The Unconventional Maiden

by June Francis

  ‘No doubt what I am about to say will vex you, but on your father’s death I became your legal guardian. It might seem strange to you, but he trusted me. I refused at first, for I did not wish to be burdened with finding you a spouse, but he persisted.’

  ‘But I do not wish to marry,’ Beth blurted out.

  ‘So your father told me—and frankly I do not believe it,’ said Gawain, with a shake of the head.

  An angry sparkle lit her eyes. ‘You are mistaken. I presume he will have left his business to me? There is naught preventing me from taking control of it when I return to London. I will be able to support myself financially, so I have no need of a husband.’

  About the Author

  JUNE FRANCIS’s interest in old wives’ tales and folk customs led her into a writing career. History has always fascinated her, and her first novels were set in Medieval times. She has also written sagas based in Liverpool and Chester. Married with three grown-up sons, she lives on Merseyside. On a clear day she can see the sea and the distant Welsh hills from her house. She enjoys swimming, fell-walking, music, lunching with friends and smoochy dancing with her husband. More information about June can be found at her website: www.junefrancis.co.uk

  Previous novels by this author:

  ROWAN’S REVENGE

  TAMED BY THE BARBARIAN

  REBEL LADY, CONVENIENT WIFE

  HIS RUNAWAY MAIDEN

  PIRATE’S DAUGHTER, REBEL WIFE

  Did you know that some of these novels

  are also available as eBooks?

  Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

  The

  Unconventional

  Maiden

  June Francis

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  DEDICATION:

  To my fellow author, the prolific Anne Herries,

  for all her encouragement over the years.

  This one’s for you!

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Perhaps it’s because my husband was a printer and I’m a novelist that the early days of printing should hold a fascination for me. It was William Caxton who introduced the printing press into England, and his first book was printed in 1477. By the time of 1520, when this story is set, the handwritten book was being superseded by the printed one at a rate of knots.

  At first most books were religious ones, and Henry VIII had a bestseller on his hands when he wrote a slender volume in defence of the seven sacraments of the faith in response to the writings of the German priest and professor of theology Martin Luther. It was illegal to print and distribute leaflets of the teachings by him, and could be punished by death. During the Tudor period printing really took off, and more people wanted to learn to read. Their interests were not only in religion, but in such subjects as the classical period of the Greeks and Romans, hawking and, of course, Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales—the bestseller of its day. I have used a little poetic licence by having it printed before it actually was. Poetry itself was extremely popular.

  There were, of course, those who considered it dangerous to make the printed word so readily available to so many people. Goodness knows what would happen if more merchants, artisans and even the masses were ever to learn to read and to think for themselves! It could lead to revolution!

  Ladies in particular were considered by some to be too delicate and weak to cope with some of the material coming off the presses, never mind their actually writing for publication themselves. But of course there were women who wrote books—mostly religious, or to do with the organisation of one’s household—and of course there were those men and women who kept journals and reported on great events of the day.

  Printed books were expensive, and it was to be some time before the masses were to be taught to read and write, but as we all know it eventually happened and books are now read by millions. But that makes me think about the revolution in reading habits that is taking place now. Some of us believe there is nothing so aesthetically pleasing as to hold a brand-new hardback borrowed from the library, whilst some love to snuggle up in bed with a good paperback. Others much prefer to download a whole load of eBooks onto a reader—especially when they’re going on holiday.

  I’d like to finish by telling you about a small old book of almost six hundred pages that belongs to my husband. It gives me a special feel when I hold it. It was printed in 1824 and has a woodcut of William Caxton on one page. On another is the title Typographia or the Printers’ Instructions by J. Johnson, printer. It includes an account of the origins of printing. What’s so great about that? you might ask, but inside is printed a dedication to the Right Hon. Earl Spencer, KG, president of the Roxburghe Club and its members, who include the writer Sir Walter Scott. The Earl, of course, is an ancestor of Prince William—our future king.

  June Francis

  Prologue

  London—May 1520

  ‘So what do you think of my Beth?’ asked Master Llewellyn, handing a goblet of ruby-red wine to Sir Gawain Raventon. ‘Would she not make the right man a wonderful wife? She has kept house for me since the death of her mother and she has proved to have a good head for figures and is thrifty, so I have allowed her to do my business accounts.’

  ‘You have a husband in mind for her?’ asked Gawain, who had met that young woman only a quarter of an hour ago and had found her extremely self-possessed. Master Llewellyn shook his head. ‘She is adamant that she will not marry. I tell her that she must get herself a husband. This whole matter concerning Jonathan has aged me and is keeping me awake nights.’ He sighed heavily as he gazed into the strong handsome face of the man sitting opposite him.

  ‘In the light of the evidence I uncovered I do believe your son Jonathan’s death to be highly suspicious,’ said Gawain. ‘Do you have any notion of who might have wanted him dead?’

  ‘A madman, for what sane person would want to kill my dear Jonathan?’ said the old man huskily. ‘He was well liked and did good business selling our services and wares. It is true that sometimes he would absent himself for days. I didn’t know his whereabouts, but he always returned with more business for us.’

