Читать книгу Velvet Bond - Catherine Archer - Страница 5

Elizabeth Clayburn sat on the stone window seat, her slender back supported by her brother’s broad one. Despite the velvet cushion beneath her, she was less than comfortable. Sighing, she wished herself in her own comfortable house for the third time in as many minutes. But she had promised to stay at Stephen’s side until Lady Helen turned her attentions elsewhere, and that she would do. No matter how much she disliked coming up to Windsor Castle.

It wasn’t Elizabeth’s usual custom to involve herself in Stephen’s affairs, but Lady Helen was proving especially difficult to discourage, and Stephen had come near to begging for Elizabeth’s help. He hoped that if he was never alone with his former mistress, she would soon give up and move on to greener pastures. Not even Helen was brazen enough to confront him about his obviously cooled interest before his very sister.

Restlessly Elizabeth’s gaze roamed the crowded ante-chamber as she toyed with one of the braided gold tassels that held back the heavy red brocade drapes. The three tall windows let in sufficient light to illuminate the high, wide room, but she saw little that pleased her.

Despite the perpetual chill given off by stone walls, the air was overwarm, due to the presence of so many people. The high-ceilinged chamber bore no furniture or adornments save the rich curtains, and needed none. Men and women alike displayed their best finery in the forms of colorful cotehardies, tunics and hose. Many of the older men wore a long-skirted cote over the body-hugging tunic called a pourpoint, but the younger or more daring favored the shorter version that was much frowned on by the church. The women wore their cotes slashed at the sides to show off tight-fitting tunics of samite, sendal, and damask. Linen wimples fluttered about cheeks that had been delicately tinted with cosmetics. Jewelry and fur trim were seen in abundance as their wearers moved about, seeing and being seen. And they waited, some patiently, some not so patiently, for a moment to present their case to their sovereign.

Elizabeth looked down with a start as the would-be troubadour at her feet struck a chord on the lute that rested across his knee. She had nearly forgotten Percy.

Eyes of the palest blue gazed up at her with abject adoration as he sang,

“Oh lips of deepest scarlet hue

And eyes that sparkle like the dew”

“Sweet Jesu, Beth,” her brother Stephen turned to mutter in her ear. “This one is more dreadful than the last.”

“Shh, brother mine,” she whispered, attempting to prevent him hurting poor Percy’s delicate pride.

This was to no avail, for Sir Percy Hustace had indeed heard Stephen’s comment. He dropped the lute, which broke a string as it struck the floor. Percy groaned, casting a wounded look toward the other knight.

Rot Stephen, Elizabeth thought. She was of no mind to listen to them quarrel.

When Stephen only stared at Percy with amused contempt, the blue-eyed knight turned from him in disdain. Percy moved forward on his knees to take Elizabeth’s slender hand in his. “My lady, do you find my song displeasing?”

As Elizabeth gazed down upon the young man, truth and pity warred inside her. Pity won. “Not at all, Sir Percy. 'Tis most clear you have worked long upon the words and melody. I am flattered by your efforts.”

This time triumph lit Percy’s pale eyes when he looked to Stephen.

Elizabeth heard her brother click his tongue in disgust. She frowned at him, her sapphire eyes flashing. “If you do not behave yourself, I shall go home and leave you to face Lady Helen alone.”

Stephen sat bolt upright. “Now, Beth. I was but jesting with Percy. He should not be so sensitive.” Stephen turned toward the other knight so that Elizabeth could no longer see his face, but she knew her brother well, and the expression he was directing at Percy would be unpleasant, to be sure. But she said nothing. Percy could be quite tiresome, with his whining ways. And he did cut a foolish figure in his mode of dress. Every fashion of the day was ridiculously exaggerated. His pourpoint was short to the point of indecency, the gold cotehardie he wore over it sporting tippets that trailed well past his knees, and the points of his shoes extended at least twice the length of his foot. If it weren’t for the fact that much of his foolishness was by way of trying to impress her, Elizabeth would have been less inclined to be patient with him herself.

She smiled decisively. “We will forget the matter.”

Stephen looked about them to see if anyone else had taken note of Percy’s stupidity. As a trusted messenger to King Edward III, Stephen had a certain dignity to uphold.

Few of the other sumptuously dressed occupants of the antechamber paid them even cursory attention. The antics of Elizabeth’s most recent admirer were of little interest to them. Sir Percy was new to Edward’s court, and like countless others before him had instantly become enamored with Stephen’s sister. And Stephen could hardly fault Percy for that. Elizabeth was indeed beautiful, with her deep blue eyes, creamy skin and luxurious black hair.

