Читать книгу: «Conquering Knight, Captive Lady», страница 2

‘Rose …’

She blinked again, aware that her mother was beginning to fret under her own fierce and protracted stare. That was all long ago. Now her Hawk was probably as fat and unappetising as Ralph de Morgan, living in some cold secluded castle with a wife and children around his feet. Without doubt, he would have ridden roughshod over her just as much as the de Longspeys, which would not have been to her taste.

‘Well, Rose, if Gilbert is set on it—’ Petronilla’s voice broke in to her uneasy recollections ‘—how can we stop it?’

A glint appeared in Rosamund’s eye, which should have warned her mother. ‘I know exactly how to do so. I am going to take up my inheritance.’

‘In Clifford?’

‘Yes. It’s mine and I can live there if I wish. You can come with me or go to Lower Broadheath. Will you come?’ A little smile touched her lips as she watched Petronilla consider, knowing the outcome. Of course her mother would come. She would admit that to change Rosamund’s mind would be like trying to change the direction of the wind, and she might as well save her breath, but she was not so careless a parent as to allow her only child to journey into the wild terrain in the west unaccompanied.

‘I will come with you,’ Petronilla confirmed. ‘Of course I will. Do you need to ask?’ And then, with a sigh as reality struck, ‘But Gilbert will stop you.’

‘No, he won’t. I have a plan.’

‘But, Rose, it’s so far.’

‘Exactly! Far enough to get me out of the marriage with Ralph de Morgan. Once there, I’ll be safe. I can live as I wish.’ Rosamund’s eyes gleamed with indomitable courage and sheer excitement at the planned adventure. ‘If I flee to Clifford, rejecting all ties with Salisbury, Gilbert—and Ralph too—might just write me off as a lost cause. I doubt either of them will bother to send a force after us, to drag me back to Salisbury in chains or lock me in a dungeon until I am obedient. We shall both be free of the selfish demands of opinionated men. Which, I think, will suit both of us very well.’

Chapter Two

Fitz Osbern arrived in Hereford as the winter night closed in, rain still falling steadily. He settled his men as usual into the range of buildings that made up the Blue Boar, stayed only for a cup of ale, a platter of bread and tough meat of dubious origin, then replaced cloak and hood to begin a round of the ale houses and taverns.

Knowing the habits of his quarry, it did not take long. In the Red Lion he caught sight of just the man who would answer his needs. A thickset soldier with years of experience on his shoulders, he was in the act of raising a tankard to his lips, Fitz Osbern strode up behind him and clapped him on the back. He choked over the ale.

‘God damn it!’ The irate drinker wheeled round, tankard discarded so that it rolled wetly on the table. His hand flashed to the dagger at his waist, all the honed instincts of a hardened campaigner, until he grunted, grinned as he wiped his hand down over the front of his ale-spotted tunic. ‘Ger! I might have known. But you might value your life …’ Hugh de Mortimer swept the point of the short-bladed dagger in a menacing circle, before placing it on the table top and pushing forward a stool with one booted foot.

‘As if you could stick me with that pretty toy, before I had you on the floor under my boot.’ Gervase sat, cast off his cloak. ‘Still frequenting stews such as this for your entertainment?’ His lips curled at the rank smoke, the unpleasant mix of scents of rancid onions and sour ale, of damp and unwashed humanity. Hugh’s weathered face softened into a smile of easy camaraderie of long standing, which Gervase returned as they finally clasped hands in greeting. Hugh continued to wear his years well. There were a good dozen years between them, but they had fought side by side over those years to keep the March at peace. Grizzled, stocky, the Marcher lord enforced his authority with steely blue eyes and a common touch that made him popular and easy to approach.

‘For your information, Ger, I’m here for any news of interest,’ the Marcher lord chided gently, yet with the authority of experience and the scattering of grey in his hair. From his power base in Hereford, Hugh de Mortimer had taken it upon himself to keep his finger on the tumultuous pulse of the March in the name of the King. ‘I had a meeting with one of my informants here.’ Hugh eyed Gervase, the growth of beard, the black, rain-matted hair. ‘Thought you were in Anjou.’

‘I was. Just returned.’ Stretching out his right leg, a groan indicating a recent injury from a fall from his horse, one that still ached in cold wet weather, Gervase ran his hand over his rough chin and cheeks with distaste. ‘Some hard travelling with little time for home comforts. As for the crossing …’ His expression said it all. ‘I was bound for Monmouth. And then I heard some interesting news on the road this side of Gloucester.’

