by C. C. Wiley
He lifted the fur and continued to study her. She had silenced her complaints and lay huddled under the blankets. Each inhalation brought her bound breasts closer to his chest.
Their gazes met. The maiden’s eyes were as blue and dark as the deepest pool. He had the uncanny feeling of having found something that until that moment had always been unattainable.
Her damp ebony lashes lowered. Defeated, her claws retracted and her arms went limp. Her fingers curled into defenseless balls.
Ranulf’s gut twisted. He never could abide tears. He would rather she were spitting and clawing at his head than to give in so easily.
Her breath came in short pants, fighting against the binding around her chest. His gaze slid down until it rested on the tender skin rubbed raw by the coarse linen. “Bloody hell,” he cursed. The damn thing would probably leave scars. “Not under my care,” he muttered.
“You are right as always, Erwina,” he said. “My attentions are needed elsewhere. I shall break my fast below. But not until I’ve corrected a great injustice.”
He yanked the pelt off the bed and rose. His swift movement came near to dispatching his bedmate onto the floor. With one swoop, she caught the remaining blanket and pulled it over her head.
“Here now,” he said, swatting the lump he assumed was the wench’s rounded bottom. “’Tis a new day. Time to move your lovely arse out of my bed.”
“My lord.” Erwina’s voice rose over the muffled curses that worked their way out from under the blanket. “I pray that I might speak with you. Immediately.”
“We will,” Ranulf said, “after I have tended the maiden’s wound. I’ve noticed ’tis deep and requires close watch.” He eyed what he believed must be the curve of the wench’s thigh. Turning a wintry gaze upon the frazzled castellan, he added, “This fact does bring to mind that you have failed to follow an order of mine.”
Erwina paled. “Sir?”
“The bindings.”
Her voice shook as she asked, “Bindings, sir?”
“I am sure you noticed them when you tended to the wound on her arm.”
Erwina nodded, wrapping her hands in her apron. She fidgeted as she kept her eyes on the protrusion in the master’s bed. “If I might ask your indulgence—”
Ranulf feared Erwina was on the brink of having some form of fit before his eyes. If he were not certain the bindings were left intact, he could have sworn she already knew ’twas not a helpless waif lying in his bed but a wench of questionable background. That thought bothered him a great deal. ’Twould not serve to have his people hold secrets against him.
With the fur cinched close to his waist, he advanced toward Erwina and patted her thin shoulder. “Go. We shall talk once I’m finished here.”
* * *
Finished here? Clarice’s cheeks heated, threatening to engulf her in flames. Did Lord Whatshisname think she intended to allow him to come near her? She burrowed deeper under the blanket. The soft tick of the door closing made her flinch. To her ears it sounded like a thunderclap. The blanket was ripped from her grasp, torn from her fingers like a lightning strike.
She jumped from the bed as if struck by the power filling the bedchamber. Dragging the bedlinen behind her, she shivered in anticipation, alert to every possible place to escape the lord of Sedgewic’s attention. Air caught in her throat. She gulped it down. The rise of her chest, fighting against the binding, bit at her flesh.
He walked toward her. Despite his height and broad shoulders, his steps were light, hesitant, as if he were cornering a wild animal. His gaze held hers, gray eyes warmed with a hint of green and brown, keeping her from the stupidity of running to a corner of the bedchamber. Trapped, she had nowhere to go.
He held out a hand, palm up, to show that it held no threat. But where was his other hand, and why did he keep it behind his back? A flash of sunlight sparkled on the wall. Clarice shifted, turning to look at the bedside table. The sheathed dagger he kept on the table was gone.
She took an involuntary step back, bumping her legs against the bed.
His brows arched, questioning her. “Come, Sweeting. Stay where you are. ’Tis all I ask of you.” His stance shifted. Anticipating her next movement, he caught her as she leaped to the side.
Argh! The air squeezed past her lips. His mouth, close enough to kiss, twisted in a firm line, reminding her that she had disobeyed an order. Fearing he meant to press his mouth to hers, she ducked out of the way. Her palm bumped into something quite hard, silken, and very much awake.
