Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  Instantly, she was stiff as a board. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Easing the pressure on your scalp.’ He frowned and gently probed his way through her hair without completely unravelling her plait. It was thick and soft as silk. Arthur was close enough to identify that scent—lavender. Releasing her—her tension hadn’t eased and he didn’t like to think that she found his touch distasteful—he lifted his hands away and leaned back on his haunches. ‘There’s no blood and I can’t see any bruising. You’ll survive.’

  ‘No thanks to you.’

  Rising, he offered her his hand to draw her to her feet.

  It hadn’t been his fault. Somehow, conveniently, Clare had evaded a conversation she found difficult by goading that slug of a mare into a trot. However, there was nothing to be gained by challenging her on the point. They were no longer in Champagne, but they hadn’t entered Normandy yet, never mind Brittany—he had plenty of time to win her trust and draw the truth out of her.

  That elfin face was turned his way. The wind was playing with her hair, lifting the bright strands from her plait, twisting it into long curls. Arthur cleared his throat. ‘My apologies, your hair...’

  She didn’t move. Time seemed to slow. Arthur’s senses sharpened. Overhead, a rook cawed. Steel shuffled and stamped. Clare was looking at his mouth—he wasn’t mistaken, she really was looking at his mouth—and licked her lips. It was as though she was thinking about kissing him. He was certainly thinking about kissing her, even though kissing this woman should be the last thing on his mind. She had been entrusted to his care—he mustn’t take advantage of her.

  Recalling the way she had frozen when he had examined her scalp did the trick. He moved away. It was just as well he did, for Ivo had caught Swift and was already ambling back towards them.

  Clare tidied her hair. She was shaking. It had been a serious error of judgement to goad Swift into a trot, but Arthur’s questions had unnerved her. And then she had compounded matters by pretending to hit her head. Her stomach twisted. What else could she have done? She was desperate to prevent him from realising that she had links with slavers rather than thieves. Unfortunately, her ruse seemed to have failed. He was more suspicious than ever.

  She felt utterly confused. She had never met anyone like him—the feelings his fingers had evoked in her as he had parted her hair had been beyond her experience. Arthur had careful, gentle fingers. Who would have thought so large a man—a knight—would have it in him to be so delicate? She’d actually enjoyed his touch, she wouldn’t have minded if he’d prolonged the contact. It was most unsettling.

  She gave him a sidelong glance. Those dark, watchful eyes rarely left her. He would, she was sure, mention the thieves again. He seemed convinced she was in league with them.

  Clare’s left buttock throbbed—it had been her bottom, rather than her head, that had landed on the stone. Frowning, she wriggled and resisted the temptation to rub the pain away. She would be bruised for certain. Not that she would admit that.

  Shaking out her skirts, her hand caught in the fabric. She glanced down—there was a jagged rip in her gown and her knee was poking through. Stooping, she pleated the fabric together with her fingers. It would be impossible to ride with any decency, her thigh would be on view the entire way.

  She glanced warily at Arthur. She hadn’t missed the heat in his brown eyes, he’d been staring at her mouth. He was attracted to her. Normally, she went out of her way to avoid attracting attention of any sort from men. What had happened with Sandro had put her off for life. However, she didn’t think Arthur would force his attentions on a woman. This was a man of honour.

  Her heart thumped. It was most odd, but the thought that Arthur might be attracted to her wasn’t as worrying as she would have expected. It was actually quite...enlivening. Not that she’d ever act on it. In a way, it was a pity her experience with men was so limited. If she were more experienced, more confident, she might build on that attraction—she might use it as a means of distracting him from awkward conversations. However, she wasn’t at all confident. And she certainly didn’t want him to see the rip in her gown.

  Swallowing hard, gripping the edges of her skirt together, she hobbled thoughtfully towards him. Arthur is an honourable man, Captain of the Guardians. He would never force himself on a woman. I can trust him. None the less, she kept a firm hold on her skirt.