A gleam lit the keen blue eyes. ‘Salisbury?

‘Salisbury. That’s why I’m here. I thought you’d know more if there was anything to know. Your lines of communication are excellent. Tell me what’s afoot.’

‘Salisbury’s dead,’ Hugh confirmed, turning smartly to business. ‘That’s what you wanted to hear.’

‘So it’s true.’

‘And you are thinking of the future of Clifford.’

‘How would I not?’

‘That this is your chance to get it back?’

‘I don’t know. I doubt it. The son and heir has as much an iron fist as his father. The lands will be held secure. I doubt the change in ownership will make much difference. And I’m too far stretched with the Anjou possessions to engage in a major conflict, however much I might desire the castle.’

Hugh’s hand closed over the Fitz Osbern’s wrist, pulled him closer. ‘But listen, Ger. Rumour has it that the new Earl’s primary interest will not be in the March after all. That he has not inherited Clifford, or the other two border castles. Nor has his brother Walter.’

Gervase paused, ale halfway between table and lips. Blood sang through his veins, a sudden bubble of warmth to lift his spirits.

‘If not Gilbert, then who?’

‘The Earl’s daughter. A girl from his second marriage. He married Petronilla de Clare a dozen years ago. So this daughter must be young—a mere child, I think.’

‘A child?’ Gervase tapped his fingers against the cup at the new slant on affairs.

‘That’s what my sources tell me. It might be in your interest after all to spy out the land.’ A sly smile on Hugh’s face, at odds with the ingenuous open stare.

‘It might. Well, now! Clifford in the hands of a child, a girl.’

Fitz Osbern sat and thought, staring down into his ale.

Clifford. The name had been engraved on his consciousness when a small child, written there in a forceful hand by his father. By rights the little border fortress was his, part of the Fitz Osbern estates. He knew it well, had once lived there for a short period when he was first wed to Matilda de Vaughan. Urgently, he pushed that unwelcome memory away to concentrate on what he recalled of the stronghold itself. For the most part a rough-and-ready, timber-and-earth construction, with only a token rebuilding in stone to provide basic living accommodation. But that was not important. What was, was that it held a strategic position on the River Wye, where the river could be forded, and was one of the original Fitz Osbern lands granted to his ancestor after the Conquest by the grateful Conqueror. It was undeniably part of his inheritance.

But then Clifford had been filched from his father, Henry, Lord Fitz Osbern, by the Earl of Salisbury when Lord Henry was campaigning in Anjou and he, Gervase, was holding court in his father’s name in Monmouth. All was done and dusted by the time his father returned, or before he could raise his own force and march to Clifford from Monmouth. By that time Salisbury was smirking from behind the walls.

And so Clifford had become a constant thorn in the Fitz Osbern flesh, of loss and humiliation that had worn his father down. Not in the best of health, he had seen it as a disgrace, a stain on his honour. A suppurating sword wound had carried him off to his grave only twelve months after. Gervase’s frown grew heavier. Any attempt by Gervase to recover the castles by force would have had Salisbury descending on him with the weight of a full battle force backed by all his Longspey wealth and influence, not to mention King Stephen’s ear.

But now Stephen was dead, so was Salisbury. And Clifford was owned by a child …

‘Does it mean so much to you?’ Hugh had watched the play of emotions over what he could see of his friend’s features. ‘It’s small, needs total refurbishment if you mean to keep a siege at bay. I doubt there’s been much rebuilding or improvement since the first wooden tower and earth ramparts were put into place. Does it matter so much that you reclaim Clifford?’

‘Oh, yes.’ There was no mistaking the light in Gervase’s eyes. The utter conviction in his voice. ‘It means everything.’

‘Because of your father.’

‘Because of him. And family honour, I suppose.’ A pause. ‘And because of Matilda …’

‘Ah, yes. I had forgotten …’

‘I hadn’t.’ Gervase’s hands clenched round the mug. ‘I’ll never forget. She died there, and I was not there to save her.’

The flat emotion in his face dissuaded Hugh from pursuing that line. He cleared his throat. ‘So what will you do?’

‘Tomorrow I ride for Clifford. I can hardly pass up so perfect an opportunity, now can I?’

‘No. Want company?’