She was his only sister, and had been dreadfully spoiled by her three brothers, including Peter, who was four years her junior. But Stephen knew it hadn’t harmed her. She had a kind and generous nature. She was undeniably patient with each new suitor until he finally gave up after realizing he would get no more than kindness from her. Stephen knew she should be married at twenty, but none had ever stirred her heart, and her brothers were loath to force her into an alliance she did not want.

If he felt that Percy was of any real threat to Elizabeth’s happiness or virtue, Stephen would readily take him out and throttle him. But he was not, and Stephen could easily afford to be magnanimous with the lackwit. As long as he didn’t become too irritating. So he would do as his sister asked and say no more.

He allowed his gaze to wander freely about the room, then froze.

Elizabeth felt Stephen stiffen beside her as he drew in a sharp breath. Following the direction of his apprehensive gaze, she spied Lady Helen Denfield.

Lady Helen was an acknowledged beauty, and deservedly so. At thirty-two, she managed to look as though she had not seen a day past seventeen years. There was a fawnlike delicacy about her as she came toward them across the bare stone floor. To heighten the image of youth, she wore her golden-brown hair loose down her back in a shimmering curtain, with only a sheer veil to cover it. Her soft brown eyes viewed the world around her with an expression of wonder, and she smiled timidly at whoever she passed.

Elizabeth studied this performance with amusement, having to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. For the pose of timidity was just that, a pose. Lady Helen could be more truly likened to the fox than to the fawn.

Peeking over at Stephen to gauge his reaction, Elizabeth found her handsome brother tensed as if to do battle. He ran an agitated hand through his dark auburn hair, his forest-green eyes wary. For three days now she had accompanied Stephen when he came to the castle to await a possible summons. It was his duty as one of King Edward’s messengers to make himself available. But that put him into contact with the one he most hoped to avoid, his mistress until very recently, Lady Helen Denfield. The affair had ended the moment he found out that the fair widow had nothing short of marriage on her mind.

Lady Denfield stopped before them.

As if sensing some threat to his goddess, Percy leapt up to stand at Elizabeth’s shoulder. It was a clear but unnecessary demonstration of his devotion.

“Lady Elizabeth.” Helen nodded, without looking at her. The woman’s attention was completely centered on her prey. Though she tried to hide the feral gleam in her eyes as they rested upon Stephen, it was all too obvious.

“Lord Clayburn.” The greeting sounded like nothing so much as an endearment.

Stephen ran a large hand over his muscular thighs in their dark green hose. “Lady Denfield.”

Helen’s eyes followed the path of his hand hungrily.

Watching the proceedings with interest, Elizabeth was hard-pressed not to laugh aloud.

How amusing that Stephen should be working so desperately to extricate himself from the affair that a fortnight ago had been his greatest pleasure, Elizabeth thought. Widowed for a year, Helen Denfield had been ripe for the picking. But it was Stephen who would end by being the harvest, did she have her way.

Elizabeth could see that Lady Helen had no intention of remaining a widow for long, and Stephen had clearly been chosen as the honored bridegroom. As she had been unable to produce an heir during her fifteen-year marriage to Lord Denfield, Helen’s husband’s lands and money had passed to a distant cousin, and she was nearly destitute, living on her meager dower funds. When Stephen began to pursue her, she had put all her not inconsiderable charms to luring him to the bait.

Not only was Elizabeth’s brother a fine specimen of a man, he also had a large income left to him by their mother. And, to add cream to the strawberries, he had, according to court gossip, brought Helen to fulfillment for the first time.

If truth be told, Elizabeth had no personal experience in carnal matters, but she did know that the court ladies set much store by prowess in the bedchamber. To Elizabeth, it seemed they made a great deal about naught. She had met no man who stirred even the least bit of feeling in her. And from what she had heard, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. It was beyond her how one could allow oneself to be made such a fool of over copulating.

Helen’s gaze took on a desperate expression as she watched Stephen.

Elizabeth could not imagine prostrating herself the way Helen was now, no matter how much pleasure a man could bring. She nearly succumbed to sympathy for the other woman. Stephen was always one to pursue a female with everything in him. Then, once he had succeeded in his quest, he lost interest, especially when the idea of marriage was broached.