The fur wrapped around his middle had fallen to the floor as he reached for her. The linen, still clutched at her breasts, opened up. A draft cascaded down her shoulder, slithered down the base of her back and across her rump. Heat traveled over her skin, penetrating the flesh where he wrapped his arm around her waist. She shivered despite the flames licking at her senses. Flashes, moments of warmth, caught in the stillness of the night, tugged at her, calling to her to trust him.
That thought dissipated just as quickly when he caged her in his embrace, moving her to stand against the wall. Twist out of his hold, you fool.
Without a word, he guided her, nudging her body. His thighs bumped into hers, leaving behind a trail of lightning to run through her blood. He allowed her to keep the bedlinen, still clutched in her fist, but it hid little more than her bound breasts and the space between her legs. The chill of the stone wall licked at her bare thighs. Lifting her arm, he placed her palm flat, fingers spread.
“My lord, I—” What she meant to say slipped away like wisps of smoke as he nuzzled the back of her neck, then bent to nip at the angle of her shoulder blade.
“Be still,” he ordered. The two words glided over her as he released his hold around her waist. “I mean to cut this offensive thing off before it marks you for life. Don’t turn until I say ’tis safe.”
She followed the whisper of movement. It grew nearer. He touched her back, his callused fingers, rough from labor, tugging at the binding. A flash of cold grazed her spine.
“No.” She turned as the blade glided over her skin and cut through the binding. Blood rushed to her breasts, screaming into flesh that had been crushed for days. Her nipples ached as they pebbled. Liquid warmth pooled between her legs, sending rivers of pleasure through her middle.
His hands shook as he shoved the hair from his dampened forehead. “Are you injured?”
Cool air nuzzled her bare hip, reminding her how little of her was covered. She clutched the linen to her chest, whipping the remainder around her body. “Christ’s blood,” Clarice muttered. She shook her head and took a deep, shuddering breath that made her nipples arch out, as if searching for him.
“I didn’t mean . . .” He reached out, then withdrew his hand. Backing away, he put distance between them.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Her body warred with her mind. She was relieved. “Just go . . . my lord.” And mortified. How could she want him to hold her again?
“I’ll send Mistress Erwina to tend to your . . .” Hitching the fur around his middle, his eyes took on another shade of color as they inched up, viewing her bare limbs. His attention slid over the marks made raw by the binding. “. . . wounds. ’Tis certain by now she has found something suitable for you to wear.”
“Thank you,” Clarice whispered.
A long, uncomfortable silence filled the room with unanswered questions, hanging between them. So much left unsaid and unexplored.
“Have her bring you to the solar when you are readied.”
Clarice nodded and sank into the mattress as he closed the door.
* * *
Ranulf continued to pace the solar as he waited for Erwina to arrive. He must have the maiden’s trust and her name before he left for France. For the king’s safety, of course.
The patter of footsteps drew his attention toward the door. He stopped in front of the fireplace and rested a hand on the stone mantel. “Enter,” he ordered at the light tapping.
Dressed in
clothing that was much too large for her frame, the blue-eyed maiden looked like a ragpicker’s wench on the streets of London. The gown, the color of congealed gruel, turned her complexion to the color of paste. The neck gaped and drooped from her chest. Noting the moth-eaten slippers, he could not help worrying her tender feet already bore signs of injury.
Despite his efforts, visions of delicate toes brushing the calves of his legs came to mind. Before shaking his attention free, he decided he would one day like to ease the pain from the arches of her feet, kissing each curling toe.
He lifted his eyes. She seemed to pore over every inch of his soul, divining truth from fiction. Pain from pleasure. Weighing his trustworthiness. She paused at the cursed scar. The damn thing would scare off a saint. He stiffened, prepared for the disgust to register in her gaze. But it did not come.