Gervase searched the Marcher lord’s face. What better support could he ask for when planning a raid into hostile territory? A firm sword hand and a courageous spirit. A wealth of sound advice. Of recent years he had become used to acting on his own authority. Isolated, his mother said in moments of sharp honesty. Perhaps a friendly face at his shoulder would be welcome …

‘Well?’ Hugh prompted. ‘Do you want me or not?’

Gervase noticeably relaxed, nodded. ‘I do. If you have a mind to come and see me crow over my victory—then by all means.’

‘Let’s drink to it.’

With a combined force, on the following morning the two men took the road west out of Hereford toward Clifford. The day broke with a sharp wind and bright scudding cloud. The Black Mountains now came into sharp focus, rising out of the plain before them. Their objective, the small border fortress, stood on the south bank of the Wye to the north of the main ridge.

The company rode at ease in such familiar territory. Hugh stretched his limbs in the saddle, flexed his shoulders. He might appreciate town life—soft living, Gervase had called it—but it was good to ride in congenial company again. Conversation ranged wide, but gradually they circled to more personal matters. Hugh was quite prepared to take advantage of the long family association and touch on a sensitive nerve, the nerve he had neatly avoided the previous night. He knew Gervase would resist, but in the clear light of day broached the subject anyway.

‘You, Ger, need a wife.’

‘I know.’ The reply was level enough. ‘I could say the same for you.’

Ah! So that’s the game! Feint and parry to distract the opponent. De Mortimer decided to play along. ‘No, I do not. I was married for well over twenty years. I have two fine grown sons as heirs, now with young families of their own, to carry on my name and rule the Mortimer lands. I loved Joanna dearly. I do not want another wife at my time of life. I’m too set in my ways to start to conform to the demands and needs of another woman in my home. I like my own way too much.’

‘Not even to warm your bed on a cold night?’ Gervase slid a glance at the man who still carried himself with the vibrant energy of a younger man. The grey streaks, the fine lines beside eyes and mouth, were misleading.

‘There are other ways, if that’s what I choose. Such as a very personable merchant’s widow in Hereford who would like nothing more than to be a permanent addition to my bed if I raised my hand and smiled in her direction. So, no, I don’t see myself taking the oath again. But that’s side-stepping the issue—as you well know.’ His gaze sharpened and pinned Gervase, his advice becoming brutal. ‘Imagine me in the role of your late lamented father! You have no heir and you need one. You could be killed by a stray arrow or a well-aimed sword-cut today … tomorrow. You cannot burn the flame at the fair Matilda de Vaughan’s altar for ever. How long is it since she died? Five years now? Accept it, she’s lost to you. So you must turn your thoughts elsewhere. What are you going to do about it?’

The level voice acquired a distinct edge. ‘Find another, I suppose. Matilda, I should tell you, is not an issue. I doubt I’ll ever burn a flame for any woman.’ Gervase’s lips twisted in a wry smile. ‘Far too poetic for my liking. You sound like one of those damned troubadours, Hugh!’

Hugh barked a laugh. ‘When will you find another?’

‘When I have time.’

‘Any possibilities?’ Hugh persisted. ‘I suppose you have some preferences in the woman you will wed.’

‘Yes, of course I do.’ Gervase, obviously unwilling to spar with de Mortimer and determined to put an end to the discussion, rattled them off as if compiling a list of requirements for a battle campaign. ‘What any man of sense would choose. Well born, passably attractive, of course. Biddable, obedient, well tutored in domestic affairs, an efficient chatelaine who can hold the reins of my households—you know the sort of thing.’

Hugh hid a smile. He did indeed. The milk-sop sort of wife who would present no difficulties or challenges for Gervase. Who would not question or comment or contradict, but behave with perfect compliance. Soft and malleable as a goose-down cushion. And just as smothering and dull.

‘Had any offers lately?’ he asked innocently.

‘Not of late. Unless you count the de Longspey girl.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Salisbury offered me one of his family, to tie and hobble me into a neat alliance.’

‘Well, that surprises me.’ Hugh cast about in his mind for knowledge of de Longspey females. ‘Who was it?’

‘I’ve forgotten,’ Gervase admitted, annoyed at the tinge of heat in his face at this turn in the conversation. ‘I don’t think we were actually introduced. I was not interested and so refused.’

‘So you were rude and brutal.’

