Lord Greville's Captive

Anne retreated until her back was against the door and then she lowered the sword until the tip was resting on the ground. She turned it thoughtfully in her hands, examining the balance of it. It had a long blade and a beautifully curved hilt.

‘It is a fine weapon,’ she said. ‘A cavalryman’s sword.’

‘It was my father’s.’ Simon rubbed his brow. ‘He gave me his sword and now I use it to fight for his enemy.’

Anne’s heart contracted to hear the pain in his voice. It would be easy to accuse Simon Greville of having no integrity and selling out the Royalist cause of his father, yet she knew that countless men had had to make the decision to put their honour and principles before their family. They were fighting for what they believed to be right. The King had raised an army against his own Parliament and even she, for all her allegiance, could see that there were those who felt that Charles had betrayed his people.

‘I am sorry,’ she said softly.

Simon shifted slightly. ‘It may be sentimental in me, but I would like to take that sword back from you, Lady Anne.’

Anne nodded. ‘I imagine that you would.’

Simon’s hand moved towards the pocket of his coat and Anne suddenly remembered that he had put her knife there. She raised the sword point to his chest and he stopped.

‘Not so fast, Lord Greville.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ Simon said. ‘I merely wanted to give you back your knife in case you hold it of similar worth.’

Anne felt the treacherous tears sting her eyes. She valued each and every thing that her father had ever given her, material or otherwise, and as he grew steadily weaker so the desperation in her grew steadily more acute. Soon he would be dead and she would have nothing of him left to hold on to but the example of his allegiance to the King and his loyalty to the people of Grafton. She had come to Simon’s quarters that night because she knew it was what her father would have done. He would have put the welfare of his people first, before pride or military conquest.

She blinked back the weak tears. ‘Put the knife on the table,’ she said, a little huskily. ‘Do it slowly. Do not come any closer.’

‘I will not make that mistake,’ Simon agreed.

Anne watched as he slipped a hand into his pocket and extracted the dagger, placing it carefully on the table between their two empty wine glasses. When he let his hands fall to his side and stepped back, she let out the breath she had been holding.

‘Good. So…’ She made her tone a match for his earlier. ‘You asked for parley. What would you like to discuss?’

Simon rubbed his brow. ‘There is nothing to discuss,’ he said. ‘I promised that I would not play you false. You are free to go.’

Once again the hope flared in Anne’s heart, but this time she was more wary.

‘What are you saying?’ she whispered.

Simon gestured fiercely towards the door. ‘I am telling you to leave. Go back to Grafton Manor. You came here to negotiate and I will not accept your terms. I have changed my mind about exchanging you for Henry. It will not serve. So there is nothing more to say.’

Anne did not move immediately. She felt bemused by this sudden change of heart. If Simon were to let her go now, what was to become of Henry? Malvoisier would still have him hostage and Simon would have nothing with which to bargain.

‘But what of your brother?’ she asked.

Simon laughed and there was a bitter edge to it. ‘I am gambling, Lady Anne,’ he said. ‘I am risking my brother’s life so that I can take Grafton Manor. The house must fall to Parliament. To negotiate with hostages now will only delay the inevitable battle.’

Anne shook her head, bewildered. ‘But if Malvoisier should kill Henry…’

Simon shifted uncomfortably. ‘Malvoisier will reason that a live hostage is worth more to him than a dead man,’ he said. ‘He will want to keep Henry safe in case he needs to barter to save his own miserable neck.’ He turned away with a dismissive gesture, but not before Anne had seen the flash of genuine pain in his eyes and knew that he was not as indifferent as he claimed. He was merely hoping against hope that his words were true.

‘This is not so easy for you as you pretend,’ she accused. ‘You know you are taking a desperate chance!’

Simon turned on her, his mouth twisted wryly. ‘Aye, I know it! And if Henry dies because of it, I will have years of grief in which to regret my decision.’

Anne looked at him steadily. She sensed that his deliberate harshness was a defence to keep her at arm’s length. He did not want her sympathy—or her thanks. He wanted nothing that threatened to bring them closer, threatened to make him feel.

‘You care deeply for your brother,’ she said. ‘Aye, and for your father too. I believe that you are letting me go because you do not wish my father to die alone and uncomforted. You respect him. And you know what it is to be estranged from your family and to lose all that you hold dear.’

Simon’s dark gaze was murderous now. There was so much repressed violence in him that she shivered to see it.

‘Enough!’ he said. He moderated his tone almost at once. ‘You have said quite enough, madam. You may think that you know me, but you know nothing at all.’ He straightened. ‘You may disabuse yourself of the notion that I am letting you go through chivalry, or for pity, or generosity or any other virtuous reason.’ There was a self-mocking tone to his voice now. ‘I know nothing of such emotions now, if I ever did. The simple fact is that I do not need a hostage. I can take Grafton without.’

Anne’s breath caught at the callousness of his words. ‘You speak so easily of destroying my home,’ she whispered. ‘You are about to lay waste to my people’s livelihood and I cannot stop you.’

