Knight Secrets

by C. C. Wiley

  I’m a fool. There it was. The glaring truth. I am a fool. She has misdirected my intentions for the last time.

  “’Tis best for both of us if you cease your wiggling and listen.”

  “You are not my lord, nor my father.” She ducked her head and snorted. “Am I to quake at the mere whisper of your name? Because you are the mighty lord of Sedgewic? Oh,” she ground out. “I’m all atremble from your greatness.”

  Ranulf ignored the heated words spewing from that dainty mouth. He let the scent of lavender and roses fill his head. This interest in the maiden shook him to his core. Giving in to temptation, he breathed in her essence and almost did not hear her. His attention returned to her enraged tirade as she finished her reasons for not having to obey his demands.

  “. . . you could never be like Nicholas of Margrave. He was a loving, noble man.”

  “Of course. Very noble. ’Tis why King Henry wanted his head.” His arms tensed. “Who is he to you?”

  Anger flushed her cheeks to a rosy pink. She stiffened before responding with a tight whisper. “Someone who cared for me.”

  His gut twisted. Visions of the pasty-white, frail, gray-haired man pawed through his head. “Your lover.”

  “You’re a disgusting pig,” she sneered.

  His hands tightened. “How do you know him?”

  Blue orbs narrowed as she glared. “He is . . . was my father,” she hissed out between thin lips.

  “Liar.” Ranulf’s muscles twitched.

  Clarice bucked in his lap. “I’m not a liar! I’m not!”

  He trapped her jaw with his hand. “No, my sweet pretender. You are not his daughter. I knew Nicholas of Margrave well enough. He never mentioned any living daughters. The one born to him died when she was an infant. Believe me, if she had lived, his wretched lady would have paraded her in front of every eligible man with money in his purse.”

  She broke free of his hold. “I speak the truth. You cannot take that away. No one can. He loved me.”

  Ranulf’s arms locked around her, hindering her freedom. “If what you say is true, why did he keep you hidden all these years, lying about your death? How can you call that love?”

  “I don’t know, but ’tis all I have,” she said. “All I’ve ever had.”

  “Robert and Lady Annora—”

  “She is not my mother,” she whispered.

  Ranulf rejected what she said against the facts he already knew. He hated to admit ’twas possible she was indeed connected to the plot that he had vowed to quash. And if what she said were true, she was the devoted daughter of a man accused of treason. She was a passionate woman. He had no doubt she would do anything for those she cared for. Even lie.

  Henry depended on him, on the Brotherhood, to discover all who threatened his throne. Ranulf had vowed to annihilate any who would stand in the way of Henry’s purchase of his birthright. France would be Henry’s, but not without a fight and sacrifice. There were those who had their own agendas and awaited Henry’s early demise, be it by pestilence or during a hard-fought battle. Against those threats, Ranulf was helpless. But protect his friend and king from the plots of evil? That he could and would do without fail.

  His stomach soured. ’Twas not fate that had brought Clarice to Sedgewic. She had her reasons for being here. He would make it his purpose to know every secret she held close to her heart. His thoughts twisted. Who would she sacrifice her life for?

  * * *

  Clarice tipped her head to stare. His rigid body shuddered, fighting a silent battle. Although his arms still wrapped her in his embrace, she was certain he had all but forgotten she remained on his lap. As her concern grew, the outrage melted.

  Hesitant, she touched the forearm that encased her waist and instantly pulled back. He pulsated with tension, straining against something that held him in its grasp.

  “Ranulf,” she said quietly. Gaining no response, she noted the taut line of his mouth. The sensual smile, reduced to a thin line, now twisted in pain.

  Grazing his cheek with the back of her hand, she cupped the angle of his jaw, directing his head to hers. Mindful of the cut where Nathan had hit him earlier, she pressed a finger to his lips, caressing them until they relaxed under her touch.

  “What ails you?”

  Shaking his broad shoulders, he pulled away. His mouth twisted and thinned. Pain laced his eyes with a fierce, brittle cold that caused her to gasp.

  “You,” he snarled.