If Lady Helen had been wiser, she would have allowed Stephen to go on thinking he was the aggressor.

Elizabeth understood this much about her brother.

But Stephen was of her blood, and she owed her allegiance to him first. So thinking, Elizabeth hardened her heart and reminded herself that Helen had her own agenda as far as Stephen was concerned. The fact that she had fallen in love with him was incidental.

At that moment, Elizabeth noted that a hush had fallen over the room. She looked up, surprised to find everyone watching the entrance to the chamber. It was unusual for anyone to cause a stir among this lot, who had seen some of the most important men in the world come and go on a regular basis, and she wondered idly who had arrived.

At that moment, the crowd parted, and Elizabeth saw him.

The man was tall and wore his acorn-brown tunic, pourpoint and dark hose casually, seeming completely unconcerned with the way the fabrics hugged his wide shoulders and muscular legs. He had made no effort to garb himself impressively, and thus stood apart like a wolf among lapdogs. Dark brown hair brushed his shoulders, and his equally dark eyes surveyed the splendor before him with indifference. Even as he shifted restlessly, first running a darkly tanned hand through his hair, then clenching that same hand at his side, he moved with an animal sort of grace. He made her think of a dark forest in moonlight, and his expression had a strange haunted quality, as if he were used to being alert for hidden danger.

The man seemed unaware of the stir he was causing. It was as though his mind were on other matters of greater importance than what he saw before him. He turned to the equally broad-shouldered blond man at his side, who was also dressed in subtle forest shades.

They seemed of like taste, but Elizabeth hardly noticed the lighter-haired of the two. It was the other one who drew her, though she couldn’t have explained it if given a thousand chances, and so she didn’t try.

There was something wild about him, wild as the wind is during a storm, wild like the beating of her heart. An oddly pleasant shiver ran down her spine.

Who was he, and why had she never seen him before?

Without even thinking, Elizabeth rose and moved toward him. A narrow path parted for her, as if those in her way seemed to sense her need to get closer to this man, to speak with him.

Elizabeth stopped before him, her gaze taking in the strong features of his face, straight nose, hard, chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. In the pit of her stomach, something fluttered, like a butterfly emerging from its protective sheath.

He glanced down at her with eyes as dark as burnt umber, then away, dismissing Elizabeth as he scanned the room behind her.

Piqued, Elizabeth simply stood there, a knot of irritation replacing the excitement in her belly. Never in all her life had any male looked through her that way.

The man smiled as his gaze came to light on someone behind her. “Clayburn,” he said. Elizabeth closed her eyes, unable to halt the tingling along the back of her neck that hearing his voice brought. The sound was rich, like rough fingers in brown velvet. Then she realized that he had spoken her own surname, and she turned to see her brother standing there just as Stephen answered him.

“Warwicke. How do you?” Stephen was nodding, his smile one of welcome.

The man shrugged. “I could be better. You know how I hate coming to court.”

“Aye,” Stephen agreed. “So what could have brought you to Windsor?”

Elizabeth could only stare at her brother. He talked as if he and this incredible man were long acquainted. And never had he so much as mentioned the friendship to her. Of course, she did know that Stephen met many people in his duties as the king’s messenger. But he might have at least thought to speak about this one.

The brown-eyed man looked around them with a frown. “I would rather not speak of the matter in the midst of so many. It is somewhat private.”

“I understand,” Stephen said. “Do you need to get in to see the king?” He nodded toward the closed door at the other end of the chamber. “I may be able to help you there.”

“My thanks,” the other man answered, “but King Edward has arranged this audience himself. Methinks he will see me as soon as he learns I am here.”

Stephen only nodded.

Elizabeth had had quite enough of this. She wanted to be introduced to this man Stephen had called Warwicke, and she meant to see that she was. “Stephen,” she said with a smile for her brother, “you do not behave very well. Where are your manners? You must introduce me.”

Both men looked down at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there.

Stephen hastened to do as she asked. “Lord Raynor Warwicke, let me present my sister, Lady Elizabeth.”

Her heart fluttered in her breast as his deep brown eyes settled upon her. “Lady Elizabeth.” This time there was a faint hint of recognition in them, but his gaze did not linger as most men’s were wont to do.

“My lord Warwicke,” she replied.

But he had already turned back to Stephen. “Mayhap you could help me by finding a cleric who could tell the king I am here?”

“Of a surety,” Stephen replied, and they moved off through the throng.