  Gawain frowned. ‘You have questioned these customers?’

  A muscle in Master Llewellyn’s cheek twitched. ‘No, Jonathan dealt with them himself, although I did once meet … Now, I wonder …’

  Gawain raised an interrogative dark eyebrow. ‘You have thought of someone who might know something?’

  Master Llewellyn pursed his lips and he looked unhappy. ‘I could be mistaken and I do not wish to damage a man’s reputation. I would rather not name names.’

  ‘If you do not mind my saying so, remaining silent could prove a mistake if we are dealing with a possible murderer,’ Gawain pointed out.

  The old man remained stubbornly silent.

  Gawain was exasperated. ‘Does your daughter know aught about this person or anything that could help us?’

  Master Llewellyn looked shocked. ‘She believes that Jonathan’s death was an accident and I want her to continue to do so. The truth might prove too much for her to bear. The fair sex are not as strong as us men,’ he added, taking a hasty gulp of his wine.

  Remembering the firmness of Mistress Llewellyn’s chin, Gawain thought the other man underestimated his daughter’s strength. ‘You should tell someone,’ he said firmly.

  ‘When the time is ripe I will,’ assured Master Llewellyn, downing the rest of his wine and banging down his goblet. ‘But I would ask of you a boon, Sir Gawain. If I were to die before this matter is cleared up, would you be Beth’s guardian and take on the task of choosing a husband for her? I must have a grandson,’ he added fretfully.

  Gawain could understand the old man’s need for a male heir to carry on his line. He though
t of his own son, who had died when he was only two years old, and the pain was as fresh to him now as it had been then. Indeed, it had intensified in the weeks since his wife, Mary, had disappeared with their daughters and he had feared the boy’s death had caused her to lose her senses.

  ‘I do not wish to gainsay you, Master Llewellyn,’ he rasped. ‘But I know more about timber and shipbuilding, and even what is happening at King Henry’s court, than what kind of man would make a suitable and pleasing husband for your daughter.’

  ‘I think you underestimate your judgement,’ said Master Llewellyn persuasively. ‘I believe you to be sound and I entreat you to grant me this boon. Women so often do not know their own minds and need a man to guide them in the right direction. You will not lose by it, I promise. I will bequeath you shares in my company and I cannot say fairer than that.’

  ‘That is indeed generous of you,’ said Gawain, taken aback. ‘But surely you have a close friend to whom you can entrust this task?’

  Master Llewellyn grimaced. ‘At my age I have few friends left and they are enfeebled. I have appreciated the manner in which you took my suspicions seriously and investigated Jonathan’s so-called boating accident.’ His voice trembled. ‘You have a strength of character I have seen in few men. Please, let me have your hand on it, so I can have my will rewritten before I leave for France next month.’

  Gawain experienced a pang of pity for the old man; as he was to return to his home in Kent that afternoon, and had to make all speed to Dover Castle the next morning, he decided that the only way to terminate this conversation swiftly was by agreeing to do his best for Beth Llewellyn, if the need should arise. At least she would not be short of suitors—she would inherit her father’s thriving printing and bookselling business and his aunt could chaperon her if need be. ‘All right, I will do as you ask,’ he said.

  He was rewarded by Master Llewellyn’s relieved smile and they shook hands.

  Gawain drained his cup. ‘I also am bound for France at King Henry’s bidding. You go there on business?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Aye, I hope to meet an old friend in my line of business in Calais,’ replied the older man, his rheumy eyes bright. ‘Also, the king, who occasionally patronises my shop, has generously said I may attend some of the festivities on this occasion if I wish, so I have suggested to my daughter that she accompany me.’

  ‘Then it is possible I might see you there,’ said Gawain, taking his leave.

  On the way out of the chamber he collided into Beth Llewellyn. He steadied her and was aware of the softness of her breasts pressed against the wall of his chest and the swell of her hip nestled against his thigh. For a moment her startled, luminous chestnut-brown eyes rested on his face with an expression in them that caused him to remain as if cast in marble whilst his heart thudded against his ribs. Then he snatched his hands away as if she was a hot brand. ‘I beg your pardon, Mistress Llewellyn!’ he said stiffly and hurried away before he gave way to the urge to taste lips the colour of raspberries that were parted as if she were holding her breath—no doubt fearing what he might do next.

  Chapter One

  France—June 1520

  A strong hot wind blew from the south and dust clung to Beth Llewellyn’s perspiring face as she pushed her way through the crowd. She wondered what event it was this time that was being performed for the entertainment of those gathered in the place that some were already naming the Eighth Wonder of the World. Many from the surrounding district and further afield had flooded into the area to witness the glittering splendour of the kings of England and France.

  Beth could hear the thud of feet on turf, wheezing of air in chests and whistling between teeth. A sudden roar from the throats of those who could see what was happening caused her to believe she might have missed the finale and she thrust herself forwards into the crowd. But no one was giving way, so she dropped to her knees and managed to worm her way between the forest of hose-clad legs, ignoring the curses and clouts that came her way.

