Lord Greville's Captive
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‘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.