Elizabeth stood there in surprise. Then she looked down at herself, wondering if she might find the answer to Lord Warwicke’s rudeness in her mode of dress. But she could find no fault with the scarlet gown. The sides were slashed wide to show off the black tunic beneath, which fitted her narrow waist and gently curving breast and hips most becomingly. The sleeves of the tunic were fashionably wide and embroidered with a pattern of musical instruments in gold and scarlet threads. She ran her hand over her gold veil and found it to be securely in place.

No, it was not her attire that had caused Warwicke to look through her as if she had no more substance than the contents of an empty cup.

In her twenty years upon this earth, never had she been so summarily dismissed. He had completely failed to acknowledge her. Even her brother seemed to have forgotten her presence. And after she had come to the castle to help him.

But what made the insult doubly hard to take was the fact that never had she reacted to any man the way she had to Warwicke.

A deep flush stained her cheeks as she recalled her actions. Elizabeth had felt drawn to the man by some force outside herself, going to him without even pausing for thought. And had, in doing so, made a complete and utter fool of herself.

Surreptitiously she looked around the room, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Now that Warwicke had left with her brother, they seemed to have gone back to their own interests. Even Percy was busily fixing the string on his lute.

Then her gaze came to rest on Lady Helen, who was standing close by, with cruel amusement in her eyes.

Elizabeth flushed, but forced herself to raise her head high. She would not allow the other woman to think she had been bested.

Lady Helen smiled thinly. “He cuts quite a figure, does he not?”

Raising finely arched brows high, Elizabeth asked, “Who?”

But the other woman was clearly not fooled. “Why, my Lord Warwicke. I felt certain that you took particular notice of him, Elizabeth.”

She shrugged with as much indifference as she could summon. “Nay. I took no particular note of the man. He is my brother’s friend, as I'm sure you heard.”

“Oh, methinks there was more to it than that,” Helen countered.

The spite in Helen Denfield’s voice was discomfiting, even though Elizabeth sensed the cause behind it. She was not so simpleminded that she was unaware of the fact that most folk thought her beautiful. It was not her fault that her looks drew so much attention, but they had made her more than a few enemies. There were many who would be happy to hear of her embarrassment. Elizabeth was a very private individual and did not care for the idea that idle court gossip would be turned her way. This was one of the reasons she and Stephen had a house in the village instead of residing at the castle itself. If she did not do something to silence Helen now, her encounter with Lord Warwicke would likely have become an affair by nightfall. Court gossips never hesitated to embellish a story beyond recognition.

But Helen Denfield had her own vulnerability, in the form of Stephen, and Elizabeth wasn’t above reminding her of this.

Helen did not know her well enough, and so could not know Elizabeth would never actually spread tales. But Elizabeth was aware that most people were apt to judge others by themselves, and so Helen would likely believe otherwise. The widow would surely hold her tongue, if she thought Stephen’s sister might talk about her affair with him. Rumor of the liaison would not aid her in her quest for a husband.

Elizabeth said, “My dear Lady Helen, I'm most certain you misunderstood. After all, you seem too much fixed on the things my brother does and says to take note of aught else.”

Lady Denfield gasped, and raised her hand as if to slap Elizabeth. Then, as the younger woman continued to return her stare, the widow seemed to realize that her genteel pose would not be served by such an act. Helen turned and fled the room.

Elizabeth arched a brow, watching as the brown-haired beauty lifted a delicate hand to wipe away nonexistent tears, just in case someone had taken note of their exchange.

But Elizabeth didn’t really care. She had already forgotten Helen as she turned toward the other end of the room, where the door to the king’s audience chamber lay. There was no sign of her brother or the other two men, and she could only assume they had gone into the inner room.

Her mind was ablaze with unanswered questions concerning Raynor Warwicke. He was the most compelling man she had ever seen. Her lips tightened as she recalled the way he had barely acknowledged her presence. It simply would not do. Because of her own interest in him, Elizabeth felt a need for him to show some reaction to her.

Pensively she frowned. Not once in her life had Elizabeth been denied anything she wanted. And she did not mean to set a different precedent now.

She was not finished with Lord Warwicke yet.