‘I was honest! What I was, as I recall, was grieving for my father’s death, and not willing to be bought off.’ He paused. Huffed a breath. ‘If you want the truth—then, no, I was not temperate. I have regretted it since.’

‘Was the lady not—ah, passably attractive, biddable, obedient, then?’

Gervase smiled, laughed with genuine humour. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘I despair of you, Ger. But don’t leave it too long,’ was all de Mortimer could find to say.

‘As soon as I have this matter of Clifford settled, I’ll turn my mind to it.’

They worked their way around a particularly water-logged stretch of road, the horses’ hooves squelching in the heavy mud. The sun vanished and the rain began again.

‘What will you do if the child is already in residence at Clifford?’ Hugh suddenly asked on a thought.

‘I don’t expect it.’ Gervase’s brows rose. It had not crossed his mind. ‘Why would she? I would expect her to remain in Salisbury until she’s old enough to be wed. Clifford is no fit place for a child—and a girl.’

‘Probably not. But it might be so.’

‘Then I shall pack her back into her travelling wagon with her nurse, her clothes and her toys and her kitten or whatever she has brought with her—and send her back to her de Longspey brothers in Salisbury. What did you expect that I would do? Consign her to a dungeon?’

‘No, Gervase.’ A hint of censure, even of warning, touched the Marcher lord’s mouth for an instant. ‘I would expect you to treat her with all honour and courtesy.’

‘Don’t doubt it. I shall do exactly that.’

With the seed inadvertently planted by Hugh in his mind, Gervase found his thoughts returning to that disastrous interview with Salisbury, remembering primarily being overwhelmed with an anger that threatened to slip beyond his control. It made uncomfortable remembering. In retrospect, with his father just dead, he should never have done it. It had always been an impossible goal, but in his grief Gervase had made an attempt to regain his rightful property by an appeal to justice. Which Earl William had refused, but had then tried to buy him off with a de Longspey bride. No, he had not been as temperate as he might have been. As if he would ever accept a woman from the murderous de Longspey stable. He recalled storming out of the luxurious rooms in the Salisbury town house with barely a thought for the unfortunate girl who had been tricked out for his inspection. No, not the best of moves. And, worst of all, it had left Clifford securely in the hands of Salisbury. But no Fitz Osbern worth his salt would commit himself to living in Salisbury’s pocket as a dependent lord. It had pleased him mightily to fling the offer of a wife back in the Earl’s self-righteous face without a moment’s thought.

As for the girl … The lasting impression was one of—well, it was difficult to bring a complete picture to mind. He had barely registered her as other than a composed young woman with pale skin. A pallor that had warmed with bright colour along her cheekbones as he had bent his disdainful eye on her. Firm lips and a direct stare, more a challenge from an opposing knight than a soft glance from a well-born maiden. That was it. She had looked at him as if he did not come anywhere near to her high-vaunting standards as a husband. As if he was a marauding brigand just emerged from the Welsh mountains. Green eyes. Too direct, he recalled, too combative. Attractive, without doubt. But biddable, obedient? He would wager not. Nothing like Matilda. Not the sort of female he would ever want as a wife, whatever her breeding, whatever her connections.

As he left the audience chamber, failure rampaging through his blood, he had found himself standing close to her. She must have used lavender to wash her hair—the scent wound though his senses as she took a step back. And he had remembered, almost before it was too late, the courtesy with which he had been raised, and, digging deep through the fury, had enough nobility to make his farewell to her. He had kissed her hand. Why could he still experience that one moment with such amazing clarity? How the light texture of her fingers had for the briefest of moments cut through the anger in his head. Cool, smooth. Delicious skin like silk against his mouth. There had been that astonishing urge to kiss more.

Gervase deliberately pushed aside such unbidden thoughts with a grimace, clenching his jaw against the discomfort of his body’s response. He did not want her then, nor did he now. The erection that strained for release was merely a symptom of lack of female company in recent months. Easily remedied.

Besides, the de Longspey incident was all in the past. He could not even recall the girl’s name. Gervase shifted warily in the saddle. So why had he remembered her at all?

