Читать книгу His Border Bride - Blythe Gifford, Blythe Gifford - Страница 10

Euphemia ran after her as Clare entered the hall. ‘No wonder you’re still unmarried. A braw man appears and you do nothing but insult him.’

‘Euphemia, you talk as if I should open my skirts to anything with a pillicock.’ Of course, the girl’s mother did, so she knew no better.

The girl shrugged. She knew who, and what, she was. Her mother might have been the baron’s companion for ten years, but she would never be his wife. ‘What’s the harm?’

‘He’s someone’s bastard son, attached to no lord. He may have been banished from his fellows. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t murder us in our beds.’ And if he did, the fault would be hers.

‘Well, I’ll be friendly, if you won’t.’

‘No, you won’t. I don’t want to see his bastard in your belly after he’s gone. Now go and find out whether cook needs help with those fowl.’

The girl smiled and left, without answering yea or nae.

Clare gritted her teeth. She had tried to bring order to this place, but France and all she’d learned there was far away. The wildness of these untamed hills crept into everything and everyone. Even she had mornings, like this one, when nothing would soothe her but watching the falcon soar and taking pleasure in its kill.

She glanced up. Fitzjohn was still regarding her. He smiled, as if sensing her unruly urges.

She turned her back on him. Let the man fill his belly and be gone.

She tried to ignore him when he appeared in the Great Hall for the evening meal, sitting far below the salt. He seemed at ease there, among the men-at-arms, yet something set him apart, as well.

Euphemia leaned over to serve him soup, her breast pressing close to his shoulder. Clare clenched her fists.

He caught her looking at him and his eyes, in turn, travelled over her as if he saw not just under her clothes, but under her skin.

She looked away. He was not worthy of a lady’s attention. She rested her gaze, instead, on the small tapestry banker, a gift from Alain.

Alain, Comte de Garencieres, had come to Scotland a year ago with soldiers and money to aid, or more precisely, to rekindle the Scots’ war on England. He had brought with him the reminder of all she had left behind when she had returned two years ago after years of being fostered in France.

The banker, in threads of red, white and gold, depicted a man and woman, arms outstretched, about to reunite. On the woman’s shoulder perched the falcon who had already returned to her.

It was too beautiful to sit on, though it was designed as a bench cover. Instead, she had draped it over a chest beside the great hearth where she could see it.

Alain’s gift was a reminder of a better world, one where grace and chivalry reigned. And as soon as the fighting was over, they would be married. She would return to France as the comte’s lady, far from this crude and brutal land of her birth.

She glanced at Fitzjohn through her eyelashes without raising her head. A boorish Scot, like the rest. Interested only in fighting, eating and women.

He had left her thoughts by the time the evening meal was finished and she started up the spiralling stairs to her bedchamber. But as she reached the third level, Fitzjohn loomed before her, just beyond her candle’s glow.

The flame trembled. ‘This is the family floor. What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for a bed.’

She glanced towards her door, still closed. Had he dared look inside? ‘I told you to sleep in the Hall with the rest.’ She took the final step up to the floor, yet still he towered over her.

‘You might at least offer me a blanket and pillow.’

‘I’ve offered you a roof.’ And it was more than she should have. ‘Don’t make me regret it.’

‘A lady’s hospitality normally includes something more comfortable.’

Comfortable carried the lilt of an insult, but the words raised her guilt. A lady should show more hospitality. Yet his behaviour didn’t befit a knight, so she had trouble remembering to act as a lady.

‘I have given you the same welcome that I would give any other fighting man. If that is unacceptable, then you won’t be sorry to leave tomorrow. Now stand aside so I can reach my chamber.’

He didn’t move, yet something crept over her skin, as if he had touched her. She started around him, but the space was narrow and she bumped against him, stumbled and lost her grip on the candlestick.

He caught her with one arm before she hit the floor and when she looked up, she saw the candle, straight and steady, in his other hand.

Knees bent, she tried to stand, but only fell against his chest. Embarrassed, she had to cling to his shoulders as he straightened, giving her back her stance, and then her candle.

She backed away, her forearm branded with his palm, her breasts still feeling the press of his chest, held just a moment too long, against hers.

‘Dream well, Mistress Clare.’

She reached behind her and pushed her door open, afraid to look away for fear he’d follow. But he didn’t move, and as she took the light with her his smile faded into the darkness.

She shut the door and leaned against it, shaking.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be gone.

