by Jo Beverley
No, there it was again. Sheep.
Or a rabbit from the warren.
Would a rabbit squelch?
Hobgoblin? Or worse …
She couldn’t bear it. Slowly, she eased her head to the side to peer. A huge, dark shape blocked the sky, leaned down—
At the first touch, she tried madly to scramble away. A hand grasped the back of her clothes and stopped her. Before she could scream, she was lifted straight out of the mud and tossed over a massive shoulder like a bundle of old rags.
The wolf!
In terror, she kicked and pounded at his back.
A hard, stinging slap to her behind made her go still, but terror still choked her. What would he do to her?
At the portal gate, he virtually dropped her. “Through.”
This was no time to argue. Claire scuttled through then turned to watch him crawl through after her. The tight squeeze didn’t ease her fear. Two of the castle servants stood nearby bearing torches, but they wouldn’t help her. They were staring at her as if she were a monster at a fair.
His squire—her guard—came through after de Lisle and gave her a disgusted look. Would he be beaten, too?
Claire straightened her spine and tried to pretend that she wasn’t mud-covered, stinking, and terrified.
De Lisle seized her arm and dragged her toward the hall. She didn’t protest. She was potently aware that he could crush her flesh down to the bone. It was dawning on her, moreover, that she’d failed. She might have to marry this man, the one with midnight in his soul.
He stopped, and they weren’t at the hall yet.
Looking around wildly, Claire saw that they were by the well. Was he going to drown her?
“Josce, pull up some water.”
She stared at him, nearly beyond rational thought. “What are you going to do?”
“Clean you up, you stupid woman.”
“I’ll bathe—”
“You’re too filthy for a bath. And after chasing you, so am I.” He took the bucket from his squire and poured water over her.
She cried out in the icy deluge, but when she tried to run, he grabbed her hair. In moments another bucketful sluiced over her and her teeth started to chatter.
“No more,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t punishment.” He turned her roughly, shaking his head. “Go on, then. Your women should be ready by now. Don’t touch anything until you’re stripped and washed.”
Claire was almost too dazed to make sense of his words, but she grasped that she had a reprieve. She fled for the safety of the hall.
Prissy was waiting for her, still half asleep, but awake enough to shriek at the sight. “Lady Claire! What now?”
She was hustled to the kitchen and a tub. Claire had to accept that stripping off her ruined clothes and sinking into the warm, herb-scented water was not the most terrible thing that had happened to her in her life.
But as she scrubbed she cried.
She cried because she’d failed and she knew he’d never give her another chance to escape.
She also cried from fear because he’d implied that punishment was still to come. In her gentle father’s house, punishment was rare and mild. She’d heard stories, though, and the thought of that blow to her behind combined with his wide leather belt set her to trembling.
It was fear that kept her in the water long after it had cooled. In the end, Prissy held out a towel. “Come on, Lady Claire. You’ll wrinkle like a summer apple if you stay in there much longer!”
Claire had to stand into the large, warm drying cloth. Too soon, she was in a clean shift. “I only need a blanket to wrap round me while I go to my room, Prissy.”
The maid gave her a strange look. “If you want, lady. But he’s waiting to speak to you.”
“Now?” It came out as a squeak, so she cleared her throat and repeated it. “Now?”
“Yes, now. And if you ask me, he’s the patience of a saint. You running out like that. I don’t know what you were thinking of …”
Claire let the lecture wash over her.
Now.
He was waiting for her now, doubtless growing angrier by the moment.
“Hurry up, Prissy!”
The maid had brought some of her best garments—a fine, cream linen kirtle and a pale green tunic worked in cream and pink flowers. Claire was too weary and frightened to protest. And in truth perhaps a bit of prettiness might be wise. It might weaken his rage.
She was seriously regretting her hair.
It took all Claire’s courage to enter the passageway to the hall. She hoped he couldn’t hear her teeth chattering.
He waited in the shadows, mighty arms folded across massive chest, frowning darkly into nothingness. At some sound she made, he straightened, instantly lethal. A squeak of panic escaped and Claire stepped back.
He relaxed and his eyes traveled over her once quickly, then again a great deal more slowly. “I was right. You do improve with cleaning.”
All the tastier for my big, white teeth. She decided silence was safer, especially since she wasn’t sure she could be coherent.
With a slight jerk of his head, he said, “The office,” clearly ordering her to lead the way.
Claire was glad to obey. If she could keep her back straight, he might not know about her fear. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her tremble.
She hadn’t counted, however, on how her father’s special room would affect her. She and he had spent so much time here.
Someone had lit the tall standard candle. Despite the fact that this man had used the room, claimed it as his own, in the warm glow it looked as if her father had just stepped out.
His rabbit fur still lay draped across a bench, waiting for his hand. Claire remembered snuggling under that fur with him on winter days as he taught her to read.
Most of his books were out of sight, locked in the chests which were themselves works of art. One book, however, lay open on his lectern. He’d risen from reading it and ridden off to rebellion, and she’d left it that way, waiting for his return.
The rich hangings stirred under a breeze from the open shutters as if the room sighed.
