Inner muscles clenched as she watched him. She was conscious of a sense of discomfort. Not physical discomfort—that had gone. It was—she struggled to identify it—it was entirely different to physical pain.
Was it the pain of wanting something that was not hers? If so, it should be easy to ignore. Over the years she had had enough practice at ignoring her wants. Was it yearning? The answer lay out of reach. There was only this man moving above her. Wanting her. Enjoying her. His face was rapt and it wasn’t because she was a slave who he thought was his for the taking. Arthur wanted her for herself.
‘Clare.’ His breath was coming fast, his musky scent surrounded her.
‘Mon Dieu!’ His groan was tortured. He withdrew from her body, spilling his seed not in her, but in his tunic. The sight of his face, torn between rapture and agony, twisted her heart.
He collapsed against her. ‘Sorry, Clare,’ he mumbled against her neck. ‘That was too quick.’
She kissed a broad shoulder, enjoying his scent. ‘I had my pleasure.’
‘I know, but...’ he shifted his head and she saw his mouth curve into a warm smile ‘...I meant for you to have it again. No matter, there is always later.’
His head fell back against her breast and his breathing began to steady.
‘Later,’ Clare murmured. ‘That sounds interesting.’
She wove her fingers through his hair, and her heart squeezed. She had no regrets. Tonight, Arthur had wanted her as she wanted him. With luck, he would be hers for the rest of the journey. Although...thinking about the other places they would be staying, none would be as convenient as this one. Ivo by the fire in the chamber below; the warmth of their beds by the chimney; the lack of other travellers...
‘Arthur?’
‘Mmm?’
She kissed his cheek. ‘You do realise that Ivo might not be well enough to travel for some days?’
The mattress creaked as he leaned up on one elbow. ‘Oh?’
‘We might have to stay at St Peter’s for a while.’
He tipped his head on one side. A wicked, toe-curling smile told her that he’d understood what she was saying. ‘Is that so?’
She fixed her eyes on the silver unicorn and nodded. ‘Yes, before we resume our journey, we really ought to make sure Ivo doesn’t have the lung fever.’
* * *
Arthur awoke at daybreak with a smile on his face. His arms were full of warm, sleeping woman and bright hair, fragrant with lavender, cloaked his chest. In complete contrast, the air in the lodge dormitory was frigid. His breath puffed out like white smoke. Reaching out, he laid a hand on the chimney breast. It was stone-cold. The fire below had gone out.
Easing away from Clare, he reached for his pack and found his warmest tunic. The one he had worn yesterday—he felt his face soften as he glanced at her—would have to be washed. He hadn’t planned to join with her, but her request had caught him off guard. His body had been in charge and he’d been inside her before he could stop himself. As he picked up his tunic and screwed it into a bundle for Ivo to deal with when he was recovered, a mark in the fabric caught his eye. It was faintly pink.
Blood?
He stared blankly at it. Then his stomach dropped away and he shifted his gaze back to the sleeping girl. Once again, she had kept things from him. Self-loathing burned in his gut. She had been innocent. What had he done?
‘Clare? Clare!’
She murmured and flung out an arm. ‘Mmm?’ She opened her eyes and clutched the blanket to her breast. ‘Holy Mother, are the monks upon us?’
‘No, it’s not the monks.’ Tunic in hand, he dropped to his knees by the pallet. ‘You didn’t tell me. Why in hell didn’t you tell me?’
She yawned and adjusted the blankets. ‘Tell you what?’
Her voice was husky, and even though Arthur was hurt—no, not hurt, angry—it made him want to kiss her. It made him want to climb back under that blanket with her and continue where they had left off last night. But Clare was still more than half-asleep and it was wounding to discover that just when he was beginning to think she was learning to like him, he should find something else that she had not told him.
‘You should have told me.’
She looked sleepily at him. ‘Told you what?’
‘Look.’ He shook out his tunic and pointed at the stain. ‘Virgin blood.’
Hot colour rushed into her cheeks and her eyes searched his. ‘It makes a difference?’
