His lips tasted of salt and moved over hers with a fierceness she had never encountered before. He was fighting to the end; a dying man’s final attempt at comfort or a sweet memory to take beyond the grave. There was desperation beneath the desire, drawing her to him and leaving her powerless to resist its pull. She kissed him back, letting her lips form the shape of his in a moment of mutual sorrow.
She felt the moment his strength gave out. Her eyes filled as she drew away and laid his head gently down.
He smiled once more.
‘My angel. I am ready to come to you,’ he whispered in French, then closed his eyes.
An angel?
Blanche smiled at the thought, though tears smarted in her eyes. He thought he was speaking to someone else. If only the man knew what kind of woman was peering down at him, he would not use such terms. She was Jael. Jezebel. She was the Magdalene at her worst.
His hand went limp and she placed it across his chest. She ran her fingertips along the edge of the wound on his head, probing as gently as she could so as not to cause him more discomfort, though she suspected he was rapidly slipping beyond such experiences. The wound was deep and she felt the hardness of bone. His chest heaved and he groaned, twisting on the sand. There was still strength in him. If his body was as strong as his kiss, there might be hope...
‘Andrey, come help me,’ she shouted. ‘This one is a survivor.’
Andrey stomped over and looked down.
‘Huh, better to finish him off quickly,’ he said, reaching for the curved dagger at his belt.
Blanche threw herself in front of the man, arms out, and stared up at Andrey defiantly.
‘No. We’ll take him to the castle and give him a place to rest.’
Most likely he would not survive the night, but she could not leave him here for such a sad and lonely end.
Andrey looked appalled. ‘We have no idea who these men are. He could be a spy for Charles de Blois. Do you really want to give shelter to such a man?’
Blanche stood, curling her fists. She placed them on her hips and lifted her shoulders back. Though she was only a woman, she had learned that to mimic a man’s posture somehow garnered more respect and granted her authority that using her femininity did not.
‘It is my home. I will not be argued with.’
Andrey still looked unhappy. Blanche softened her stance and smiled.
‘I know what you say is wise, but look at him. He can be no danger to us, even if he is a spy, in this condition. Fetch a cart and help me carry him, but be discreet. I want as few people to know as possible. That will ensure word does not travel.’
Especially to Ronec’s ears. Andrey met her eyes and Blanche knew he had the same thought. He nodded his head, seemingly satisfied by this precaution.
She bent down once more as Andrey stomped off, and took the man’s hand. It would be sensible to at least try to find out what allegiance he might have.
‘What is your name?’ she asked. ‘Can you speak?’
He opened his eyes and muttered a word that was no word.
‘Your name,’ she repeated, leaning close so that her ear was close to his lips. ‘Who are you?’
He muttered something that may have been Jacques, then his eyes closed and his mouth went slack.
Andrey brought the cart and began to rearrange the contents to make space. Blanche pushed the man’s cloak back and saw he was wearing a satchel. Blanche eased it free. It contained a small, shallow casket made of dark wood.
‘At least we’ll have some spoils,’ Andrey said with a grin.
Blanche held it to the light. It was plain and looked well used. Probably a document case, but maybe a jewel casket.
‘It may contain the key to learning who he is,’ Blanche mused.
‘Key! Not one I’ve found.’ Andrey laughed. ‘Best break it open.’
Blanche put the bag and casket on to the cart.
‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later. Keep it safe for now.’
If the man lived, she would ask him herself. If he didn’t, then she would permit Andrey to open it and put an end to their curiosity. She helped Andrey lift the man, slipping her arms in the crook behind his knees, and made sure he was laid carefully on to the cart. His long legs were crooked, reminding her of a discarded marionette, and she straightened them before putting the box beside him. She followed the cart up the beach and along the rutted track that led to the sea gate of the castle. In the courtyard she paused, as the first seeds of doubt began to grow.
‘We won’t put him in a bedroom,’ she decided. ‘There’s a small storeroom in the cellars of the outbuilding. Take him there.’
She saw that the man was taken where she instructed and a pallet with a mattress was provided. She dismissed Andrey and his suggestions that she call a servant to tend the injured man.
‘The fewer people who know, the safer it will be for all of us.’
In truth, she felt responsible and wanted to tend the man herself. The moonlight shone through the small, barred window, falling across his face, which even in the dim light she could see had a deathly pallor. She loosened his wet shirt and eased it off his body, thinking how long it had been since she had undressed a man and how welcome it was knowing this one was in no position to paw at her or expect a candle’s worth of rutting. She pressed her palm over his heart. The beat was barely perceptible beneath the mound of his chest. He began to shiver, tremors passing through what Blanche recognised was a powerful frame. She drew a sheet high up to his chin and covered him with a pair of wolf pelts. She spooned weak ale laced with something to ease his pain between his lips.
If he survived the night that would be miraculous, but she left him and went to her own bed satisfied that she had done what she could.