As she slammed the door against him, Gavin struggled to subdue his anger. Her disdain was sparked by such small trespasses, things that reflected none of the darkness he concealed. If she was so concerned about the shine of his armour, what would she think if he broke down her door and forced himself into the comfort of her bed?

He’d seen men do worse. He had ridden away from the English because their war had made it too easy to act on such dark visions. As easy as it had been for his father to seduce a Scots lady and leave her with a child forced to fight the heritage of his blended blood.

He was weary of war—the one on the field and the one in his soul.

He descended the stone stairs into the hall. A few men still gambled in the corner. The rest had curled up for the night. The fire had burned to embers and his small bedroll offered little cushion from the unforgiving floor. For weeks, he had braved cold and rain, staying clear of Lord Douglas’s men as they chased Edward’s troops. Grass and dirt had been his bed. He ached for a moment of comfort.

Stretching out close to the hearth, he saw the tapestry banker covering the chest beside it, keeping the wood warm when a man was cold.

He reached over, pulled it off and rolled up in it. The memory of her fingers caressing it when she thought no one was looking warmed him more than the wool.

Clare smiled as she entered the Hall the next morning and went over to pat the banker covering the chest. It had become a daily rite, reminding her of Alain’s expectation that she be a lady, cleaving to the ways his mother had taught her.

Her smile faded as she came closer. Black and grey smudges marred the red-and-gold wool.

She knelt beside the tapestry, anger mixing with a sick feeling in her stomach. What would Alain think when he saw what had happened to his beautiful gift?

She looked around the Hall. None of her men would have dared touch it. It must have been the stranger.

Fury swamped the anguish. First, fury with herself for being so foolish as to let him into her home. Then, fury at him.

She folded the tapestry carefully, exposing a back as neatly finished as the front. He had done it deliberately, she was sure—tried to destroy something precious to her.

She carried the folded fabric as reverently as an altar cloth, the pounding in her ears growing with each step. A lady must never show anger. A lady must be ever temperate. Yet rage pounded against her temples. She struggled to subdue it, blaming him for raising her temper. The strength of it frightened her nearly as much as the other feelings he’d raised.

The ones that had kept her awake last night.

She found him in the stable, kneeling before his horse, testing the animal’s fetlock. At least the man had the wisdom to look after the beast, a possession no doubt more valuable than he deserved.

She wondered whether he had killed the knight who owned it.

Angus sat in the straw at his feet, head bent over the chainmail, patiently polishing an individual iron link.

‘Angus!’ Her voice was sharp. ‘Ask the falconer if he needs help in the mews.’

‘That’s nae work for a squire.’

It was the first time the boy had ever crossed her and she added it to Fitzjohn’s list of sins. ‘And if you do not do as you’re told, you’ll never be a squire.’

Fitzjohn motioned his head towards the door. The boy put down the brush and hurried out.

‘Blame me, if you must,’ he said. ‘Not the boy.’

‘I do.’

The morning sunlight streamed through the stable door and poured over him, picking up streaks of gold in his hair. He did not wear his smile this morning. Instead, the light carved sharp shadows around his nose and mouth. He looked as fierce as a golden eagle. Powerful, graceful, beautiful.

Deadly.

Such a bird could pluck Wee One out of the sky without ruffling his own feathers.

She lifted the cloth in an accusation. ‘This was a beautiful tapestry.’ She swallowed, trying to clear the fury fighting to escape her throat. ‘It came all the way from France.’

She held it out, but he didn’t take it.

His wry look returned, masking the danger. ‘That’s a long trip.’

‘You ruined it. Deliberately.’ Her voice shook and she hated the power he had to upset her.

‘Now that’s a harsh accusation. You sent me to sleep in the hall without so much as a blanket. I wrapped myself up in it and it fell into the ashes during the night.’ He shrugged, his expression holding no remorse. ‘That’s what it’s made for. To ward off the cold.’

‘To ward off the chill when one is sitting on the bench.’

His smile widened, slowly. ‘But your bottom wasn’t on the bench last night, so I didn’t think you’d mind.’

He was savouring her anger. His very smile seemed to say I know what you are. You are not the lady you pretend to be.

She dropped it in the straw at his feet, releasing a puff of dust. ‘You dirtied it. Clean it before you leave.’

He looked down at the banker, then back at her, half-smile still in place. ‘That’s a lot of fuss to be making about a spot of dirt on a piece of cloth.’