  Afraid of his icy stare, she snatched back her hands, folding them in her lap. His predatory glare reminded her of a hungry wolf, guarding its recent kill.

  Her breath hissed out as he suddenly chose to stand. Catching her moments before impact with the floor, he scooped her up and tossed her into the abandoned chair. His hands braced, imprisoning her with iron bars of chest and arms.

  “Why are you here?”

  Clarice met his question with silence. She should never have cared so much for his safety. He did not deserve her worry. Still trying to regain her own sense of balance, she turned her head and pretended interest in the dying flames.

  Strong fingers curled around her jaw, directing her to meet his gaze. “I ask you again.” The pad of his thumb traced her mouth. “What brings you to Sedgewic?”

  Her heart beat against her ribs. The buzzing in her ears grew louder as he brought his lips down to her mouth, though not quite touching. He was so close. So very, very close. His breath caressed her cheek. He whispered something, but she could not understand it for the confounded buzzing. Her vision blurred as her stomach fluttered and rolled. Licking her lips, she struggled to focus on the man standing in front of her. When he bent at his narrow waist, she noticed tiny golden coils nestled on his broad chest. She itched to reach out and feel the silken mat under the weight of her hand. Instead, she curled her fingers around the chair’s arms, digging her nails into the wood.

  How could she want his touch? She should fear him. He was the king’s wolf. Had led the attack on Margrave. Lord Ranulf might even be her father’s murderer. He had to be. Why else would Father have sent her in search of the red wolf? The red wolf. Ranulf. Poor Maud had confused his last request. A red wolf indeed.

  Frustrated laughter welled up and spilled out past her lips. Her elation deflated, sinking into a dark hole filled with forgotten hopes and dreams. Those dreams she guarded carefully, keeping them hidden from prying eyes.

  All but one dream had been dashed. One dream remained. And rarely did she examine that dream. To be loved and accepted for herself. Hope had kept it alive. Desperation may have forced her to face the emptiness in her life. But a flicker of hope had been all she needed to flee her old life for a new one and to find her father’s murderer.

  Yet, now that she had found the man, she could not help wondering if she was mistaken. Her promise to a tarnished memory stood in the way of her new life away from Margrave Manor. She hated to admit that Ranulf’s questioning her father’s love echoed her own questions. A lone tear slid down her face, dropping silently into her lap.

  “What’s this?” He held out a finger that captured another tear escaping down her cheek. Sighing, he knelt down on one knee. “What brings tears to a face that deserves kisses instead?”

  “You,” she whispered.

  “Me?”

  “You bring me to tears.”

  He traced her cheek, trailing down to her jaw. His touch danced up to her mouth. All the while she watched his eyes grow deeper in color. He continued to weave dreams on her lips with his thumb, awakening passions she had never known existed.

  “I also bring kisses to wash away your tears,” he said.

  Clarice leaned back, digging her nails into the arms of the high-backed chair, fighting the urge to wrap her arms around his shoulders and let him carry her away. “’Tis as I said. I am not a whore.”

  “Understood.” His breath ruffled the loose strands of hair. They danced seductively against her neck.

  She shook her head. “And
I don’t need kisses. Not from you.”

  “I’ll have you know, my kisses are renowned in King Henry’s court. They have been known to melt the coldest of hearts, to render the fiercest of shrews into quivering masses of passion.”

  “Hmph” she snorted. “As I am neither coldhearted nor of a shrewish nature, I have no need.”

  “That, my sweet, is debatable.” His brows arched. “Ah, I see you doubt my word,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

  He rose, guiding her to stand in the circle of his arms. Ignoring her protests, he nibbled at the corner of her mouth. When she sighed against his lips, he tested the welcome presence of his tongue. She bade him enter, returning his kiss. His palm slid down the small of her back. Deft fingers glided around her hips and down her outer thigh. Flames shot through her veins, placing fire in her lungs. His hands, trembling against her skin as they danced along her skirts, testing the folds, became her undoing. She moaned and grabbed his shoulders, pressing her breasts against his chest.

