Hostage Bride by Anne Herries Read Free Book Online Page A

pretending to be other than she was, but that did not excuse his behaviour. She was undoubtedly a lady and did not deserve to be treated like a harlot.
    Her sudden arrival had startled him, because Messalina would never have dreamed of disobeying an order from either her father or Raphael. She had been modest and sweet—and she had been foully slain, her death still unavenged. The pain slashed through him once more, making him smash his fist against the stone wall of his chamber in a sudden burst of agony.
    Why must he be haunted by the vision of her broken body night and day? She called out to him for justice and he could give her none. He was angry with himself for letting the lady Angelina beneath his guard. Her scent had inflamed his senses and her spirit had amused him, but then, when she had assumed that he was his father, something had snapped in his head.
    God knew he was no saint! Raphael admitted freely that he’d done things of which he was ashamed. He’d killed men in battle and given no quarter. He’d stood by without comment when Richard had ordered the executionof the Muslim prisoners at Acre, which had led to a bloody retaliation by Saladin, and he’d hurt his wife…No matter how much he tried to forget it, the memory of her tears returned to haunt him.
    ‘Please tell me, what is wrong, husband? What have I done to displease you?’
    ‘You’ve done nothing. Do not be foolish, Messalina. I would not see you cry, but I cannot always be here at your side. I am a man and a warrior. I must meet with my fellow Christian knights this evening.’
    ‘They will persuade you to return home and you will leave me.’
    ‘I would never leave you. I love you.’
    ‘No, you desire me; it is not the same. If you loved me you would not go tonight. I fear…’
Messalina had looked at him imploringly.
‘I love you, Raphael. If you care for me at all, do not leave me this night.’
    He’d ignored her tears, resenting the soft arms that clung to him and her sweetness, which was sometimes cloying and made him feel as if he were being smothered. Messalina had constantly needed reassurance that she was loved and adored. Raphael had tried to show her his feelings in the way he understood, which was with kisses and presents, but she had wanted something more—something he had not been able to give. Was it a lack in him? He bitterly regretted that he’d left her that night despite her tears. If he’d been there he would have fought to the death to try and save her.
    Thrusting the bitter memories from his mind, Raphael sat down at his board and tried to concentrate on theletter he had not yet finished. With an oath of disgust, he screwed it into a ball and threw it to the ground. Dipping his quill in the ink, he began again. He would not use guile or disguise. A simple message telling the prince of his father’s death and his own return would be enough.
    Why had his stomach turned at the thought of playing a double game? Could it have anything to do with the scorn in the lady Angelina’s eyes when she’d accused him of ravishing another man’s wife?
    Raphael had never taken an unwilling woman.
    ‘Damn her,’ he muttered. He scrawled his signature then frowned as he saw he had used de Valmont, the name he’d chosen to take when he had been knighted by Richard. He was Lord Mornay now and Lady Angelina could not be expected to know that he was not his father. He should tell her the truth, explain that he had already set her father free and that she was at liberty to return to her home or stay here under his protection until Richard returned to the throne and her father could fetch her home.
    * * *
    Rosamunde glanced at herself in the handmirror of burnished silver; it had belonged to her mother and her father had insisted that she keep it, for otherwise it would be sold to pay his debts. The image was not clear but she knew that she looked as well as she could. A lock of her hair was plaited and curled about her head