Chapter Three
Long fingers of light fluttered across the wall. They played over his legs and moved slowly, languidly up his body until they reached his face and began to climb stealthily upwards. Because of this, he knew time was passing, but his limbs felt heavy and he had no desire to move. He was lying on a mattress, though the lumpy sack filled with stale-smelling straw hardly dignified the description. Everything was unfamiliar. This was not his home.
His head ached as if he had been beaten around it repeatedly and his muscles felt torn, but he didn’t know why. He reached a hand up to touch the main source of the dull throbbing on his temple and discovered his arm was weak and the effort brought a sweat to his brow. He succeeded in feeling his head. It was bandaged, which meant he had suffered an injury of some sort, but he had no idea what or how he had come about it. Nor did he have any idea how he came to be in this place.
The last thing he remembered was—
And there he was forced to stop, because although he had the vague sense of scents and tastes, and the sound of screaming and splitting wood in his ears, he had no recollection of what had happened. He knew for certain he did not know this place, but how he knew that, he was unable to explain. The smell was musty and old with a hint of yeastiness to the air. If he didn’t know better, he would say he was in a bakery or storeroom.
He rolled his head to look at the source of light and realised the narrow slit of window was barred. Panic constricted his chest as he realised he must be a prisoner. The fact he had no idea who his captors were, or why he had been imprisoned, increased the terror tenfold. The agitation heated his limbs and he felt his blood spring to life as it surged around his body. He took a deep breath and decided he would hammer on the door until someone came, but when he embarked on this plan his legs buckled before he had crossed half the small space, and he crumpled to the ground. He lay in a heap on the cold stone floor, noticing now that he was naked from the waist up. So, he was in a barred room with a stone floor and a small door. That probably meant the ground floor or cellars. Which meant a big building. The effort of coming to this
conclusion made his head reel and did not, in fact, help him in any real way, but a small part of him cheered in satisfaction that he had noticed the surface he was lying on. He had not lost all his wits.
He cried out in English, but when no one answered, something in the back of his mind told him this was not the only language he could use. He repeated his words in French, gratified that the words came as easily. Still no one came, so when he felt slightly stronger he crawled his way back on to the pallet and pulled up the sheet and furs. He lay there shivering, his mind in turmoil, knowing that he had no choice but to wait until his captors deemed it fit to visit him. He slept again.
* * *
When he woke it was daylight now. The sun was a warm orange and there was a faint scent of sea in the air, accompanied by a hint of sweet blossom. He inhaled deeply, taking pleasure from the only thing of beauty in his life that he could clutch on to.
A metallic scraping sound caught his attention and he realised it was coming from the other side of the door. It was the sound of a bolt being drawn back. He looked to the door slightly too sharply and the movement caused his head to spin. Lights burst behind his eyes and he blinked furiously to clear them, so that when the door opened he was lying with watery eyes and staring at the ceiling so he did not immediately notice who had entered.
Someone walked to the corner of the room and he heard a pot of some sort set down on a table he had not noticed earlier. He waited patiently to see what would happen. An instinct was telling him to try overpowering whoever it was and try to escape, but he knew he didn’t have the strength to do anything of the sort. He opened his eyes and craned his head weakly. A short girl in a plain gown was placing a jug on a small table.
‘Where am I?’ he asked in English. ‘Help me!’
His voice was rasping from the dryness of his throat. The girl shrieked and jumped back and the jug toppled over. Before he could speak again she had fled from the room, banging the door behind her. He heard the bolt scrape, confirming he was a prisoner. He groaned weakly and licked his lips, thirsty beyond endurance and with a belly that ached from emptiness. He didn’t think he would be able to sleep, but his head began to spin and he lapsed into a fitful sleep.
* * *
He was awakened once again by the bolt drawing back and someone entering the room. The person began to hum softly in a voice that was soft and female. This time he had the sense to remain silent and lie with eyes half-open. It was a different woman this time, taller and dressed in a deep brown, flowing surcoat. She was standing by the small table doing something Jack could not see. She came to the bed and he realised that she had a cloth and a bowl of water. Another servant of whoever was holding him, he suspected.
He closed his eyes so she would not realise he was awake. She unwound the bandage from around his head and bathed the wound, then moved from working on his head to tending the grazes on his body. She slid her cool hand slowly up the length of his bare belly with the softness of a lover beginning a caress. He drew a sharp breath as an overwhelming sense of pleasure combined with the sting of the cuts. Realising he could no longer feign sleep, he opened his eyes.
‘Ah, you are awake again,’ she said in what he recognised as the Breton dialect.
That mended another rip in the cloth that was his mind. Now he knew which part of the world he was in. She did not sound particularly happy at the discovery.
‘You frightened Marie,’ the woman said. She was looking at him severely so his first impression was of forbidding black eyes. ‘She ran to me crying tales of nonsense words growled at her.’
He swallowed and opened his mouth to try explaining what had happened.
‘Don’t try to speak,’ she instructed. ‘Wait there.’
She moved to the table and came back bearing a wide-rimmed earthenware cup. She slipped a hand beneath his neck and raised him slightly to cradle his head, then held the cup to his lips. It turned out to be cider and he drank greedily until the cup was empty.