  She felt herself frown. Falling off Swift had been something of a disaster—she had a tear in her gown and Arthur would soon return to his questions. She’d have to think of other ways to avoid them, because he mustn’t learn the real reason for her flight from Troyes. It was bad enough that he should think her hand in glove with thieves, but if he found out her real secret, she would die of shame.

  She needed to know he valued her as a friend before she entrusted him with that particular secret. And the day would never dawn when she would be ready to confess to the Captain of the Guardian Knights that she’d been accused of attempted murder.

  ‘Clare, we’d best make haste,’ he was saying. ‘The days are too short for lengthy delays and there’s some way to go before we reach the next town.’

  ‘Will there be a market there?’ she asked, catching her breath as he reached for her and set her back on Swift. Deftly, she arranged her skirts to keep the rip hidden. It wasn’t easy, the fabric kept gaping. Hunching slightly in the saddle, she pressed her fingers against the tear.

  ‘We will arrive too late for any market—’ He broke off, brown eyes narrowing. ‘Clare, are you hurt?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘You’re sitting awkwardly. And you’re not experienced enough to ride with one hand on the reins. Use both.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t?’

  ‘I...I’ve torn my gown.’ Cheeks burning, she let go of her skirt. ‘That’s why I asked about a market. It’s my only gown and—’

  ‘There’s thread in my pack,’ he said, voice curt as he frowned at the tear. ‘Ivo?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Find the thread, will you? And a needle.’

  Ivo rushed to do his bidding. To Clare’s astonishment, she found herself clinging to the pommel as Arthur himself took up the needle.

  ‘Hold still.’ Large fingers brought the edges of the fabric together on her thigh. ‘We can’t have you exposing yourself like that, it’s not seemly.’

  Not seemly? This from the man whom she had seen giving the eye to one of the women at the Black Boar? A man who made her melt inside simply by looking at her mouth?

  Arthur’s dark head bent over her thigh. He slid a hand—in a manner so matter-of-fact it was almost an insult—up the inside of her gown. He was mending her gown! And there was nothing in the least lover-like in his manner. He was all practicality. Had she imagined the heat in his eyes?

  ‘We can’t have you attracting unwanted attention,’ he said.

  Those strong fingers knew how to wield a needle. The stitches were large, but surprisingly neat. He was quick, too. And despite his matter-of-fact manner, little frissons of sensation were shooting from Clare’s thigh to her belly. ‘You have done this before.’

  He glanced up. ‘Every warrior worth his salt knows how to mend his gear. Is that not so, Ivo?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arthur’s eyes danced. ‘I wouldn’t attempt a love knot, but I know the basic stitches. My mother was an excellent seamstress.’

  ‘Oh.’ Thoughtfully, she absorbed this. Arthur’s mother had been a seamstress. With an armourer for a father and a seamstress mother, his background was far less exalted than she had imagined. But unlike her, there was no shame in his past—there was no slavery, and there were certainly no false accusations hanging over him...

  She stared at the large fingers holding the needle and her heart ached. This knight was mending her gown to spare h
er unwanted attention from strangers. She found herself remembering the warmth in the smile of the girl outside the Black Boar. He would be a wonderful lover.

  Gripping the pommel, she stared at the dark head.

  Holy Mother, what was she doing? She was imagining Sir Arthur Ferrer as her lover, she was longing to try out his kiss.

  Impossible. She never had longings like this. Not for any man.

  Chapter Six

  ‘There!’ Fastening off, Arthur drew out his dagger and cut the thread.

  Sight of the skin of Clare’s thigh had given him pause. Sad to say, his first thought had been that he wanted to see more of it. It was the colour of ivory and it was perfect. Was she perfect all over? However, the instant he had touched her, his male curiosity had turned to shame. Goosebumps, the woman was covered in goosebumps. Arthur was irritated and disappointed with himself. It seemed he had forgotten what it was to be poor. Clare had no undergown and her cloak was unlined. She must be chilled to the bone.

  ‘Thank you, Arthur.’