Chapter Three

Rosamund de Longspey had put her plan into immediate operation. A proposed visit to the fair in Salisbury, with a wagon to bring home any goods, two manservants, two armed guards and Edith, her mother’s maidservant, had become a headlong flight to Clifford without Earl Gilbert being the wiser until it was too late. They spent the first night in their new home wrapped in their cloaks in one of the unfurnished chambers in the west tower. The lord’s chamber would require much work to make it habitable. Nor would they trust any of the filthy quilts or covers to be had in the castle. So the night was a cold and sleepless one. The bread when she broke her fast was hard and unpalatable. Rosamund was thus in an ill-tempered mood when, on hearing a commotion in the bailey, she emerged to discover her gates open and an unknown knight with a force of soldiers in process of taking control of her castle from under her very nose.

‘Stop! What in God’s name are you doing …? You have no right …’

‘Might is right, Lady.’ The sword in the knight’s determined grip caught the weak rays of the sun, glittering along its honed edge. The tip of it hovered over the very centre of her breast, although he did not allow it to quite rest there. His feral grin was as arresting as the lethal weapon. ‘As of this moment, with this sword in my hand, I hold the power here. You do not.’

Rosamund froze on the spot. Suddenly, without warning, the point of the sword fell. Thank God! But Rosamund’s relief was short lived when the knight took a stride forward to close the space between them. Before she could retreat, she found herself caught within his arm, tightly banding around her waist. For that one breathless moment she feared for her safety and her honour. Then, to her amazement, the fear disappeared. His arms might pinion her to the length of his body, but they held her safe, secure against unnamed dangers. Barely able to catch a breath, her heart leaping in her breast.

Then as reality struck home and she raised her fists against his chest. But, furiously struggling, she made no impact at all on that solid wall of muscle. Rosamund looked up into his face, fighting now against a tingle of fear, of desperation. To see those cold grey eyes looking down into hers with what she could only interpret as hatred.

Would he assault her? Dishonour her? Who had not heard tales of such fiendish attacks, where no woman from the lowliest of servants to the lady herself was safe from rape and brutal treatment? Is that what he intended, here in full view of every man and woman in the castle? The threat of such humiliation iced her blood.

‘Let go of me,’ she demanded, hammering at his impervious chest with her fists.

‘I would be delighted to,’ he snarled.

Except that his grip tightened further, lifting her off her feet. Forced to grasp his shoulders for balance, Rosamund cried out in fear.

‘Don’t squawk in my ear, woman.’ Suddenly, with a tightening of the muscles in his back and thighs, he was lifting her higher to spin her aside. ‘It would solve my problem immediately if you were run down by one of my out-of-control baggage wagons, of course. But your brother the Earl might take it amiss. I don’t want him descending on me with an avenging army any time soon.’

Unnoticed in the mass of people and animals, one of the baggage wagons, clumsily manoeuvred, had creaked dangerously close, its burden of packages and barrels leaning precariously. As she glanced round, the wheel brushed against her skirts. If she had remained where she had been, she could well have been crushed under its weight.

The knight waited until the horses harnessed to the wagon had been led to safety, then, as soon as she was out of its range, he released her abruptly, letting her drop to her feet with a sardonic appreciation of her ruffled state. ‘There, lady. You’re safe to continue your objections if you so wish. Though I warn you, they’ll do no good.’

Perhaps not, but Rosamund could not—would not!—simply accept this turn in her fortunes. ‘But this is my inheritance, my dower.’ She fought her way through her scrambled thoughts. ‘Clifford is within the gift of the Earl of Salisbury—and now it is mine.’

‘Only by default, lady.’ The knight who had announced himself to be simply Fitz Osbern turned his attention to instructing his squire to supervise the unloading of the baggage wagons, bulging with supplies from Hereford. ‘Clifford was given to my ancestor by the Conqueror for services rendered. It was stolen from my father by the late Earl William. By the letter of the law it belongs to the Fitz Osberns—and now Clifford at least has returned to its rightful owner.’ He shouted an order to his sergeant-at-arms. ‘All I have to do is reclaim Ewyas Harold and Wigmore. A small force has been sent to each.’

‘Reclaim? But they are mine too.’ Rosamund could feel panic building again, layer upon layer, straining to escape her control.

‘Then it will not be a difficult task for me, will it? My men are in possession, as you can see, so there is nothing further to discuss. Now, if you would take yourself off to your chamber until I have time to deal with you …’ He sheathed the sword, a harsh rasp, and cast an experienced eye over the disposition of his troops.