Claire covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hold back the pain that swelled from her chest, burned around her eyes …
She didn’t want …
She couldn’t …
It burst free.
There was something big and strong to cry into, to beat against, to fight as she spilled out her agony of loss. She raged against fate, against heaven, and against the usurping King of England who’d proved to be such a false friend.
When she realized it was Renald de Lisle she cried into, she pushed away, backed away, scrubbing her face free of the betraying tears. Ah, Jesu, he was the last man she wanted to see her like this!
Turning away, she squeezed her hands together, sucking in deep breaths, fighting the battle for control. When she thought she could speak, she faced him. “So …” It came out hoarsely and she cleared her throat. “So, what are you going to do with me?”
He studied her thoughtfully, all burnished angles and dark shadows. “It seems that I’m going to marry you, Lady Claire.”
She shook her head. “Not that. How are you going to punish me?”
The silence stretched. Her teeth started chattering again and she couldn’t stop them.
He suddenly shook his head. “I don’t care for minor thrashings, Lady Claire. I’ll keep a tally of your crimes until I think you deserve a really good one.” He looked around the room. “Your father had many books. Do you, too, enjoy reading?”
Bewildered, but beginning to think she’d keep a whole skin, she said, “Yes.”
“I’ll have them moved to the solar for your use when we are wed.”
“But you—”
“I am scarce able to pick out words, my lady. They are no use to me. But if you’ve read them,” he added, a sudden edge to his voice, “I’d expect a little more w
isdom. What, by the cross, did you think you were doing?”
She scrabbled for a story, but in the end could only tell the truth. “I wanted to speak to Felice.”
His brows rose. “And for that you crawled through the ditch?”
“I was desperate.”
“Why?”
Nerves jumping again, she gabbled, “I hoped to persuade my aunt to marry you, Lord Renald. She’s desperate enough …”
She dried up, hearing how insulting she sounded.
She should have known not to be concerned about sensitive feelings. It bounced right off him. In fact, she thought she saw a flicker of light in his eyes. “An enthusiastic wife is certainly an attraction. She’ll be more willing than you?”
She hadn’t considered persuading him of the advantages. “I’m sure of it! She’s keen to marry, and she’d like such a one as you—a man high in the king’s favor.” It was an excellent time to give him some hints of how to please Felice. “She was fearful, my lord, and at first impression, you are a little daunting. But I’m sure you could assure her …”
His brows rose. “Perhaps I really am daunting, Lady Claire.”
“Oh no, I’m sure that—” Claire broke off, for she was not sure of any such thing. “I’m sure you can’t be as bad as—” That was even worse. His brows were up again, but that predatory humor twitched his lips.
Just like a wolf eyeing a trapped rabbit.
Claire sucked in a breath. “If you can show Felice how kind and gentle you can be, my lord, she will be willing, I’m sure.”
“Kind and gentle.” He raised a hand and rubbed those troubling lips with a knuckle. “I see. But why should I want the Lady Felice as wife?”
“She is very beautiful. Perhaps you couldn’t quite see that in the rain.” Claire dug in her mind. “And gifted at music. She’s also an excellent manager. Very frugal.”
A true smile flickered, and Claire was astonished to feel a tiny flare of regret, a suspicion that there might be something about this man worth discovering.
The smile touched his dark eyes. “Are you reconsidering, Lady Claire?”
“No!” She stamped on the folly.
Despite the smile, he lived his life in midnight shades, stained with blood. He had chosen violence as his life. He was a killer with no interest in arts and beauty. He had come here to seize all her father’s possessions, the most valuable of which he couldn’t appreciate at all.
The smile disappeared. “Lady Felice seems prideful and sharp of tongue. I may be slow to anger, but I will not take insolence.”
“Felice would not be insolent exactly. She just … just likes to express her opinions.”
“And you do not?”
Even on short acquaintance, he must know that wasn’t true. “My opinions are more moderate, Lord Renald.”
“Are they, indeed? But if we marry, you would be meek and dutiful?”
Claire didn’t like the direction of the conversation. “Felice is much better suited to be your wife, my lord. She’s the oldest, you know.”
“Lady Felice, however, does not want to be my wife. In the few words we exchanged, she was even less flattering than you. I seem to remember something about low birth and manners.”
“She was frightened, my lord, that’s all. We all were. Now she’s had time to think, when she really meets you …”
His brows rose again. “But you have truly met me, demoiselle, and seem desperate to escape.”
Cheeks that showed every touch of embarrassment were a great nuisance. Claire tried pure honesty. “I have a particular feeling about violence, my lord. About men who make violence their life. If I marry, I will choose a man of peace.”
“It’s rather hard to marry a monk.”
“My father was not a monk!”
“Your father was unique,” he said flatly, “and died too young.”
“He would not have died young if—”
“If he’d taken the trouble to train for war?” de Lisle offered, but the look in his eyes told her he knew that wasn’t what she’d been about to say. That he’d have been safe if Henry Beauclerk hadn’t stolen the crown.
Claire turned away from the tormenting man. “Please, my lord, let me at least write to Felice. I’m sure I can persuade her that there are many advantages to being your wife.”