* * *

The luxuriously appointed audience chamber left little impression on Lord Raynor Warwicke as he walked down the wide aisle at its center, leaving Stephen and Bronic waiting just inside the oaken door. He forced himself onward on legs that felt as stiff as tilting posts as he passed by the somberly dressed clergy and sumptuously dressed courtiers who stood at either side of him. All his attention was focused on his king, where he sat on a raised dais at the end of the audience chamber. Edward III was flanked by two of his knights, both members of the Order of the Garter. Roger Mortise and the earl of Caliber were men of exemplary character, and battle-hardened warriors loyal to the throne. Edward was a king who set such store by honor and chivalry that he had established the Order of the Garter in 1348 for the purpose of exalting those qualities.

The baron of Warwicke did his best to relax the rigid muscles in his face and shoulders. The king would not know that Raynor had come here fully prepared to forswear himself, nor that the very future of an innocent three-year-old child hinged upon his doing just that.

Raynor was totally aware of the tall, slim man who stood to the right of the dais. There was nothing in that one’s outward appearance to tell the world that he was the most despicable of men. He was dressed as the other courtiers were, in rich fabrics and colors, and his face was strongly made, his Viking heritage firmly stamped upon it. Harrington’s eyes were blue, the hair a deep golden-brown. Not one hint of the black heart that beat inside his chest was visible. But Raynor knew it was there. Nigel Harrington had caused more misery in twenty-four years than most would bring in several lifetimes. Raynor would not allow him to have custody of little Willow. After what the man had done to his own step-sister, he was not to be trusted with the care of any female.

But Raynor had no more time to think on that now. He came to a halt only a few feet from the seated monarch, squaring his shoulders, deliberately keeping his mind focused on what he had to do. Drawing the hatred down into the deepest part of himself.

King Edward shifted his long legs as he leaned back, studying the men before him, seeming to miss little. The baron of Warwicke forced himself to bear this scrutiny without flinching.

The forty-eight-year-old Edward’s golden hair and beard were liberally streaked with gray, but he was still a vital and vibrant ruler. Over his chair was a shield that bore the arms he had taken for his own. Raynor knew it irritated the French greatly that Edward had chosen to place his own leopards on the first quarter of his shield, rather than the fleur-de-lis. Though of Norman descent, Edward had always been one to think of himself as an Englishman first and foremost.

The king caught and held Raynor’s gaze for a long, tense moment. But Raynor kept himself erect, not giving away any hint of his inner anger.

Edward spoke, saying the words Raynor had feared he would. “And you are ready to swear on a relic of the one true cross, Lord Warwicke, that the child is yours?”

His back became arrow-straight. Even though he’d known all along that the situation would come to this, Raynor was surprised at the quick shaft of guilt that pierced him at the idea of forswearing himself. But the feeling was short-lived. He must carry through, for the sake of the little one. Raynor nodded, sharply, then raised his square chin. “I am.”

He heard a quickly indrawn breath from his right, and looked toward Nigel Harrington with a quirked brow. If nothing else, Raynor was pleased at having shocked his adversary. Nigel had made the mistake of believing Raynor too honorable to play by his own tactics.

King Edward nodded to his cleric, then motioned toward Raynor. “Kneel down.”

Raynor fell to his knees, his gaze locked on the front of the monk’s black robe.

The cleric brought forth a small wooden box, which Raynor knew would contain a sliver of the Lord’s cross. He held it toward Raynor. “Do you, on your honor as a knight, swear by this piece of the one true cross, and in the name of Edward III, king of England, that the child called Willow is of your own seed, without doubt?”

Forcing himself to take the box without hesitation, Raynor brought it to his lips. “I do swear this on my honor as a knight.”

Nigel Harrington let out a growl of outrage. “He lies.”

King Edward turned toward Nigel with an expression of forbearance. “My lord Harrington, in the days you have been at court you have shown no evidence that what you say is fact. Do you have some proof to offer us at this time?”

There was a silence as Nigel fumed, his blue eyes locked on Raynor’s with fury. “No, my liege, I do not, but—”

Edward interrupted him. “Then there is nothing more to be said.” He shrugged wide shoulders encased in purple velvet. “Unless you were present at the child’s conception, you have nothing to add.”

As the king spoke, Nigel cringed, but quickly recovered. Raynor felt a burning urge to run him through right there before them all, and his fingers passed fondly over the hilt of his sword. He and Raynor were the only two people on earth who knew the true circumstances of Willow’s conception. The coward would not, could not, tell them that he had raped his own sister-by-marriage. Raynor had counted on this, but seeing the fear on the other man’s face only made him all the more disgusted.