‘Of course it makes a difference! I should have known. I should not have taken you. I might have noticed, except all I could think was that I must remember to withdraw so that you would not get with child. I should not have taken you.’ Tossing the tunic aside, he shoved back his hair. ‘I must have hurt you.’
A small hand emerged from under the blanket and rested soothingly on his arm. ‘The pain was nothing, it didn’t last. You didn’t hurt me. Arthur, you have to know that.’
He hesitated, studying her. Both her tone and expression were earnest, but he hated that she hadn’t told him. ‘I might have hurt you.’
‘You didn’t.’ She smiled and gently touched his cheek. ‘Arthur, you know we...we...’ her flush deepened ‘...you joined with me several times last night and each time we both found pleasure.’
‘I shall have to speak to Count Myrrdin when we reach Fontaine.’
Her eyes widened. ‘You will tell him?’ She shook her head and her hair went flying. ‘Arthur, please don’t.’
‘Why not? I want to marry you. I told you as much when we arrived here. Lord, Clare, I thought you were experienced, but you weren’t.’ He glanced at the tunic. ‘I’ve had your maidenhead and I am honour-bound to speak to your father. Clare, I have to offer for you.’
Arthur leaned back on his haunches, and watched her like a hawk, alert for the slightest change of expression. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. She was a surprising and unusual woman. He certainly wasn’t expecting her to snatch her hand from him as though he had scorched her.
Her eyebrows snapped together. ‘No.’
‘No?’ Her vehemence was galling. If Clare had been brought up as a noblewoman, her response would have been understandable. But she hadn’t been bred to look down on ordinary folk. She had lived in a foreign land, where God only knew what her life had been like, but it hadn’t been a life of luxury. Like him, she was illegitimate. And it wasn’t as though he were a peasant, he had clawed his way up to knighthood.
I am a knight. Illegitimate, yes, but I am her equal.
‘Whatever happens at Fontaine, I don’t want you to speak to Count Myrrdin.’
Arthur clenched his jaw. ‘I am sorry if it displeases you, Clare, but I will speak to him. I have dishonoured you and—’
A sharp laugh cut him off. ‘You have dishonoured me? That’s ridiculous! You did me great honour, if you could but see it. Arthur, I wanted you. You wanted me.’
‘It’s not that simple...’
She sighed and her breasts lifted, Arthur kept his gaze on her face.
‘Arthur, this is exactly what I was afraid of. You feel beholden.’ Her mouth firmed. ‘There is no need, none whatsoever, to speak to Count Myrrdin. Besides, I would never accept you.’
‘Never?’ Arthur pushed to his feet. He had never felt so confused in his life. ‘You like me.’ It wasn’t a question nor was it arrogance. He knew Clare liked him. In truth, he hoped she felt more than that. He certainly felt more for her. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was he felt—conflicted certainly—his insides had twisted into a thousand tangles. He looked bleakly at her—eyes, hair, mouth...
They were arguing and he still wanted her. He wanted to join with her again and he wanted to marry her. He certainly didn’t want her to marry anyone else. ‘You never joined with Geoffrey, you gave me your maidenhead, that
must count for something.’
‘It does. Arthur, of course I like you,’ she said, eyes soft.
‘Why not marry me? If you don’t, the chances are that Count Myrrdin will find you another husband and you might not warm to him.’
‘Since we don’t know what Count Myrrdin will say when he meets me, this whole conversation is irrelevant. And I might add that I find the idea of marriage abhorrent.’
He felt as though she had slapped him in the face. ‘Abhorrent?’
Her eyes drifted past him. She was staring at the window slit. ‘Marriage is a form of slavery.’
‘Slavery?’ Arthur was going to say more, but when he saw how her hands were twisting together on top of the blanket, he paused. He could see the whites of her knuckles. Slavery. His eyes narrowed and before he knew it he was back at the pallet, kneeling at her side. He covered her hands with his and, when those intriguing eyes looked his way, he smiled. ‘Never mind. Clare, I don’t wish to quarrel.’