‘It’s a tapestry, not just a piece of cloth.’ She bit her cheek to stop the tears. ‘From Arras. It was a gift.’

‘Are you sure that’s really what’s disturbing you?’

‘What else would I be distressed about?’

‘Me.’

‘You?’ The word fell from her lips as quickly as if he had slapped her. How did he know? His very presence violated the natural order. Knights were supposed to be noble, honourable and kind to women. He was the opposite and worse, he delighted in it.

‘That’s right. I think I just roil you inside.’

He did. In places she had never felt before.

‘Yes, Sir Gavin, if you are a “sir.” You do.’ She lifted her chin and lowered her shoulders, trying to regain a lady’s calm. ‘But do not smile with pleasure at the thought. You “roil” me because you deliberately flout the laws of chivalry.’

‘Chivalry?’ His mocking tone had a dark echo.

‘Yes. You must have heard the word.’

Gratified, she saw his easy smile vanish. His blue eyes turned hard and he stepped closer, forcing her to retreat. But she could not move far enough away. He still stole her breath.

‘Oh, I’ve heard of it. But I’ve been fighting in a war, not a tournament to entertain the ladies. You may not believe this, Mistress Clare, but we don’t see much chivalry in war, so forgive me if I’ve forgotten how to bow and scrape and bend my knee. In a real war, we don’t wave a lance and a lady’s scarf in hopes of winning a silk purse. In a real war, when someone loses, they die. And sometimes, the victor even enjoys the killing.’

She shuddered. Had he enjoyed killing?

A momentary vision of Wee One, catching her prey, flashed before her. But that was not the same. Not the same at all. ‘Christian knights do not kill one another. The code of honour requires a fellow knight to be spared, else war would be nothing but brutal murder.’

‘War is nothing but brutal murder.’

What kind of man was this? Whose war had he fought and what demons had he seen there?

‘I do not know where you’ve been, but you’re in a civilised household now, where everything is done to then anes, which means to its proper purpose, though I don’t expect you know that. I suggest you learn.’

The smiling mask returned, wiping the darkness from his face. ‘Mais oui, demoiselle.’

His French stunned her.

It was smoother than hers.

And his half-smile had grown large enough that she noticed, for the first time, a dimple on his right cheek.

Gavin’s smile faded as he wrestled with the tapestry, a small, poor thing compared to those he’d seen in Edward’s palaces. First, he shook it, hoping the ashes would fly free. Then, he tried brushing the smudges away, but that only dirtied the rest of the cloth and his fingers.

He knew nothing of how to put things right, only how to destroy them.

And somehow, Mistress Clare had known. Even without knowing his name, she treated him like the deserter he was. Like a man who had stood outside a church holding a torch.

And carried the blood of a father who would have burned it.

If it showed so clearly in his face, he was right not to lie about his name. People would judge him without caring that the truth wasn’t as bad as they thought.

Nor as good as it should be.

And Mistress Clare, mired in her fantasies, was very, very good at judgements.

Blind to the crude tower and the rough life that surrounded her, she acted as if she wandered Windsor Palace.

Her illusions reminded him of King Edward. A few years ago, the King had gathered his friends at a round table and dubbed them Knights of the Garter: the garter of a woman the King had raped, if the rumours were true.

Mistress Clare wouldn’t like that part of the story. It would violate all her illusions about chivalry, making her angry. Anger would bring colour to her cheeks and warmth to those stony, grey-green eyes. That, he would enjoy seeing. He had the feeling Mistress Clare didn’t let her emotions show if she could help it.

A woman like that, well, it would be a pleasure to turn her inside out and force her to feel the passion she disdained. He would unravel her braid, so tight it smoothed her brow, and make her whimper with feelings the woman didn’t know she had.

Or didn’t want to know.

He looked back at the tapestry. It showed a man, arms outstretched, flying towards a woman and about to embrace her. One hand hovered behind her head. His face was near her breast. The other arm was reached around her hip.

He wondered whether Mistress Clare knew how sensual a piece it was.

He stopped his thoughts from going further. He had to keep his feelings in check. He’d heard from the men that her father was fighting with Lord Douglas and would soon be home. Gavin must humour her until Baron Carr returned. That man would know that a knight’s value was in his sword, not his manners. Surely Carr would let him stay on, hidden, in this god-forsaken corner of the Border.

He looked at the tapestry again and sighed. To clean his body, he dunked it in water. Perhaps he should do the same with this.

He headed for the spring with a leery feeling neither one of them would like the outcome.