Rosamund simply stared at him in stark amazement, fury replacing her fear. He had simply dismissed her as of no account. Take yourself off out of my way! is what he clearly meant! She narrowed her eyes to assess him as he stood in her courtyard, ownership written all over his straight shoulders and raised chin, taking stock of her castle. And what she saw did not please her at all. A bloodthirsty ruffian, was her first impression. He was not a man used to argument or his will being questioned, that much was clear. His eyes were a cold grey, dark and stormy, reflecting the colour of the winter river that flowed past their gates. Crow black and untidy, his hair was ruffled into thick waves by the chill wind, sweat-matted from the close confines of the Phrygian cap that he had pulled off and tucked in his belt, and his cheeks shadowed by any number of days’ growth of beard. His tunic and hose, his knee-length boots, were much as his cloak, wet and mud splattered. Filthy, she decided with distaste and a little sniff, refusing to take into account the state of the mired roads. But what did she expect? Cultured elegance? Fine courtly manners? Not from this man!

Rosamund frowned. As the knight moved, she noticed he favoured his right leg, a slight limp. Probably acquired in a tavern brawl or a drunken disagreement over dice. He was nothing but a mercenary, a robber baron, and not a moment ago she had been dragged into his arms, held hard against his chest. Disgust filled her, not least at her reaction to him. She could not find this man attractive! Her intense annoyance coloured her next words when she saw that he was quite prepared to dismiss her like a servant and leave her standing there in the mud of her own bailey.

‘How dare you take what is mine! You’re nothing but an uncivilised lout!’

Which got his attention well enough. Emotion flashed across his face. With shocked fascination she saw the slash of colour along the high cheekbones as he looked down at his tormentor, a particularly cold stare. For a long moment he contemplated her in silence, allowing Rosamund the opportunity to chide herself. What a time to make so unwise an attack. Then, when the weight in her chest had grown to major proportions, he grinned and sketched a mocking bow, strangely at odds with the mud and grime. The smile was not friendly. His eyes and his words froze the marrow of her bones.

‘In the circumstances, lady, you should be praying that you are wrong in your estimation of my appearance and character. If I was an uncivilised lout, I would have designs on your person as well as your castle.’ He took a stride forward. To her dismay Rosamund took one in retreat, but Fitz Osbern did not halt. Instead he stepped intimidatingly close. Rosamund, disconcerted, found herself lifting a hand to smack it firmly in self-protection against his chest. And drew in a sharp breath.

It burned. She could feel the heat of him, as she had before, as it crept from that inadvertent touch of her spread fingers to engulf her whole body. And not merely a physical warmth. Her heart seemed to swell with it, filling her breast so that her breathing shortened. Her belly shivered with nerves. Every inch of her skin seemed suddenly to be conscious of his looming presence. He might not be touching her, but she felt the hot slide of his glance over her flesh. Aghast, Rosamund swallowed against the dryness in her throat. She could feel the flame of it in her cheeks, and cursed her pale complexion that mirrored every thought. Could think of nothing to say, could only stare at him wide-eyed as his heart beat steadily beneath her palm.

Then, to her relief, the knight stepped back.

‘I assure you, I have no designs on your person,’ he growled. The grin widened to show even teeth. Wolfishly, she considered. ‘As for yourself, lady, you are remarkably proud and haughty, considering that you are entirely at my mercy.’

Flushing again, vividly to the roots of her hair, Rosamund found her voice. ‘At your mercy? I am no such thing!’

‘No? I don’t suggest that you challenge me on that point.’ He looked her up and down as if about to say more, changed his mind. ‘Enough of this. I have things to do here, lady. We’ll discuss this … this little difficulty … over dinner at mid-day. If nothing else, we must arrange for your transportation elsewhere. So if you would be so good as to order the provision of hot food for my men with my steward, and for ourselves …’

Without a backward glance, Fitz Osbern strode off toward the stables, leaving her standing. My steward! Her clear brow furrowed into a scowl, her hands tightened into fists. She would have tapped her foot if her shoe had not been firmly anchored in the mud. Order the food! As if I were a servant at his beck and call! Stalking past her mother without a word, she climbed the stairs into the hall, head high, realising that she had no choice, that she would get nowhere with this situation until they faced each other again and hammered out the legalities. She refused to chase after him to demand his attention. So she would organise the meal. Present him with the documents of her legal ownership. And then force him to leave. Although how she would achieve such a conclusion she had no very clear idea. Whatever she had or had not learned about him in that short confrontation, he was not a man open to persuasion.