Despite her colorless attire and pale cheeks, he found solace in her countenance. Suddenly parched, he swallowed to clear his throat. “I see that Mistress Erwina has supplied you with clothing. The gown looks somewhat clean.”
Bowing her head, she pretended to examine the dusty slippers. Her fingers stole over the sagging pockets of the apron and picked off a lump of congealed food. “Yes, there is that.” Her hand slid over a grease stain. “As you say, if nothing more, the clothes are clean.”
He stepped closer, noting she did not shy away. “Why do you lie?”
Her back snapped to attention. “What? I—”
Ranulf inhaled in her direction and frowned. “The clothing is neither clean nor well-fitting. I wonder what you’ve done to stir her ire so soon upon your arrival.”
“I’m certain Mistress Erwina did the best with what she had to offer.”
“I fear we are a rustic bunch at Castle Sedgewic. Constant repairs keep us busy. At times we are caught unprepared for sudden arrivals.” He dipped a finger to the curl tucked against her cheek. “But my castellan should be punished for her lack of effort in providing you with a decent wardrobe.”
Fisting her hands, she made herself taller, nearly pressing her nose toward the center of his chest. “I won’t permit you to punish her.”
He allowed one auburn brow to arch. “You won’t permit it?”
Her cheeks flushed over lips flattened in a tight line. “Please, Lord Ranulf, I ask you not to punish her for my sake.”
Ranulf itched to slide a finger over the pink flesh. Enthralled, he wondered what ’twould be like to be lost in their lushness. “And what would you give me for this favor? A story? A truth? Perchance a name of your own?” Lips, surely as soft as satin, trembled under his scrutiny. “I would know your name.”
Her eyes narrowed. “M—my name?” she stammered.
The pounding of hooves and the clattering of wheels digging into the cobblestones rang through the castle window.
Panic washed over her face. “I must go. I cannot be here.” She spun on her heel to leave the solar without his permission.
Ranulf caught her wrist, pulling her to his chest. “If I am to help you, I must at least know your given name,” he said. He gave her a shake. “’Tis no time for lies.”
“No. I—”
To prove his point, his mouth came crashing down, devouring all lies that threatened to form. He held her gently, one arm around her waist, the other cradling her shoulders. Wisps of raven hair tickled the back of his hand.
He lingered over her mouth until she pulled away. “Though you hide your passion well, no innocent maiden would kiss a man as you did just now.”
She took a deep breath, eyeing the door. “’Tis Clarice.” Her lips sealed against additional information. Her body trembled over the simple announcement.
Heavy boots clipped across the floor. Somewhere outside the solar, raised voices called for Lord Ranulf to come at once.
Ranulf’s concentration did not waver. Whoever was on the other side of the door could damn well wait. “So, that is all you are willing to give me?”
“Please,” she whispered. “’Tis all I have.”
He stroked her jaw. “We’re not finished, Clarice.”
The door swung open, banging into the wall. Nathan filled the doorway, wearing his leather gambeson over the chain mail with ease. ’Twould be obvious to even the most feeble-minded he was accustomed to its weight and wore it like a second skin.
“Sir Nathan, what is the urgency?”
“A visitor has arrived,” Nathan announced. “A merchant. Says he must speak with you.”
Ranulf frowned at this declaration. “Mistress Erwina shall see to it until I am free.”
“I fear not,” Nathan said with a shake of his head. “Your Mistress Erwina is near falling into a fit. I fear she will take to her bed if she is not settled soon.”
“I beg you.” Clarice grabbed at Ranulf’s tunic and clung to him like a kitten escaping a hound. Her voice rose in panic. “Grant me sanctuary. I promise not to be a burden. I will leave as soon as they are gone.”
“Who do you fear arrives?” Ranulf placed a comforting hand around her slim back and felt her shudder under his touch. Her eyes widened. Their centers darkened, the ring of blue thinned. “Come. If I don’t know who you fear, how can I protect you?”
She pressed her fingertips against his mouth. “If-if someone were to ask for me, you would not hand me over to them?”