  Their kisses deepened until Clarice knew what she must do. She wriggled and mewed, clawing at his clothes. Her tongue danced with his, meeting his every move. “Yes,” she whispered.

  She advanced toward the proud specimen of male confidence and sexual prowess. With his tented leggings proving his distraction, she grabbed his tunic, drawing it over his head. The material caught on his broad shoulders. Just as she had hoped. In his passionate hurry, he forgot the all-important need of loosening the ties at the neck.

  “Clarice?”

  “Yes, my lord?” She quickly tied the ends of his sleeves together in a tight knot. Growing more confident as her plan unfolded, she trussed him up as well as a fine fat goose.

  ’Twould take some time before he loosened himself from their hold. She would be off Sedgewic lands before a cry was raised. Riding Buttercup would not be easy without a saddle, but her only hope to put enough distance between herself and Sedgewic was on horseback.

  “Clarice,” his muffled voice growled. “Untie the knot before you force me to make you regret your actions.”

  “I think not, Lord Ranulf. I dare not overstay my welcome.” Remaining for a moment to wonder what might have been if he were the man of her dreams, she turned to make her escape.

  Ranulf split the tunic from neck to hem before she reached the door. Air rushed from her lungs as a wall of muscle smacked against her back. Her stomach dropped. She had miscalculated his strength and the time that would be needed to free his arms. Her plan dissolved before her eyes.

  “You shatter me, my lady.” The arm around her waist stiffened, tightening with each word he spoke. “I don’t recall giving you my leave.”

  Clarice shivered. Tears blurred her vision. She dared not turn to look at him.

  He released her with a flip of his hand. Their separation splashed over her like a bucket of spring runoff.

  “I told you . . . I am no one’s whore.” Clinging to the newel post for support, she shoved the hair out of her eyes before spinning on him. “If you dare come near me again, I’ll—”

  Ranulf paused at the door. Rage crackled in the air. “Remember, do not leave this chamber.” A veiled threat of his own dripped from his tongue. “The guards are posted with orders to stop you.”

  Chapter 20

  The cold, stony ledge bit into her legs. Clarice shifted on the uncomfortable seat. Earlier in the night she deliberately had selected it over the lure of the overstuffed chair by the hearth. Though, recalling Maud’s wise words, that regret served only the master of the past, she clung to her decision and stayed by the drafty window.

  She scrubbed her mouth with her knuckles. The angered promise he had left between them swirled in her head. Her insides knotted. The misbegotten plan to truss him up like a goose served at Michaelmas had certainly put her in dire straits.

  The sun crept over the trees. Castle life unfolded with the dawning of the day. And she sat on her perch, ignoring the siren’s call coming from the warm fire. The memory of that intimate moment with Ranulf was still too fresh. She took a deep breath. His irresistible scent still filled the air. It coursed through her traitorous mind and body with passionate speed.

  Her hand dropped to her waist, settling on the band resting just above her hips. She trailed her fingers along the same scorched path he had skillfully traveled. Heat inflamed her cheeks as she recalled the bold manner in which he had stared, the way his gaze had slid over her breasts and down to her knees.

  “Plaguey hell,” she muttered, swiping at her unkempt hair. Embarrassment replayed again in her head. Of course, Ranulf had to notice the way her breasts were escaping the confines of her bodice.

  “’Tis a blessing the man isn’t in the room.” Defying her commands, her skin prickled in anticipation of his caress.

  The press of his engorged flesh had nearly distracted her from her purpose. She shuddered, desperate to erase the memory of the way he had cradled her in his lap, nestling her in the crook of his arm, offering comfort she had never known before. How can I desire the stroke of his hand? ’Tis madness.

  Clarice turned as Hamish entered and dropped a bundle on the floor.

  After a breath of silence, he nudged the pile of clothing with the toe of his boot. “’Twas told to bring these.”

  He stood with his short legs braced, his hands on his hips, mimicking the lord of Sedgewic’s arrogant stance.