Fitzjohn, Clare noticed, missed the midday meal. She didn’t observe it because she wanted to see him again, but only because she was eager to have her tapestry back. He needed only to hang it on a line, beat it from the back, then brush the front with a small broom. Simple task.

But as her fury faded, doubts crept in. Simple for her, but she had foolishly assumed he would know what to do. She should have never let it out of her sight without giving him thorough and precise instructions.

As the sun reached its zenith, she ignored the rest of her duties to search for him. Finally, outside near the mews, she caught a glimpse of red.

Draped across a rope was the wet, limp banker, no longer a beautiful depiction of courtly lovers, but a rumpled, sodden wad of cloth.

She closed her eyes against quick tears. How would she explain this to Alain?

Fitzjohn, apparently realising his mistake too late, was pulling on one end of the piece. Euphemia held the other as they tried to stretch it back into shape. The sight of Murine’s girl helping him angered her as much as anything he had done.

‘Euphemia! Get inside.’

‘You’re nae my mither.’

Did they all think to defy her once tainted by Fitzjohn? ‘No, but I, not your mother, am mistress of this castle.’ And yet she continued to make mistakes. Mistakes she would never have made if her mother had been alive to teach her. ‘Now go!’

Euphemia did, throwing Fitzjohn a sunny smile as she left.

Clare stepped closer, torn between wanting to hit him and cry. Two things a lady must never do.

‘Are you always so harsh?’ he said.

‘Not nearly so harsh as I’m going to be with you. You’ve ruined it!’ The words tumbled out in a rush.

He shrugged, but said nothing. She had wanted an apology and expected an argument. Her father would have yelled back. But this man absorbed abuse and returned it with a half-smile, as some men would take a blow, roll over and leap to their feet again. He left her with nothing to do but get angrier or to give up.

She was not ready to give up.

‘You’ve destroyed something valuable and precious. I expect payment.’

‘Payment?’ He raised his brows. ‘I’ve seen warriors dead on the ground with no payment for their loss. I cannot mourn woven wool.’ His words were mocking, bitter.

Dead on the ground.

She choked back her fear. Not Da. The phrase like a prayer. Not Alain.

Sometimes, the only thing a woman could do to hold back the dangers of the world was to maintain order in the small corner of it that was hers.

She looked back at the tapestry. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking, to expect a warrior to know how to treat such a treasure.’

This time, a trace of compassion touched his smile, as if he knew what was happening to her men, things she couldn’t possibly imagine and didn’t want to.

‘It’s not something that I was trained to do.’

For once, he made her smile, a rueful hiccup of laughter clearing the tears from her throat. She must take the first blame. Perhaps if she stretched it on the tapestry frame she might salvage it.

She stroked the damp cloth with her fingers and ventured a smile. A knight’s lessons would never be so domestic. ‘What are you trained to do?’

‘Kill.’

She snatched back her hand. ‘You have an ignoble view of war. A knight should be thinking of noble quests, of honour.’

‘You talk as if King Arthur’s knights still ride. Now we quest for land and ransom, not for the Holy Grail.’

She had been weak enough to share a momentary smile and in return, he’d thrown his brutal view of the world in her face. But there was something more in his eyes. An unaccustomed challenge. An unwelcome lure.

‘If you do not seek the Holy Grail, have you at least had the honour to fulfil a lady’s request?’ It was one of the sacred tenants of chivalry, to honour a lady’s wish.

The wind swirled around the edge of her skirt, blowing it towards his boot.

His smile, taunting, returned. ‘Generally, what they’ve desired of me has not included holy objects.’

She grabbed her skirt back from the breeze. ‘Neither does what I desire. I’d like you to clean the mews. Make it spotless.’

Here was a man who treated chivalry with disdain. Would he honour her request? Or, better, would he find the task so demeaning that he would, finally, ride away?

The harsh lines of his face eased, his smile suddenly genuine. ‘I’ve spent more time with falcons than with fabric. I will certainly do my best to fulfil your wish, no matter how hard the work.’

‘Good.’

The vision of him on hands and knees scrubbing gave her some satisfaction.

‘And no matter how long it takes.’ His smile took on a wicked edge. ‘Even if it takes all night and all day tomorrow.’

She gritted her teeth, realising he had turned her demeaning request into his victory.

‘One more night then. But no longer.’

She had judged him unworthy as a fighting man, but she must not underestimate his prowess in verbal battle again.