“No, not yet.” He swept her knuckles to his lips. “I have no plans to grant your leave until you have satisfied my curiosity.”
Clarice gasped and tried to pull away. “I’ve done nothing. I swear it.”
“We shall see, won’t we?” Ranulf yanked her close, plundering her mouth with his tongue before breaking free from her spell. He glanced up at Nathan. “Find Hamish to direct you to the back stairway and take her to my chambers.”
Before releasing her, Ranulf lifted Clarice’s chin with his knuckles. “Mayhap, in time, you will share more than your name with me.”
Chapter 12
Weary after settling the castle’s affairs, Ranulf made his way to the parapet. He stood on the stone walkway, surveying the wide expanse of bailey and outbuildings, and let the wind crash around him. Arms behind his back, he flexed his shoulders, loosening stiffening muscles. Rectifying the castle’s immediate turmoil had taken up most of the day. Before he knew it, the sun had moved from a high position and now dipped low into the horizon. Only recently had he found the privacy to read Henry’s latest missive.
He ran his thumb over the raised emblem on his ring. The swan’s emerald eye twinkled in the twilight, reminding him of his vow to Henry. Ranulf tucked the flapping cloak more securely around his chest. He shook his head. With Clarice’s toothsome distraction, he had almost missed the merchant’s veiled signal.
In the pocket of his cloak, hidden in the many folds of wool, was a message rolled into a tiny ball, small enough to hide under the hood of his new falcon. It gave the details of Nicholas of Margrave’s death. How long had it been since Ranulf last thought of the man and the mysterious maiden hiding behind the manor walls? A few hours at best.
Had it not been for the merchant’s relentless shouts of his wares, he would have sent the traveler marching past his castle walls.
Swans. What was he to do with the pair of swans he had purchased? He no longer had an urgent need of them. Lord Nicholas of Margrave’s death had seen to that.
Ranulf crushed the missive in his hand. The news of Lord Margrave’s death should have brought a reasonable amount of relief. Instead, it affirmed his suspicions. The traitor had not plotted alone.
He recalled the whisperings at court: The old lord had never recovered from the death of his first wife and her stillborn child. Soon after their deaths he had wed again, this time to his late wife’s sister, Lady Annora, and she had borne him a son, Robert.
The death of a loved one was damaging to the mind and heart. Ranulf knew this. The death of his wife and unborn child had crushed him, too. His brain had frozen on the eve of their deaths. Yet that missing span of time
had left him with a scar on his face to carry as a reminder of how life could change in an instant. It kept him wondering who had been there on that evil night. Had his soul become so dark that he could have taken the lives of those he cared most for? Did I murder them?
’Twas unfathomable.
Ranulf took a deep, steadying breath and did what he had done every day since their deaths. He searched his memory, trying to find the missing pieces.
King Henry had arranged their marriage in the name of the crown. Ranulf had no choice but to agree to wed Mary. Fate had allowed them only two nights to discover each other in their marriage bed before the king’s business had taken him away. ’Twas a miracle their brief union had produced a child. A glimmer of happiness. Before it faded.
Ranulf refused to admit it to anyone, but he had begun to doubt whether his marriage had been real. Their time together had been too short. And their last night together had ended in heated words and accusations. He had returned home early to beg forgiveness for his distrust of his lady wife. He had found her in the stables. And then . . . ah, if only he could recall more than returning from the darkness, confused and bleeding.
He gripped the stone ledge. Those moments he could not recall had left his wife and child dead in their wake.
His mouth twisted. Death was for men. Soldiers trained to fight, witnessing destruction all around them. ’Twas not meant for little ones who had never experienced the first rays of sunlight or the many colors of the setting sun. Nor was it meant for good women . . . like his wife.
Bracing his hands against the parapet, he hung his head and leaned against the wall. He did not deserve happiness and peace. His life of secrets had become too dark for a wife or children of his own. Loneliness was for the best.
* * *
Clarice turned over on her stomach and rested her cheek on her hands. Had she any good sense, she would have refused to lie in his bed another night.
