Shattered Vows by Carol Townend

bathed and scrubbed white in a large wooden tub. They’d brought hot water. And as if that were not extravagance enough, the water had been fragrant with the scent of the wild roses which would soon be blooming in the hedgerows. A fragrance she would normally have favoured.
    Rosamund had barely noticed. She had withdrawn into herself, away from a grim reality where a girl could be taken against her will and put in a man’s room and no-one, not even her husband, would lift a finger to help her.
    Her limbs had felt stiff. She had allowed the woman to dry her. She had allowed her to comb out and dry her long, honey-brown hair, and tie it loosely with a white silk ribbon. She had allowed herself to be dressed in a soft blue gown which had gold threads running through it. She hadn’t lifted a finger to help.
    And now she lay waiting, numb in mind and body, with her eyes fixed on a flickering candle in the wall sconce. A burst of crude laughter drew her gaze to the door – it was solid oak, and studded with nails. There was no key.
    Was it her imagination or were there voices approaching? As sounds ebbed and flowed, she tried to force her muscles to ease. Her nails were ploughing furrows in her palms. Deliberately she unclenched her fingers and willed herself to relax.
    What was she going to do? Fight her liege lord?
    Then she heard it again – another wave of sound. Footsteps were surging up the steps. Towards this chamber. She shrank under the fine linen and dragged the furs over her head to muffle the shouting. It didn’t work. Someone roared with laughter, a deep belly laugh which rumbled through the air and brought into her anguished mind the image of a bear of a man with a large paunch. She thought she heard a shout of anger. Then her mind went blank and she could not for a moment recall what Sir Geoffrey Fitz Neal looked like.
    She burrowed deep under the coverings and curled into a ball like a hedgehog. She had never felt such dread. She knew she was a coward for she couldn’t bring herself to peer out and look at her would-be seducer.
    Rigid with apprehension, she heard the door slam. A key grated in the lock. There were more shouts of mocking laughter from the drunks in the corridor. And another of those curt, angry responses which Rosamund had half-heard a moment ago.
    Terror-struck though she was, the anger was a puzzle. It jarred with the hooting and merriment outside the chamber. She heard a deafening thud – as though someone was striking his fist against an unyielding door. It was followed by a torrent of swearing.
    How strange. Merriment outside the bed-chamber, and anger within? Had Sir Geoffrey changed his mind? Did he no longer want her? Hope and curiosity warred with fear. Carefully, making as little movement and sound as she could, she pushed back the bedcovers.
    He was tall. With the build of a warrior. He had his broad back to the bed, and he was striking the door with such force that the wooden planks bowed with each blow. Someone outside struck up a lewd song and other sozzled, off-key voices joined in. It was enough to drive the devil to flight.
    The tall warrior swore and shoved his hand through his hair – unlike Sir Geoffrey’s, it was as black as night. He turned and their eyes met.
    ‘Oliver!’ Rosamund sat up, her fear was gone.
    Oliver stared. ‘Rosamund.’ He said her name very slowly, then he bowed. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’ His grey eyes were cold as ice. Hard, like the lines of anger etched into his face.
    ‘You don’t look very welcoming.’
    ‘To tell the truth, ma demoiselle ...’ he stressed the last words so she would have no doubt he was insulting her ‘...I don’t feel very welcoming at the moment. My apologies if that distresses you. I wouldn’t want to cause you any distress, would I? Not after this.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Rosamund swung her legs over the edge of the bed and got up. He might be angry, but she was safe. This was Oliver.
    Wintry grey eyes