  At last she arrived at the front, only to find herself almost eyeball to eyeball with the black-browed, hard-mouthed Sir Gawain Raventon. She could scarcely believe it was him and her pulse raced. She prayed that he was far too occupied to notice her, never mind recognise her in her male attire!

  He was obviously having difficulty breathing. Around his throat was a hairy, ham-size arm. His strong-boned, tanned face was tight with determination as his long sinewy fingers forced their way between that arm and his throat. The next moment he heaved up his body and threw off his opponent. She did not know how he managed it because it happened so swiftly: several moments later, he had the other man pinned to the ground. Then Sir Gawain sprang to his feet, eased a shoulder with a grimace before being declared the victor. His opponent stared at him sullenly as the Englishman was handed the winner’s purse, which he tossed to a young man standing a few feet away.

  Beth knew at this point that she should retreat or at the very least avert her eyes. It seemed odd that only now did she become fully aware that Sir Gawain was half-naked and, as it was the first time she had seen a man’s unclothed body, she was transfixed. His muscular chest was coated with a sheen of sweat and dark hair curled downwards in a V to the waist of his snug-fitting hose. She remembered colliding into him the first day they had met and felt a similar sensation at the core of her being that sent heat darting through her. Having a need to cool off, Beth reached for the laces at the throat of her tunic. She should never have made that move because it drew Sir Gawain’s attention to her. Hastily, she attempted to back away, but he was too swift for her and dragged her upright.

  ‘Who have we here?’ he growled, lifting her off her feet.

  Beth gripped the opening at the throat of her tunic in an attempt to bring the two edges together, only to get her hand jammed between his chest and her breasts. She gasped with pain.

  ‘That was a rather foolish move,’ he said, loosening his grip slightly so her hand could slide free, his penetrating blue eyes scanning her face. His orbs turned into dark slits. ‘We’ve met before.’

  ‘No, we have not,’ lied Beth, shaking her head vigorously.

  That was her second mistake for the action dislodged her cap, freeing her bronze-coloured braids. ‘By Saint George,’ he muttered. ‘It can’t be!’

  There came a sudden roar from behind him, causing her eyes to widen. ‘Look out!’ she cried.

  Gawain dropped her and turned to face his disgruntled former opponent.

  Beth scrambled to her feet, scooped up her cap and made her escape. She forced her way through the crowd, stuffing her hair beneath her cap as she went, praying that Sir Gawain had been unable to put a name to her face. Yesterday, she had watched him at the joust and he had been clad in armour from head to toe. She remembered imagining that beneath all that gilt-and-silver metal was a finely honed body.

  But what was she thinking of, bothering her head with such thoughts? She must make haste to reach her father’s tent, not only to change her garb, but also to write down what she had just seen whilst it was fresh in her mind. Hopefully, when she returned home, her words would be read in the news sheet for the rising merchant-and-artisan class back in London that she printed secretly. Her father had scanned its pages recently and shaken his hoary head as if in disbelief. If he had known she was now its author, he would have soon put a stop to it and forbidden her access to the print room. She despaired when she thought of his lack of foresight. Why could he not see that, since the invention of the printing press, the numbers of those learning to read had increased enormously? She remembered Jonathan saying that they were greedy for anything they could get their hands on and not all of it educational or religious. Beth was determined to continue to provide for that market, despite her half-brother’s death, by writing about such events as this one and in the process making money for herself. She felt it was what Jonathan would have wanted.

  Words buzzed in her head. He was a giant of a man, six feet or more and
broad in the shoulder. He held himself well, with a sort of easy, well-knit movement that spoke of training and perfect physical fitness.

  Beth relived that moment when Sir Gawain had flung his opponent to the ground. Never had she met a man who had made her so aware of the beauty of the male physique: its form, its strength, its grace. She had admired his skill with the lance and sword yesterday, but today he had used his body as a weapon in a way that had been utterly thrilling. She might have told her father that she did not wish to marry, but it was not because she had a dislike of men.

  Her father would be horrified if it came to his ears that she had attended a wrestling match dressed in male attire. Jonathan would have pretended to be so, too, but in reality he’d have been amused because he’d secretly enjoyed cross-dressing himself. She had discovered that fact several years ago and mentioned it to her mother, but she had been hushed and told to keep it to herself. A sigh escaped her. Beth had been extremely fond of Jonathan despite his being their father’s favourite. The son who was supposedly so much cleverer than her and who would have inherited the business if he had not died so unexpectedly. Poor Jonathan!

  ‘Mistress Llewellyn!’ called a voice that she recognised.

  Beth’s heart leapt and her step faltered, but then she put on a spurt, knowing it was best that she appeared not to own to that name. In her haste she did not see the guy rope of a nearby tent and was sent sprawling on the ground.

  Before she could scramble to her feet, she was hauled upright. Her eyes were parallel with Sir Gawain’s chest and she could not help but notice that his doublet was unfastened and the ties of his shirt hung loose, exposing his bare throat. She fought back a temptation to reach up and touch his bare skin and struggled in his grasp.

  Before she could gather her wits and act as if she had never seen him before, he removed her cap, causing her braids to once more tumble down her back.