Simon knew that his and Henrys defection had broken their fathers 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 Graftonand its mistresshad 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 thoughtThat 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 Graftons 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 brothers brutal death at Malvoisiers 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 mans 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 winters 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 Annes 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 matterand 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 himselfand 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.