Nigel sputtered out, “But, King Ed—”

Edward looked toward him with a dark scowl. “Lord Harrington. We have listened to you, and done our utmost to bring this matter to a speedy conclusion. We have ordered Warwicke here in haste and put him to the test. In all things we have tried to do our duty by you.” His lips thinned. “Warwicke has given his word, and as you have no proof that the child is not his, you may consider it done. We bear you no malice in this, Lord Harrington, feeling that your sister’s death has clouded your thinking, and in your grief you simply try to retain some piece of her by wanting guardianship of her child. But ’tis most clear that the child is the natural offspring of Warwicke, and he has already assured us of his intent to see the little girl well done by. You may leave Windsor with those comforting thoughts to see you safe home.”

When Nigel opened his mouth as if to protest, the king raised an imperious hand. “The matter is done.”

With that, Edward turned to Raynor. “It is our hope that such a dispute will not again occur concerning you, my lord Warwicke. In future, should you dally, make most certain that the gentlewoman is your wife.”

Raynor lowered his eyes and nodded. “King Edward, you have my assurance that I will do so.” He did not add that he planned to stay as far away from that type of female as possible.

Edward motioned with a beringed hand. “Arise, my lord Warwicke, and consider this dispute settled. I would have no more strife because of it.” He stared at Nigel Harrington for a long moment.

Knowing that he had been chastened by the king, however politely, Nigel Harrington turned and hurried from the chamber.

Raynor felt a sweet relief ease the tight band of tension around his chest. Now Willow would be safe from that bastard who called himself her uncle.

King Edward waved a dismissive hand. “We have many other matters to attend, Lord Warwicke, and thus I must bid you good-day.”

“My thanks to you, my liege.” Raynor bowed himself from the room. He was more than glad to have this interview at an end. He forced himself to walk the length of the room with carefully measured steps.

Bronic and Stephen followed him as the great oaken door was opened, and they passed into the antechamber.

Bronic looked at Raynor, letting out his breath, as if he had been holding it for a very long time. He raked his hand through his shaggy blond hair. “Praise God.”

Stephen was looking from one to the other with curiosity.

Raynor gave a mental shrug. He might as well tell Stephen the story he had decided upon. The day’s events would be all over court in a matter of hours, anyway. And it might as well be Raynor’s version of the tale as anyone else’s.

He smiled at the auburn-haired man. They had fostered together as boys, with the earl of Norwich, but Raynor had left after only one year, when his father died. Though many things had passed in the thirteen years since, Raynor had always remembered Stephen with friendship and a sense of trust. He knew that Stephen would not embellish the story he was about to be told, but would relate it to others just as he had heard it.

Raynor said, “Harrington can go to the very devil, for aught I care. He has tried to make trouble for the last time. Edward has upheld my claim to guardianship of the little one. She will remain at Warwicke.”

Stephen asked, “What is he about? Some weeks ago he came to court, whining to whoever would listen that his sister’s child was stolen from him. Obviously the tale gained him today’s audience, but nothing more, for Edward has upheld your claim. I had no idea you were the man who was supposed to have done the evil deed until just now. Why would Harrington accuse you of such a ridiculous crime? Who does he name as the father?”

Unable to stifle a rush of anger, Raynor looked at the floor. He didn’t want Stephen to guess at his overwhelming hatred for Nigel Harrington. He must guard Willow’s secret at all costs. He had promised her mother, Louisa. “He names none, because there is none besides myself. Harrington plays a game of greed. Willow is an heiress through her mother. The lands must pass through the female of the line if there are no direct male descendants, and there are none. Nigel is the son of Lord Harrington’s first wife, and has no claim. Without the little one, he has no access to her wealth. That is why he has dragged me here to publicly humiliate both me and my child.” Raynor’s lean jaw flexed, and his lips twisted with derision. “King Edward could only take my word or Harrington’s and he has no proof to discredit me.”

“Well, it’s hardly surprising that King Edward would believe you, when Harrington could not even name any other as the father. The man is hardly rational.”

Even though his stomach was knotted with hatred and tension, Raynor nearly laughed aloud, albeit bitterly. To say Nigel was irrational was most surely a gross understatement. If Stephen only knew the truth of why Harrington kept the child’s parentage to himself. “I fear,” he said, “that there is no mystery here. Louisa’s child is my own. I regret that I was not able to marry her before she died, because our child’s parentage would not have been in question had I done so.” His brown eyes darkened to walnut in sorrow as he remembered how he had tried to convince Louisa to marry him so that her stepbrother would no longer hold sway over her. But she had refused, saying Raynor had a right to some happiness of his own. Just taking Willow in and claiming her as his own had been more than Louisa had the right to ask. Raynor’s voice was barely audible as he finished. “She died before I was able to convince her otherwise, shortly after the child was born.”