  ‘We won’t reach the next town in time for the market, but if it pleases you, tomorrow we can see about finding warmer clothes for you.’

  ‘I should like that, it is getting colder. And as you know, I do have money.’

  Arthur mounted and they continued up the road. ‘We can’t have you greeting the Lord of Fontaine in rags. And keep your pennies, Count Henry gave me plenty of money.’ He paused. ‘I should have thought of it before, I am sorry.’

  Whilst he had been mending that rip, Arthur had been appalled at his thoughtlessness. He’d known she had fled Troyes without a backward look. She’d left everything behind. He’d known she lived simply—of course her everyday clothes would be basic.

  Yes, she needed warmer clothing, she also needed decent clothing. Mon Dieu, she wasn’t even wearing an undergown! The threadbare nature of her cloak was obvious, he’d noticed as much when he’d found her at the Stork, how could he have forgotten? He had no excuse, particularly since he too had come from a humble background. He had—he swallowed down a sigh—allowed his irritation at being given this commission to distract him. Added to that had been the even more irritating realisation that he found her intriguing. Not to mention desirable. Which was utterly irrelevant. Clare was under his protection and he ought not to touch her.

  It was a resolution that was sorely tested at the next hostelry, the Running Fox. Arthur had been warned the place was shabby, but it was the only inn they could reach that evening. By the time they reached it, Clare looked weary. The skin beneath her eyes had a bruised look.

  The wind was raw when they arrived and they hurried in. Even though Arthur knew the inn was second-rate, he had only to cross the threshold to see that it fell far below his expectations. Inside, there was little relief from the cold. The last of the daylight was squeezing through chinks in the wattle and daub—chinks which the wind whistled through. The fire gusted with every draught. The air was thick with tallow smoke and the trestles looked as though they hadn’t been wiped for nigh on a year.

  Arthur tucked his gloves into his belt and exchanged looks with Clare. ‘This is the only inn for miles,’ he muttered. ‘I am afraid we have little choice but to stop here.’

  Clare squeezed past a couple of dull-eyed customers to get close to the fire, and held her hands towards the flames. They were blue, mottled with cold.

  ‘Lord, let me see.’ Arthur took her hands, they were like ice. When she flinched, he turned them over and saw that her palms were red. They’d been blistered by the reins. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I have spare gloves. Come to think it, so has Ivo, and his will be a better fit.’

  She gave him a quiet smile. ‘It is of no importance.’

  ‘No importance? Those blisters must hurt.’

  She looked at him in a puzzled way. ‘We can buy gloves when we reach a market.’

  Arthur couldn’t fathom her. Why had she not complained? What had her former life been like that she felt she must suffer in silence?

  She jerked her head at the flames. ‘At least there’s a fire,’ she said. ‘And it didn’t rain today.’

  Arthur could see there was no point offering to hang up the rag that passed as her cloak until she had thawed out. Leaving her by the hearth, he went to speak to the landlord. He didn’t have high hopes for the sleeping accommodation, however, they would have to make the best of what was on offer. Left to himself, he would think nothing of it, but Clare...in that thin cloak...

  It wouldn’t do to deliver her to Count Myrrdin with the lung fever.

  ‘Oh, no, sir.’ The landlord of the Running Fox had piggy eyes that peered out between folds of fat. ‘We have no sleeping loft. You and your friends will have to bed down in here, like everyone else.’ The landlord sniffed, and rubbed his fingers together. ‘If you pay a little extra, I can see you and your lady get fresh mattresses by the fire. Or...’ he smirked ‘...we have screens if you want to pay for your privacy.’

  A ladder was leaning up against a soot-blackened wall. Lifting his gaze, Arthur saw there was a loft on a platform over the main chamber. He stared pointedly at a door high in the wall. It could only be the loft door. ‘Where does that lead to?’

  The landlord scowled. ‘Up there? That’s storage, sir. There’s precious little space, it’s packed to the rafters.’

  ‘Show me.’