“Why not list them for me? They sound like pleasant hearing.”
She ignored that frivolity, and waited for a reply.
“Very well.”
She turned back to study him warily.
“Write it now.” He indicated the parchment and inks on her desk. “I will have it sent to the camp and your aunt awoken so she can read it.” He moved the tall standard candle to provide light.
In a strange way, that little thing settled it. Claire could hardly move the heavy iron object, yet he lifted it one-handed and set it down by the desk with perfect control. That proof of what he was entirely wiped out an intriguing smile and a sense of mystery.
She sat at the desk and chose a scrap of vellum, considering her words. Then she wrote the arguments she’d prepared in her mind. She read it over and didn’t find it very persuasive. It seemed to be largely negatives. What positives would Felice want in her “great man”?
Claire wrote that he was handsome and seemed healthy. Desperate to snare her aunt’s interest, she expanded upon that a bit. She even mentioned his smile.
It still didn’t seem enough.
She knew Felice was very interested in bed matters but had a fear of big men. Big in certain parts. Some story or other had convinced her that slim-hipped women risked being torn in the marriage bed. She’d often embarrassed Claire by eyeing men’s crotches and trying to assess their size, and her desire for a “great” man who was not also “big” had made her search for a husband even more difficult. Though she hated to, Claire speculated on such matters.
Thanks be to God that he couldn’t read!
She went over what she’d wrote, guiltily aware of having gone beyond strict accuracy. She had no idea about his intimate size or bed skills. Her pen hovered as she struggled with whether to cross it out or not.
But then she put down the pen and gave it to him. Felice’s fears were nonsense anyway. Women were built to take men, and apart from the hymen, no damage occurred.
He rolled the vellum and tucked it under his belt. “Now, Lady Claire, what am I do to with you for the rest of the night?”
She was sliding off the seat, but at that she froze. “What do you mean? I intend to return to my bed.”
“But will you stay there?”
“I have no reason to wander.”
“You had no reason before.”
She stood and faced him. “You are going to have to trust me, Lord Renald.”
“Why?” He walked over and opened the door. His squire—Josce—stood outside, caught in mid-yawn.
“My lord!” He snapped to alertness.
“Go find the lad—Thomas.” De Lisle turned back to Claire. “Where does he sleep?”
“With some male servants on the upper floor. But you can’t—”
“A hostage will ensure that you are here come morning.”
“You have my aunts out in your camp!”
“I suspect your brother means more to you.” He turned back to his squire.
“No. Please!”
When he turned slowly back, she said, “He’ll be so frightened.”
“I’m not going to hang him up by his thumbs—unless you run away, that is. He should sleep with me and my men. It’s more suitable.”
“More suitable!”
“He must start his training as a page.”
“But …” Claire couldn’t think of a rational argument. She could only imagine her brother’s terror at being awoken at midnight and dragged off to share a room with these rough men. “No, please. I promise. I’ll be here in the morning.”
He studied her long enough to make her want to fiddle with something. She caught her
self licking her lips.
“Josce needs his sleep,” he said abruptly, “as do I. So I’ll trust you. But I give you fair warning, my lady. Play me false and I’ll find you, and your tally will definitely be complete.”
Brother Nils struggled out of deep sleep to find the devil had him by the shoulder. But then he realized it was just Lord Renald looming in the dark room. His lord beckoned him out of the solar, and with a groan, Nils had to go. They’d ridden through the previous night without rest. Was the man human?
Rubbing his eyes, he staggered after him to the study, where a letter was thrust at him. “Read that to me.”
At this time of night? But Renald de Lisle, though a good lord, was not the type one argued with. Nils unrolled what was clearly a scrap from the edge of a skin. The writing was fine, however, worthy of the best documents. “To Felice of Summerbourne from her affectionate niece, Claire.” Nils looks up in surprise, both that the lady could write so well, and that he was being asked to read a private document.
“Go on.”
Nils shrugged. The lady was soon to be his lord’s wife. “My dear Felice, I write to you about Lord Renald de Lisle, and his request to marry one of the maidens of Summerbourne …”
Nils read through what was clearly a review of a discussion held earlier. It placed great emphasis on the fact that the unwanted husband would mostly be absent.
“Like a wild animal,” Lord Renald commented, “best viewed from a distance.” Nils had to suppress a smile, for it sounded exactly like that.
“Does she have anything more positive to say?”
“Oh, yes, my lord. She writes, I do not think his wife will find him intolerable in the times when he is at Summerbourne. He has not shouted, or bellowed, and has not yet struck anyone. He has not broken anything through clumsiness or rage, and he eats neatly and with clean hands.”
As he read, Nils flickered glances at Lord Renald, wondering just what he was making of this. Not many men get to read such a frank analysis of their virtues and flaws.
Renald just said, “Is that the best she can do?”
“Er … no, my lord. In those brief moments in his camp, Felice, and all being cloaked, you may not have seen that Lord Renald is a handsome man—”
“Ah.”
Nils looked over and completed the sentence. “of the heavy sort.”