  Clarice arched a brow, allowing the slightest sign of surprise. Her lips twitched just once. Determined not to let the little urchin see how stiff she had become, each movement an effort of concentration, she casually slid from the window ledge. Every step brought a silent vow never to sit in an open window all night.

  “Are you always in the habit of entering a chamber without knocking?” she asked primly.

  “’Twas ordered. So I did.”

  She lifted one of the garments from the pile. Her hand froze, held in place by Hamish’s knowing stare. He stood proudly over the offering, daring her to say anything with which he might disagree.

  Confused by his attitude, she pulled her hand back. She had no idea how to go about settling a child. Sheltered from the world outside Margrave, she rarely had dealt with children. Most servants were sent to Margrave House in London. Resolved to regain his trust, she would try to speak with the boy one more time. After all, she had survived Annora and Robert. Could one sour, pinch-faced little boy be that difficult to manage? She cleared her throat. “Thank Mistress Erwina, won’t you?”

  Hamish shoved his hat back and peered up thought rough-cut bangs. “Don’t think this changes things.”

  “Changes things?”

  “Just ’cause he sent you clothing doesn’t mean you get to travel with him. You aren’t wanted. Heard him say so.”

  Thumbing his puffed-up chest, he added, “’Tis me that he wants to bring. Not you. I’m to begin training as squire of the body.” Poking the air, he pointed, striking it with his finger. “Heard him say that, too.”

  “Is Lord Ranulf leaving?” Clarice’s breath caught. With his mighty lordship away, she would find a way to slip off without anyone noticing. “Will he be gone long?”

  Hamish’s eyes narrowed. “’Tis obvious enough. Open your eyes. There are soldiers everywhere.” He continued to shake his head, the floppy cap moving dangerously close to covering both eyes. “Those other soldiers are wrong. You are too slow in the head and don’t have the strength for what they have planned.”

  “Excuse me?” she squeaked. “Strength for what?”

  “Said,” Hamish pointed to the pile, “don’t see how these clothes will make a difference.” He peered at the fabric she held in her hand and shrugged. “Just ’cause you’re going to wear her favorite day dress, it won’t make a difference. ’Tis not like you’ll be murdered, too.”

  The soft woolen material slipped from her fingers. “Whose dress?”

  Something the size of a goose egg lodged in her throat. Her thoughts flicked t
hrough the various facts already accumulated. Were the accusations they had overheard in the solar true? Had Ranulf murdered his wife and then her father?

  She braced her palms against the back of the chair. What if I’m next? She looked wildly around the room. If provoked beyond reason, would he harm the children, too? She reached out, meaning to place a protective hand on Hamish’s head. Nevertheless, he dodged it.

  “Lady Mary wouldn’t care. Even if she were still alive.” Pausing for a breath, he added, “You feel all right? You look like the fish Erwina cooks after she rolls them in flour.” Nodding to his own question, he patted her shoulder. “You look a bit gooey-like.”

  He led her to the chair she had been avoiding all night. She shook her head and tried to pull away. Hearing nothing of it, he managed to push her down.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “least ways you don’t smell like a dead fish.”

  Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate. Hamish moved with dizzying speed, scurrying to pick up the fallen pieces of clothing. She dropped her head in her hands and prayed he would go before she embarrassed herself.

  “What was that, Hamish?” Clarice cocked her head. “I believe ’tis Erwina calling you.”

  He stopped to listen and grinned. “No, ’tis them new swans just delivered. You should see them. They are an angry bunch. But no angrier than his lordship. Says they’re too late to do him any good.” He paused to scratch his shoulder blade. “Although why he’s mad at them I don’t know. Everybody knows birds cannot mark time.”

  “Swans,” she said. “What did he want with swans?”

  “Erwina asked that very thing. She is fierce upset. Said she had enough to worry about without having to watch that they don’t peck the children.”

  Clarice nodded. “She is right. Be sure to keep out of their way.”

  “I said the children,” Hamish said. “She wasn’t talking about me.”

  There was no doubt the lad was more resourceful than to be caught between a cob and his lady swan. All the same, he did have a knack for getting into the thick of things. “Of course, how silly of me,” Clarice said.