by C. C. Wiley
“And now?”
“You know of the accusations before his death. The man of whom you speak . . .” He shook his head. “One who hides a daughter from all sight and doesn’t claim her as his own. He, I would not recognize. The man accused of treason. That man I don’t know either. His secret life confounds me.” Ranulf pulled her closer, snuggling her into the crook of his arm. “I would have liked to speak with him one last time before he took his life.”
Clarice turned and spoke with clear confidence. “Regardless of the rumors, my father remained a loyal friend and servant of King Henry. He did not take his life. My father was murdered.”
Chapter 25
Ranulf extracted his arm from Clarice’s shoulder to retrieve a small wooden barrel hidden in the corner. He set it down on the blanket with a quiet thump. Her accusations of murder echoed through his mind. Before he spoke, he searched her face. “What proof have you that Nicholas was murdered?”
“I know my father.”
He rubbed his jaw. “This is the same man who didn’t claim you as his daughter. And yet you feel you owe him your faith?”
Clarice looked up, bristling at his question. She tossed away the damp kindling beside the fire. “Yes.”
Ranulf towered over her, bracing his arms across his chest. “And you still maintain you don’t know why he kept his silence.”
“I told you,” she said, her voice clipped in forced patience, “To. Protect. Me.”
“From what?” The pain in her eyes made him want to sweep her into his arms. Instead, Ranulf gripped his biceps and dug for more answers. “For what reason?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. Defeated, her shoulders melted under the weight of his doubt.
“Your father was accused of treason. Of plotting to kill our king. Is he worth the price it may cost you?”
“Any price.”
He pushed her to understand. “There may be consequences beyond my control.”
She tilted her head to study his face. Hope shimmered in her eyes. “You would do that for me?”
Clearing his throat, he wondered what made him offer his help to a woman he did not trust. “If what you say is true, I cannot ignore the murder of a man who once was one of Henry’s favorites. ’Tis not that I disbelieve,” he cautioned. “But I must have proof to take to the king.”
“I’m well aware of the accusations that have damaged my father’s name.” She gripped the folds of his jerkin, gaining his attention. “Whoever spilled this venom over his character is his murderer. I’m convinced of it.”
Ranulf caught her cold fingers and led her to the blanket. He motioned for her to sit and dropped down beside her. He drew a small blade from the sheath tucked under his belt and sliced a hunk of cheese. “How can you be certain?”
“That is a question that has no clear answer.” She rubbed her knuckles over her skirt. “The eve of his return has puzzled me until I can think of nothing else.”
Ranulf held out the yellow cheese and noted her caution. “Things are usually clearer if more than one head is used to polish the thoughts. If you are willing, my ears are ready to listen.”
She nibbled on the corner of the pungent cheese. “News of my family’s trouble arrived when King Henry’s men were at the gate.” She looked up, her eyes boring into his. “You were there. You led them.”
He swallowed, nodding in agreement as he recalled that day.
“Nearly a week passed before Father, Annora, and Robert arrived.”
Realization slammed into Ranulf. Could it really be? Clarice was the maiden from Margrave Manor? Had the shadows been so deep that he had not recognized her? He swore he would have known her voice anywhere. Guilt boiled under his skin.
“They were arguing,” Clarice continued. “Annora encouraged him to give himself up. Father refused to admit that he had a hand in anything so heinous. Robert added his taunts, accusing him of weakness and lack of spine.”
Puzzled, Ranulf stroked his chin. “Why would your father allow it?” “Annora had found a means in which to hold him under her thumb. What, I do not know.” Clarice’s chin lifted, defiant at his criticism of her father. “He did manage to challenge Robert, but not before my stepbrother had crossed the bridge of no retreat.”
“How so?”
“’Twas during the argument that Robert physically attacked Father.” Clarice watched him, willing him to hear the truth.
“Robert never did understand the meaning of honor,” he said.
A raven brow lifted in amusement. “Truer words have never been said. Thankfully, providence did quickly smile and gave Father courage to seek another day.”
Ranulf leaned in. “He didn’t desire to take his life?”
“On the contrary. ’Twas after the peddler came to call that hope returned to my father’s eyes.”
“Peddler?” The confrontation played out in his memories.
“Yes.” Shards of sapphire glittered over the firelight. Her fingers dug into the folds of her gown. “Without him, we would have spent many hungry days.”
Uncomfortable with her praise for the peddler, Ranulf cleared his throat. “Lord Margrave—how did he change?”
“The last night he came to visit me, he told me that soon—in a week or two—we would be free of the rumors. I was certain he had an ally at Henry’s court. Someone to help clear his name. He promised to introduce me at court once his troubles were over.”
Ranulf held out the loaf of bread for her to tear off a portion. “Tell me of that night. What happened in the hours before and after?”
She shook her head and answered around the moist cheese and soft bread she had stuffed in her mouth. “I cannot help you there. I was locked in my chamber.”
Taken aback by her quiet acceptance, Ranulf’s gut twisted. His thoughts dashed to the time he became her jailer. He had ignored her terrified pleas and turned the bolt. Was it any wonder she had pleaded and pounded until her knuckles bled?