  With much grumbling and fuss, the ladder was unhooked from the wall and set below the door in the platform. A lantern was found. Arthur followed the landlord up. The loft was dark and cramped, and the ceiling criss-crossed with low beams. Stooping, Arthur took the lantern from the landlord and forced his way as far as he could. The way was blocked by an ancient mattress—the stuffing was spilling out of it. His nose wrinkled, the air was faintly stale. Musty.

  Arthur wrenched the mattress aside and a spider scuttled into the shadows. Behind the mattress there was an assortment of worm-eaten packing crates; a pile of broken pots; a rusty spade head; and a couple of bill hooks. An aged wine barrel sagged under the eaves. He poked it with his foot and felt it give. He could think of no reason why an old barrel should have been carried up here. Like everything else, it was only fit for the fire. However, the roof looked sound enough, there were no gaps in the underside of the thatch. And it was warmer in the loft than it was below.

  ‘This will do. If these are shifted to the side...’ Arthur waved at the packing crates ‘...there’s floor space for two. I shall sleep here with the lady. My squire will sleep in your main chamber.’

  ‘But, sir...’

  As he climbed down the ladder, Arthur listened to the man’s objections with half an ear. He was determined to get Clare on her own. He wanted her on her own, not because he found her attractive—no, he wanted her on her own because the more he got to know her, the more she intrigued him. He sensed dark mysteries, mysteries that, as Captain of the Guardians, he was honour-bound to explore. He was sure he could get her to open up to him, if he only he could speak privately with her.

  He would swear that Clare had information that would prove useful when he returned to Troyes.

  He let out a breath. He had enough self-awareness to know there was more to it than the suspicion that Clare could help him cleanse the outlaw-infested highways of Champagne. Irritatingly, he was curious about aspects of her life that were not his concern. He couldn’t help wonder about her relationship with Geoffrey. Had it been as innocent as she claimed? Had they been lovers? Friends? Where had she come from before she had met Geoffrey? Where had she lived?

  And—Arthur was certain the answer to these questions would be the most telling—if she proved to be Count Myrrdin’s daughter, why had she left Fontaine in the first place? How could she be so ignorant of her lineage?

  She’s Count Myrrdin’s daughter, I know it.

  Unfortunately, this convictio
n simply led him deeper into the mystery surrounding her. Something extraordinary must have happened to separate her from Count Myrrdin. If her father had been anyone else, Arthur might have suspected him of finding a way to rid himself of an unwanted, baseborn child. But not Count Myrrdin. Not the most honourable man in all Brittany. For Clare to have no clue as to her sire’s identity, she must have been taken from Fontaine when she was an infant. All babies were born with blue eyes, but they soon changed. And Clare’s eyes—one glance and anyone in the Duchy would suspect Count Myrrdin of being her father.

  The woman was hedged about by mystery. And when she had deliberately and oh-so-innocently fallen from that pony rather than answer his questions, his curiosity had only grown. Well, two could play at that game. She was half-frozen, and that was largely his fault. He was going to—oh-so-innocently—make amends. If they slept together in the loft, he could make sure she was properly warm. More importantly, with only him up there, she wouldn’t be able to evade his questions...

  ‘The loft is fine,’ he said, glancing across at Clare as he pressed silver into the landlord’s palm. ‘I would like it cleared and properly swept by the time we have eaten. Fresh mattresses, mind.’

  The piggy eyes brightened at sight of the coins and the grumbling stopped. ‘Yes, sir. All shall be as you wish, sir.’

  ‘We should like wine and ale, and we’ll sup by the fire.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Arthur joined Clare and they found a table near the fire. He smiled blandly at her even as he wondered how she would react when he informed her she would be sleeping alone with him. He would tread softly, she was wary of men. She had pushed back her hood and her hair, that unruly hair that he ached to see loose, glowed about her like a nimbus.

  ‘You are feeling warmer?’ Lightly, he touched her hand.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Ivo joined them. Carefully, eyes downcast, Clare slid her hand from his.