She returned his smile, but it seemed to him that there was sadness behind it. ‘Nor do I. Arthur, please don’t feel beholden. I really don’t want you to feel beholden.’
‘Very well, I won’t.’ He grinned and bent to kiss her. The eagerness of her response, the way she gripped his shoulders and kissed him back, the way her tongue slid along his, loosed some of the knots. Unfortunately, as the scent of lavender began winding through his senses and the blanket fell from her breasts, the harder it was to remember what he’d been about to say.
He pulled back and stared at her. What was it about this girl? One kiss and he was utterly dazed. Gabrielle, for all her expertise, hadn’t half her power. He cleared his throat. ‘I give you fair warning, I shall spend the rest of the journey trying to bring you round to my way of thinking.’
She laughed, and this time there was warmth in the sound. ‘That sounds intriguing, but I give you fair warning—I shan’t be swayed. Marriage isn’t for me.’
Dropping a last kiss on her mouth, refusing the urge to linger, he forced himself to his feet. ‘In the meantime, I’m going to see how Ivo is faring.’
‘I’ll follow shortly.’
Chapter Nine
They remained at St Peter’s for four more days, and for three of them it snowed. The sky was the colour of pewter and snow blew into the monastery cloisters. The monks shovelled it out again, but no sooner had they done so than the wind blew it back. The fish pond froze.
Over the four days, Ivo regained his strength. Fortunately, it was soon clear that he didn’t have the lung fever, he had merely caught a bad chill.
Since snow made the roads impassable, Arthur and Clare had the lodge dormitory wholly to themselves. Clare was determined not to argue. She wanted to make the most of her time with Arthur. She wouldn’t marry him, she wouldn’t marry anyone. If anyone tried to force her into it, she would run away. She’d run before, she could do so again. At a pinch, she could always take refuge in a convent.
‘No, no, Ivo,’ Arthur said each night as Ivo rather croakily enquired if he should join them upstairs. ‘You must rest where it’s warmest. By the fire.’
On those four nights Arthur had laid siege to Clare’s senses.
‘If the good brothers knew what we were doing, they would be horrified,’ Clare said on the third night. She and Arthur had retired far earlier than necessary. ‘It’s not dark yet!’
‘And we are not married,’ Arthur said, with a sly grin.
She pulled back, frowning. ‘Arthur, I am warning you...there must be no mention of marriage.’ However much she liked this man, she could never forget her mistress, beaten almost daily by her beast of a husband. A wife was subject to the authority of her husband. Never again would Clare be subject to anyone.
‘We’ll see.’ Arthur bent assiduously over the lacings of her gown and drew it over her head. ‘I shall win you yet.’
Clare was tempted to agree as she lifted his tunic over his head and placed her hands on the warmth of his magnificent chest. Leaning forwards, she kissed the short curls at the centre and couldn’t resist running her nose gently against them. Arthur moaned. She loved the shape of him, his chest especially. She could worship his chest. Those wide shoulders, the way that toned, muscled torso tapered down to that slim waist.
On the fourth night in the monastery, Clare came to the conclusion that she had been wrong about Arthur’s chest. It was his buttocks she loved most. She loved to slide her hands down the curve of them whilst they were making love. She relished their strength as he moved over her, over her and in her. They, too, tempted her to change her mind...
On the fifth night, she was seduced by his eyes. The way they darkened almost to black as, curious as to how he would react, she had skipped laughingly out of his reach and lingered over undressing. She loved the intensity of his focus as a large hand reached out and pulled her impatiently to him. She loved the way his gaze never left her, whatever she did. She loved the way those thick eyelashes lowered and the way he groaned when she reached for him.
‘Arthur, Arthur,’ she murmured.
‘Ma mie.’
The one thing she did not love was the abrupt way he pulled out of her each time he reached his pleasure. She tried to tell herself it was foolish thinking like that, but it didn’t seem to help. She watched his face as he did it and she could see it pained him.
As he had promised, Arthur was taking care not to give her a child. Neither of them wanted one. Yet each time he withdrew, Clare flinched and guilt ate away at her. She could tell he didn’t like having to pull out of her like that. Arthur was giving her more pleasure than she was giving him.