They sat in quiet silence, each focused on the food in front of them. Without her notice, Ranulf moved the meal closer to Clarice. Serenity surrounded them as they ate. How his world would have changed had he known her before Mary. Would their king have arranged a marriage between Sedgewic and Margrave instead? No! Henry would have taken advantage of her attributes and created a marriage bond with a noble of greater holdings. That thought thoroughly vexed him.
* * *
Eating as if she would never eat again, Clarice tucked another bite of cheese and bread into her mouth. After filling her stomach, she ended her meal with a few handfuls of almonds.
She itched at the silence that had grown between them. Was he angry at her appetite? She hated to admit that she would have devoured every morsel had she been by herself. As it was, Ranulf ate too little to feed a man of his size. Hoping to push the distant look from his eyes and repair his smile, she leaned over and offered him her apple.
His long fingers grazed the tender flesh of her hand, sending shivers across her skin. Her breath caught, knowing he must have felt it, too.
He lifted the apple to his mouth and slowly bit down. White teeth sank into the succulent fruit. Sweet liquid glistened upon his lips. She wondered if he made the apple that much sweeter.
She licked her lips, imagining what he might taste like. Sweet apple, juicy and warm, mixed with his scent and the peppermint leaves she had seen him slip into his mouth.
Flustered at her wild imagination, she turned away and wrapped the remaining food in the linen. With unsteady limbs, she moved cautiously, mindful that she was alone with a man who made her envision her own ripening fruit plucked by his lips.
She glanced out the small window. With evening closing in, she knew her position was becoming dangerous. Somehow, she would have to remind her body that this was not the time to explore the width of his shoulders, the strength of his back. No; her duty was to her father.
Ranulf said he needed proof. Well, she, too, needed proof. She had to return to Margrave
Manor and speak to Maud without Robert or Annora knowing. She would find that irrefutable evidence Annora had used to threaten her.
A searing pain scored her heart. Ranulf would be furious when he learned of her betrayal. He would surely doubt anything she might ever say again, but there was no use crying over lost dreams. “At what price?” he had asked earlier. Clarice refused to accept that the price might be the warmth of his companionship.
Ranulf took another bite of the apple. She could hear the soft crunching sound of the skin and flesh. The one who had killed her father had torn away at her heart in just that manner. Would there be anything left when she was done with her quest? Would the dreams of love and happiness remain as dormant seeds, or would they grow into a life beyond this vow?
She drew up her legs, resting her chin on her knees and watching the fire in silence. A drop of water hit the top of her head.
“Come.” Ranulf was quick to offer the protection of his arm. “I’ve a dry, warm spot in which to curl.”
Clarice slid over, tucking her shoulder under the crook of his arm and silenced the growing regret. She would miss him when she left.
* * *
Despite the darkness of the gray sky, they still had a few more hours of daylight. Reluctant to ruin their peaceful existence, Ranulf knew he must gain the information he needed to protect his king and country. If Nicholas had not plotted against Henry, there were others who had set the course to ruin him and draw attention away from their own direction. ’Twas imperative he discovered their identities before the king set sail for France.
On the other hand, if Clarice was a Margrave, would she not lie to save her father’s name? Or even use him to continue with the plot? It galled him that he still knew so little about her. He had no proof to save her. The Margrave name gave him the right to place her under arrest.
The vibration against his ribs tugged at his thoughts. She shivered again. The damp had begun to seep in. Sickness from exposure held no place in his plans.
Ranulf leaned over and caught the small wooden barrel with the heel of his boot. Feeling her tense with his movement, he rolled the barrel closer and offered an explanation. “I found it tucked under an eave.”
A look of doubt flashed in her eyes.
“Not to worry, ’tis not so old that it survived the fire. Someone left it for their next return. As these are my lands, I confiscate it and hold it as payment for trespassing.”
He pulled out the wooden cup he always carried in his pack. “Here. A toast to warm your heart and heat your toes.”
She eyed the cup. “Unless ’tis vinegar, I shall accept it with relief and gratitude. But how this will warm my toes I cannot fathom, not unless we hold it over the flames.”
“Haven’t you sipped wine at your family’s table?”
“Been drinking watered mead since I was a babe.” She lifted the cup to her lips and drank deep and long. A cough erupted as soon as the burning liquid slid down her throat.
“What are you thinking?” He grabbed the cup from her hand. Leaning her over, he pounded her on her back until she swatted at him to go away.
Clarice sat up, her eyes watering. “Obviously, I wasn’t thinking at all.”
He let the fruit’s scent drift into his nose before taking a swallow of the burgundy liquid. “It does have a bite, but it appears to be an excellent French wine.”
He refilled her cup and held it out for her to try again. “Go easy.”
After a tentative taste, she took another drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “How did you know ’twas French?”
He smiled and tipped the cup to his lips.
She squinted at him and then at the wooden cask at his feet. “Ah, ’tis not a trick you have. It has French markings on the outside.”
“What’s that? Where?” He pulled the barrel into the light of the flames and read the markings on the barrel. “God’s blood, you’re correct.”
