluntness.

‘Such discourtesy,’ she said sweetly. ‘You have been too long a soldier, Lord Greville. You forget your manners.’

Simon inclined his head in ironic acknowledgement. ‘This is a war, madam, and you are an enemy with whom I do not wish to have parley. Leave, before I show as little respect for the laws of truce as General Malvoisier did.’

He took a step closer to her so that he was within touching distance. At such close quarters he could see the pale sheen of her skin in the firelight and the telltale pulse that beat frantically in the hollow of her throat, betraying her nervousness. Her hair smelled of cold snow and the faint perfume of jasmine. Her eyes, very wide and dark, were fixed on his face. He put his hand out and took hold of her arm, intending to hustle her out of the door. And then he stopped.

It had been a mistake to move so near to her and even more of one actually to touch her. Simon’s senses tightened and he was suddenly sharply aware of her. He remembered in exquisite detail exactly how it had felt to hold her in his arms all those years ago. He felt a powerful need to pull her to him and slake his misery and his exhaustion against the softness of her skin. He needed her sweetness to cleanse all the brutality and wretchedness of war. He needed to forget it all. He longed to. He ached to go back to the way they had once been, and lose himself in her embrace.

The overpowering intimacy of the feeling held him still, shocked, for a moment. He saw a tiny frown appear between Anne’s brows and then her eyes searched his face and the need in him communicated itself to her. Her gaze widened and the colour swept up under her skin. Simon knew he was looking at her with a soldier’s eyes and with the hungry desire of a man who had been on campaign too long. He had been without a woman for months and he wanted her. Yet there was something beyond mere lust here. The truly shocking thing was the deep feelings and memories that stirred when he touched her. They threatened to make him forget his purpose. She was a Royalist. She was his enemy.

He let go of her abruptly, furious with himself and with her.

‘Go. Now.’ His voice was rough. ‘Captain Standish will escort you back to Grafton.’

He saw Guy Standish’s reluctance to take the commission although the captain did not demur. He even stepped forward—slowly—to indicate his willingness to obey the order.

But Anne was shaking her head. She had moved a little away from him and Simon could sense that she wanted to be gone and that it was only sheer determination that kept her there. He was starting to feel frustrated as well as angry now. This was folly. Was Anne Grafton simple-minded, that she did not understand the risk she was running in coming alone to the enemy camp? His soldiers were not as rough as some—his discipline was too good for that—but there was such a thing as looking for trouble. He could not guarantee her safety. Damn it, he needed to protect her from himself as much as from his men.

He took a step towards her, intending to throw her out without further ado, but she spoke quickly, staying him.

‘You do not understand,’ she said. ‘I have urgent news, my lord. I need to talk to you—’

Simon’s temper snapped. ‘There can be nothing so urgent that I wish to hear it,’ he said. ‘I know you are only here to beg for mercy for Grafton and I have no wish to hear your pleas.’ He allowed his gaze to travel over her with insolent thoroughness. ‘Take this reply back to Gerard Malvoisier, my lady. Tell him that I am not interested in talking terms with him, no matter how…temptingly…they are packaged, and if he sees fit to send you to parley with the enemy I cannot promise you will return with your virtue, let alone your life, intact.’

Anne’s eyes narrowed with disdain at the insult. Her chin came up.

‘I am not accustomed to being spoken to like a camp follower,’ she said coldly, ‘nor do I come from General Malvoisier. I wish to speak with you on a personal matter.’ Her gaze lingered on Guy Standish and the guards. ‘Alone, if you please, my lord.’