Stephen laid a hand on his arm. “I am sorry, my friend. This trouble with Harrington must make it very difficult for you.”

Bronic spoke up, his Nordic features hard, his blue eyes narrowed. “The man is crazed. Would that this were his throat.” He clasped his large warrior’s hands together tightly.

Raynor sent him a warning look. He did not wish anyone to suspect there was more to the story than they told. If they displayed the depth of their hatred too openly, any reasoning person would begin to wonder at its cause.

And no one must ever find out the reason for Raynor’s fear for Willow. Not even Bronic understood the true circumstances of Willow’s parentage. His vehemence stemmed from loyalty to Raynor.

All Raynor said was “Harrington must follow his own course, as I must mine. Mayhap the king’s decision today will set him on a more constructive path. Now he must realize that he cannot take Willow from me.”

“You are a good and true father, to take the child though she be a bastard,” Stephen told him. “Harrington has indeed tried to besmirch you there, as well. He lays it about that you are the one who would have the little girl for her inheritance.”

Raynor stiffened. It was true that once he had been a poor man. His father had mismanaged and overspent in an effort to give his greedy mother all she wanted. After Raynor inherited the lands and title, she had tried to control and manipulate him in the same manner. But even at fourteen he had been too strong-willed for her to control him. No woman would destroy him as Mary Warwicke had his father.

The years since his father’s death had seen him turn the properties around, and while he was not the wealthiest of the king’s barons, neither was he the poorest. He knew that since Harrington had spread the lie, many would continue to believe he had taken on the responsibility of raising Willow because of her lands. But he didn’t really care, not if it kept them from looking further.

Besides, Raynor controlled her lands only as her guardian and overseer. He took no payment of any kind for looking after her interests. Everything would go to her in the event of her marriage or her twenty-first birthday.

Stephen interrupted Raynor’s thoughts with a clap on his back. “Enough of this, my friend. All has gone well for you today. Now you can be about some more pleasant sport. I have not seen you in years, and would hear what you have been about.”

Bronic nodded, looking about the crowded antechamber with ill-concealed discomfort. “But we should find some more comfortable spot for the discussion to take place.”

Raynor eyed his friend in agreement. He had no love of the court and its crowds. In fact, he would not be comfortable until they were well on their way back to Warwicke on the day after tomorrow. “I stand with Bronic. We are sharing a room with several other knights, but me-thinks they would not mind us bringing you along, Stephen. I'm sorry we cannot offer you better hospitality, but Windsor is full to overflowing, even with all the new building the king has had done in the past years.”

Stephen laughed. “Do not apologize. I know the circumstances well. That is part of why I have a house in the village.”

They started from the chamber with Raynor in the lead.

Raynor stopped as a woman moved between him and the entrance. He paused, his head tilted to one side as he looked at her. She was quite beautiful, with her creamy skin, high cheekbones and long-lashed sapphire eyes. And she seemed somehow familiar, though Raynor could not think why.

“Elizabeth,” Stephen called out from behind him. His tone was sheepish. “I had forgotten you were here.”

The woman did not deign even to glance Stephen’s way. “Obviously.”

Then he remembered. It was Clayburn’s sister. He had been introduced on his way in to see the king, but he had been of little mind to take note of anything then. Even a woman as lovely as Elizabeth Clayburn.

His eyes met hers, and for a moment a strange sort of current passed between them, making his belly tighten pleasantly. But Raynor pushed it aside. This was his friend’s sister, a noblewoman. And Raynor had no intention of dallying in that direction.

His lips twisted in a self-derisive grimace. Though he was guilty of nothing where Louisa was concerned, he had just admitted to being so. He had no intention of becoming entangled with Stephen’s sister. Even if he did see a stirring of warm challenge in her lovely eyes when she looked at him. Long ago he’d decided no woman was to be trusted in his life. Raynor’s father had loved his wife blindly, giving up every shred of self-respect to please her. And if that was love, Raynor wanted no part in it.

With that thought firmly in mind, Raynor stepped aside so that Stephen could speak with her.

He pretended not to notice how her gaze lingered on him as Stephen told her where they were going and made arrangements for her to be taken home.