Her cool fingers trailed across the back of his neck as she withdrew her hand and laid his head back. He shivered once more with unexpected desire and gave a soft moan. She must have interpreted this as pain because she peered down at him and concern banished the severity of her expression. Something woke inside him as her face filled his gaze: a deep sense of familiarity and the certainty that he had seen this face before. The memory fluttered from him like moths circling a lamp and evading fingers trying to seize them, leaving only vague shapes and the sensation of intimacy. Like the moths, he felt pulled towards her flame. His lips twitched.
‘Can you speak now?’ she asked.
‘I did not mean to frighten her,’ he croaked.
‘I’m glad to hear it. I would not like to think I am giving shelter to one who would terrorise girls.’
They were strangers, then. So why did he feel such a connection to her? He furrowed his brow.
She gave a brief smile. ‘Think nothing of it. Marie is silly and jumps if the kitchen cats mew behind her.’
With an effort of will he was able to focus on her with a little more clarity now, though his eyes kept blurring. From the high singing voice, he had thought she was not much older than a child, but now he saw she was past her youth. A few faint lines had begun to appear at the corner of her eyes and mouth and a short frown line ran between her brows to the top of a straight, sharp nose. The severe expression must be habitual.
He reassessed his opinion that she was a mere servant. Her surcoat was plain brown with wide sleeves, but the close-fitting green kirtle beneath had a wide band of embroidery around the straight neck and wrists that spoke of quality. Beneath the linen band across her brow, there was a glint of gold combs that swept her black hair up into rolls at each side of her head. They looked expensive, indicating wealth, and she wore rings on three of her fingers.
More than that, the way she held herself and the expression on her face suggested she was used to any command she issued being obeyed. She was clearly waiting for him to respond. He tested his tongue and found it looser.
‘My head aches,’ he said in a croaky voice. ‘I do not know this place. What happened to me?’
She frowned, deepening the small line between her straight black brows.
‘Do you remember anything of how you came to be here?’
He knew better now than to try to shake his head and simply murmured, ‘Nothing, madame. I remember nothing. What can you tell me?’
She did not answer and her eyes narrowed. He rose up as best he could and clutched at her hand and felt her fingers straighten. Her eyes widened and without knowing why he put a hand to her cheek. Immediately, the gentleness with which she had nursed him was gone, replaced by ice.
‘Take your hands off me,’ she snapped, her face becoming thunderous. She leaned closer to him and with a twist of her wrist she had slipped from his grip.
‘Pardon me,’ he said. He fell back on the pillow, panting slightly from the effort it had cost him. ‘But, please, if you can tell me anything, I beseech you to do so.’
‘I will tell you what I can. Be warned, monsieur, no man touches me without my consent, even an invalid.’
‘I understand.’
She gave a brief, tight smile of approval and settled back on to her knees, arranging her skirts with practised elegance, then rested her hands neatly in her lap.
‘You were on a ship.’
She paused and looked away. Her face closed down. She looked wary and, despite her sharp, striking features, this uncertainty gave her an air of fragility. He waited, examining her in the bright sunlight as her eyes darted quickly around. He wanted to stroke her arm and encourage her to continue, but her warning rang in his ears.
‘What do you know?’ he prompted.
‘There was a shipwreck. We found you on the beach among the debris and the dead.’ She leaned closer and her eyes raked over him,
scrutinising him so intimately he imagined he was being undressed. ‘Do you really remember nothing? What is your name?’
And this was when he truly began to panic. With rising terror, he realised he did not know the answer.
‘I can’t remember!’
He heard alarm in his voice, but the woman looked suspicious. Her expression became stone.
‘Are you sure?’ She leaned closer. ‘Are you a spy? How do I know you are telling the truth?’
He reached out to clutch her sleeve to emphasise his integrity, but remembered her warning in time to stay his hand in mid-air. They both regarded it. He clenched his fist, holding it to his side, then lowered it to the fur. Their eyes found each other’s and the woman nodded. A brief moment of understanding passed between them. In any other circumstances he would find the situation extremely erotic, but the fascination he had for her had to compete with the disorientation, weakness and confusion he felt.
‘I have no proof, but believe me, please. I am telling the truth. I cannot remember who I am.’
He ground his fingers into the thick white pelt that covered him and gazed at her, willing her to believe him. She eyed him steadily, her dark eyes moving slowly over his face, up to the wound on his head and down again, further over his body. It made him feel uneasy to be examined so frankly by a stranger. More than that was the fact of her sex. The fascination he felt for her was being pushed deep inside him by a stronger, more painful emotion that cautioned him to resist and retreat. The presence of a woman felt even more unfamiliar than the unknown surroundings, but it came to him that it was not just her. He would not feel easy with any woman at his bedside, but did not know why. It was slightly reassuring because the warning voice meant that deep down inside him, some knowledge of himself still existed and could hopefully be unearthed.
Uncovering the Merchant's Secret Page 3