It didn’t seem right.
* * *
On the morning after the thaw, Ivo had insisted he was well enough for them to continue their journey.
They stayed at inns, at manors and castles, but the opportunity for intimacy with Arthur was over. Clare found herself regretting their departure from the monastery more than she had expected. As their journey progressed, a heavy weight seemed to take the place of her heart. It got heavier by the day.
Arthur was keeping his distance and it felt wrong. It made her miserable. She found herself glancing sidelong at him as they rode. He rarely returned her glance and, whilst she knew that was only sensible, that he was trying to protect her reputation, it cut her to the quick. It seemed that since they had left St Peter’s, Arthur had forgotten he had ever wanted her. From his manner, no one would guess they had been lovers. Did Ivo suspect? She had no idea.
Arthur seemed to have no difficulties keeping her at arm’s length. Indeed, he went out of his way to make it plain that his desire for her had vanished along with the snow.
He was polite. ‘Ma demoiselle, are you able to ride a little further today?’
‘I think so.’
He was heart-wrenchingly formal. ‘Ma demoiselle, are you warm enough?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
They entered Brittany and the road snaked through a great forest. Leafless branches dripped with moisture. Robins and blackbirds pecked about in dead leaves. Once, a distant howl had the hairs rising on the back of her neck.
Her eyes went wide. ‘Is that a wolf?’
Arthur nodded, his eyes firmly fastened on the road ahead. ‘Never fear, wolves won’t approach in daylight, and when the light fades we shall have reached our lodgings. Ma demoiselle, in the morning we will reach the edge of Count Myrrdin’s estate. You will be glad to hear that by nightfall tomorrow you will be at Fontaine Castle.’
Clare stared at his profile, absently rubbing her breastbone. He spoke so coolly. Had she imagined the heat in his eyes? There was none there now—he wouldn’t even look at her. Had she imagined his lips softening as he had watched her dancing about the dormitory? It seemed almost as though she had dreamed their time together.
/> Her eyes stung. He had satisfied his lusts and she was obviously to be forgotten. That talk about wishing to marry her—it must have been part of his seduction. She’d been a fool to think he cared.
Blinking rapidly, Clare stiffened her spine and told herself she should be pleased. If Arthur wanted to forget their liaison, that was fine by her. She’d always hated the thought of marriage, in any case. She found herself following his gaze and smiled sadly at the horizon.
It had flattered her to think that this great knight had wanted her. It had flattered her to think that he would ask for her hand, even though she had vowed never to marry.
She was doubly a fool. Her heart felt like lead because the knight she had refused was no longer interested in her. Really she should be rejoicing. If Arthur no longer desired her, he would not be soliciting her father for her hand. There would be no embarrassing revelations at Fontaine.
Good. Good.
She would feel better after she had met Count Myrrdin. She could hardly feel worse than she did now.
* * *
Arthur couldn’t wait to reach Fontaine. Clare had refused him, she wouldn’t even let him mention marriage. He watched her out of the corner of his eye—his thoughts were going round in circles. Riding at his side was the most responsive woman in the world and she wouldn’t discuss marriage.
Why? Was it his lack of lands? Was she hoping that Count Myrrdin might find her a nobleman? Someone to erase the shame of her illegitimacy?
He swore under his breath. What they had together was so rare. She’d been innocent, so she couldn’t know. But she’d felt perfect—the warmth of her mouth, the way her muscles tightened about him, the scent of her arousal. Stupid woman.
Mon Dieu, when he’d left Troyes he’d known that the journey would be a trial, but he’d been worrying about the state of the roads. He’d never realised this elfin girl would be testing him beyond his endurance. She will change her mind about marrying me. She must.
When he got to Fontaine, he would speak to Count Myrrdin. In the meantime, he would treat her with the greatest respect. It went against every instinct to hold himself back from her, but he could do it. No one must guess what had passed between them.
Unveiling Lady Clare Page 13