Carefully, he put the barrel down. Who traveled his lands without his knowledge, hiding wine that was good enough to grace the king’s table?
After filling Clarice’s cup and then his own, he leaned close and tapped the rims together. “To truth sought.”
She tapped hers back. “To answers found.”
He leaned over, took her cup again, and refilled it. Her cheeks rosy, she nodded and did not seem to notice that he no longer continued to drink his wine.
Puzzled by her story, he brushed a smudge of dirt from his leggings. “Why were you locked away that night?”
“That night? Or when the others returned to Margrave?”
“Let us begin with the last night you were with your father. Later, if you like, you may tell me about the other times.”
She frowned into her wine, her heartache apparent to anyone who looked. “Anytime Annora and Robert are at Margrave, I must stay out of sight.”
“But you said Nicholas kept you at Margrave because ’twas for your protection.”
“He did.”
“This makes little sense,” Ranulf argued. “If Margrave Manor protected you, why wouldn’t you be safe behind the walls at all times? No matter who arrives, you should have been safe.” He lifted her empty cup. “Why would your father feel the need to protect you from your stepmother and stepbrother?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Kneeling beside her, he pulled her into his arms. “What if you were the babe your father took from the orphanage?”
“But why would I be there to begin with?”
“Lord Nicholas’s first wife. Your mother. Do you know aught of her death?”
Clarice shook her head. “We never spoke of her. ’Twas never allowed. Annora would become overwrought with grief.”
“’Tis odd, don’t you think?”
“When I was a small child, I found a chest of my mother’s things. The sight of it nearly broke my father and set my stepmother into a rage.” She picked at the hem of her gown. “The punishment came in the form of being locked in my chamber for a week while they set off for London.” She looked up and grinned. “But knowing not one drop of Annora’s blood flowed through my veins was well worth the price.”
“’Tis a wonder you never ran away.”
“And where would I go? I knew what I faced with my family. At least I had shelter. Food. ’Tis more than others can say.”
At a loss for words, Ranulf rested his back against the wall. Holding out his hand, he drew her onto his lap and gathered her pliable body to his chest.
There were stories bandied about at the court. One was of love between a knight of the king’s realm and that of an angel. Was there any merit to this tale?
Upon his return to Sedgewic, he would seek out Erwina. She had tried to speak with him before they rode out. If memory served him, she had arrived soon after the fire. He would learn what he could from the old woman.
Chapter 26
Clarice burrowed deeper into Ranulf’s embrace. His breath came slow and deep as he drifted off. The dark shadows deepened as the night wore on. Their small fire flickered, casting wavering figures against the charred walls.
Her mind nibbled on the changes her simple life had taken. Where once she had been cold and lonely, she now sat warm and snug in this man’s arms. Instead of her barren room, with little more than four walls and a locked door, she now sat upon the lap of a lord. In fact, she sat as if she belonged there, as if her whole purpose from birth was to be with him at that very moment.
But he is the king’s wolf. How can I trust him to help me? To clear Father’s name?
She pushed her hair out of her face with a heavy hand, blinked away the blurred vision, and looked about the blackened shelter. Firelight etched the skeleton of the building. Its meager light trickled through the seams of the walls and makeshift roof. The tension in Ranulf’s arm relaxed and Clarice settled closer. She brushed her fingertips over the sprinkle of whiskers shadowing his strong jaw. His smooth cheeks rose above the chiseled wedge of bon
e. She marveled at his lashes. They were long enough to cause any young woman to weep with envy.
“Clarice.” He mumbled her name softly, with a hint of impatience.
Her movements stilled. She waited. Rewarded with the deep rise of his chest, she began her search again. This time she spoke to settle her nerves. Hesitant to hear his answer, she whispered, “Who is this man deep inside?”
Her hand trembled as his heart beat against her palm. She needed to feel him, all the while retaining the sense that she was holding him at bay. Relief flooded her limbs when his answer was a muffled snore.
Did he not experience the same need? To have the feel of his body touching hers? What manner of man was he? Did he not wish to take advantage of their situation?
Clarice’s thoughts jerked to a halt when bands of muscle hardened as he tightened his arms. His hand draped over her hip. His fingers splayed tenderly across the fabric of her gown.
Her brain fuzzy from the wine, she attempted to ignore his heat pressing through her clothing. She began to count the rise and fall of his chest. To her frustration, she found her knowledge of numbers lacking. Her mutinous body distracted her from her task. She lost her place again when Ranulf took a deep, sighing breath.
The numbers abandoned, she concentrated on the shadows as they stretched and darkened into one complete mass. The rhythm of the rain continued to beat against the building. Fat drops fell and hit the bare timbers. Nature’s song, combined with the sounds Ranulf made when he slept, lulled her into a blissful fantasy.
She would tame the wolf and he would not bite her hand as she fed him sweet morsels.
* * *
Ranulf bolted awake and grabbed for his sword.
Clarice cried out again. This time it did not take long for him to realize she did not call out in passion. Her struggles escalated when Ranulf pulled her close. Placing soft kisses against the nape of her neck, the smooth flat blade of her shoulder, he whispered against her skin. “Open your eyes, sweeting.”