For a moment she thought she saw something behind the unrelenting hardness of Simon’s expression, some element of pity or sorrow or regret. She had already put out a hand to him in appeal when he spoke, and his tone was unyielding.

‘No, you cannot stop me,’ he said, ‘but I admire you for trying to do so.’ His tone hardened still further, cold as the winter night. ‘Now go.’

Anne laid the sword down on the table, very gently, and started to gather up her cloak. Her throat was thick with tears. She did not believe his cruel words, but she knew that she could never make him admit to the truth. She knew he cared desperately for Henry. She had seen it in his face in the very first moments when she had told him his brother lived, when he could not repress the blaze of joy and relief and thankfulness. But there was too much at stake here for either of them to admit anything to the other. It was too dangerous to admit even to the slightest affinity in this conflict where one stood for the King and the other for the people.

And yet she could feel Simon watching her with those dark, dark eyes and his look made the awareness shiver along her skin. She could feel that look in every fibre of her being. It stripped away all her defences. Against all odds and against all sense there was still something between them, something shockingly powerful. There should not be. There could not be, for they were sworn enemies, and a part of her hated him whilst she was equally, frighteningly, as drawn to him as she had been four years before.

She slipped the cloak about her shoulders. Simon was standing by the door and she had to pass him to go out. She was desperate to be gone, yet when she got to the door she hesitated, and looked up into his face. Suddenly she did not know what to say to him.

Abruptly he caught her hands in his. The intensity of his gaze burned her. ‘You are betrothed to my sworn enemy,’ he said softly. ‘I am about to lay waste to your home and your people’s livelihood. If I say that I am sorry, you will only think me a liar, but believe that I will do what I may to lighten the blow that falls on Grafton.’

Anne trembled. She made an involuntary movement and his grip tightened.

‘I understand,’ she said. A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. ‘As you have said before, this is war. In a war people will get hurt.’

‘Be careful tomorrow,’ Simon said. He looked down briefly at their joined hands, then up into her face again. ‘Even if you do not trust me, take this advice. When the attack begins, take only those closest to you and lock yourself in the safest place in the house. I will send word to you as soon as I can.’

Anne stared up at him. ‘You really do believe that you will win?’ she whispered.

‘Yes.’

Anne bit her lip. ‘I fear for you,’ she said.

The words were out before she had time to consider them and she heard his swift intake of breath. Standing there so close to him, feeling the warmth of his touch and the tension latent in his body, it was impossible to keep any secrets one from the other. Simon’s dark eyes were brilliant with desire now and Anne knew that he wanted to drag her into his arms and kiss her until she was senseless. She wanted it too. Her whole body ached to meet his passion with her own, kindle fire with fire. She did not know why, she did not understand how this could happen when a part of her hated him for what he was about to do, but it was almost irresistible.

Simon took a harsh breath. ‘If I should find Gerard Malvoisier before he finds me tomorrow,’ he said roughly, ‘do you want me to save his life for you?’

There was a pause, full of feeling, and then the hatred smashed through Anne in a wave of emotion. All evening she had managed to conceal from Simon her utter contempt for Gerard Malvoisier. A loyalty to the King’s cause had been the only thing that had held her silent. Malvoisier was her ally, but now it was not possible to deceive Simon any longer. Nor did she want to.

‘No,’ she said, and her voice shook with feeling. ‘I would not wish you to spare Gerard Malvoisier on my account, Lord Greville. He has taken everything that I care for and destroyed it or desecrated it beyond redemption.’ She could feel herself trembling with hatred and passion, and knew Simon must be able to feel it too. ‘He has taken my father’s life, my home, the loyalty of my people…’ She tilted her face up and met the intensity of Simon’s gaze. ‘If you wish to show your gratitude to me, Lord Greville, then you will take his life. Kill him for me.’

There was a moment when Simon stared down into her eyes and then he pulled her to him with one violent motion. His hand tangled in her hair and his mouth was hard on hers and Anne yielded to him with a tiny gasp and parted her lips beneath his. The fire in him woke her senses to life. Anne’s head spun with sudden passion—and with recognition. The years fell away and she was seventeen again, and back in the walled garden at Grafton, feeling the sun beating down and the hardness of Simon’s body against hers as he held her close.

But this was no youthful kiss now. It held all the fierce demand and desire of a man for a woman and it evoked an instinctive response in her. She yielded helplessly, conscious of nothing but the touch and the taste of him, the feel of his hands on her body, the scent of his skin so surprisingly and achingly familiar to her. Her knees weakened and Simon scooped her up with an arm about her waist and took two strides across to the truckle bed.

He laid her on the hard pallet and followed her down, taking her mouth with his again, fierce in his demand and his need. Anne responded with no reservations. All the anger and the fear and the desperation that she had felt that evening fused into one huge explosion of passion. She knew she ought to hate him, but she did not. She wanted the safety and promise their past had offered them. What she felt for him was dangerously akin to love.