by C. C. Wiley
Ranulf’s gut tightened. “Leave us, Mistress Erwina.”
Erwina cleared her throat and cast the messenger a withering glance. “Of all the damnable interruptions. My lord, I really must . . .”
“Now.”
While he waited until the tormenting woman was out of earshot, he searched the man for markings to reveal his identity. “And who might you be?”
“Name’s Harald.” Waving aside additional questions, the stranger removed his cap in a flourish. “There has been an attempted murder.”
“Here? On Sedgewic lands?” Ranulf’s hands fisted at his waist. “By whose order do you deliver such a rumor?”
The man bobbed his head like a duck diving for its meal in a pond. “No, my lord. I’ve been sent by one of your neighbors to the west. To warn you.”
“Margrave?” Ranulf folded his arms over his chest. “This is not news. The man hanged himself.”
“Not the old lord. The new one. A serving wench attacked Robert of Margrave. I witnessed it.”
Something about this man made Ranulf search his narrow face. Perhaps ’twas the man’s nervous fidgeting or his inability to meet his gaze. The man told half truths; he was certain of it. But why be linked to someone wanted for treason? “You saw the woman attack the Margrave’s only son and you could not stop her?”
“No! I arrived after the murderous bitch ran off. ’Twas easy enough to see she stabbed him in the leg and left him to die.”
“I suppose leg wounds can be a dirty business if left untended.” Ranulf shook his head.
Harald crushed the woodsman’s cap in his hand. “’Twas his noggin that took the brunt of it. The way he was bound to the table, he looked like a bleedin’ hog readied for the spit.” His throat bobbed as he held out a parchment. “This here is her.”
Ranulf took the rough sketch of a nondescript woman with long dark hair. It could have been half the population. Strangers came across his lands on a regular basis but always in groups. Women never traveled alone. Except for one.
“’Tis suggested that she is dangerous and will strike again.” Harald shoved his straw-colored hair from his sweating brow.
The walls seemed to breathe with every renewed thump and bang. Ranulf focused his gaze, peering into the messenger’s pale face. “How do you come by this?”
“I . . . uh, was hired.” His eyes shifted to the nearest door. “To bring this message. As a friendly gesture.”
“And you would do this for someone who is wanted by the king for treason? This family is said to have plotted against the king of England. Your king and mine. I should hold you here for questioning.”
“Oh, my lord,” the man cried. “But I know nothing! I’m just a messenger.”
Confusion erupted as the hole in the wall spewed out its contents onto the solar floor with a blast of thunder. Harald danced out of the way, protecting his feet from coming in contact with the whirling bundle of limbs. He lifted his cloak away from the debris and bent to peer under Clarice’s oversize cap. “And what of the murderess?”
“Murderess?” Ranulf firmly moved Harald out of the way but kept a solid grip on his shoulder. “I assure you that we’ll send word if we see someone who fits the woman’s description.” He gave him a quick shake, drawing him away from casting frightened glances to the nearest escape. “Where did you say Lady Annora and her son were hiding?”
“I didn’t . . .” Harald’s mouth gaped like a landed fish. “I don’t know.”
“I see.” The lord of Sedgewic pointed to the spot beside the rubble. “Stay here until Sir Nathan can see you on your way.” An awkward pause settled between them before he added, “He’ll want to ride with you. For your safety, of course.”
Clarice kept her face hidden underneath the hat. Without a word, she rose from the pile of rubble and dusted off her skirt.
Ranulf strode toward the beasties wreaking havoc to his albeit crumbling, home. His jaw muscles leaped in irritation. “What? No apologizes for demolishing my solar? Unsettling my home? Injuring one of the children?”
Lips pressed together in a firm line, Clarice jerked away from his hand when he reached out to steady her balance. “Really, my lord, I don’t think any of these can be considered my fault. Perhaps you should hire additional masons. Your castle appears to be in disrepair.”
After locating the slipper that had fallen off in the flight through the wall, she limped over to fetch it.
Hamish’s plaintive moan drew their attention. He lay in a ball, covering his head with his hands.
Ranulf tugged her cap down low and nudged her toward the boy. “See to Hamish. Take him to his room.”
She opened her mouth and snapped it closed. Her eyes narrowed as she stumbled over to the boy.
Freed from his prison inside the wall, Hamish grinned up at them. There were scratches on his face and hands. Dust and chunks of crumbling stone matted his hair. Two almond-shaped holes peeped out from under gray lashes coated with dirt. “I told you we’d be just fine.”
“Expect me to deal with both of you later,” Ranulf said. He cast a glance over his shoulder. “Damn.”
Harald, the rat-faced messenger, was gone.
Chapter 14
While Sir Nathan and the soldiers gave chase after Harald, Clarice hid on the parapet, high above the bailey. There had to be a way for her to escape the castle. She watched the men as they carried out their orders, hauling planks of wood to shore up the outer wall. Their backs were bent, strong muscles stretching and straining under the weight of stone.
One broad back in particular caught her eye. Lord Ranulf labored far into the morning, rarely stopping for a break.
In a rare moment of rest, he poured a pitcher of water over his head. She gasped as rivulets cascaded over his shoulders, racing to the narrow band at his waist. The clothing plastered to his body allowed her a full view of the form beneath.
She leaned against the stone to get a closer look and flinched as the laborer turned. Her fingers dug into the wall, knuckles whitening under her grip. The king’s wolf. Father’s red wolf. Was he friend or foe? Had she been sent to the wolf’s den? Very possibly to her death?
He stretched his arms overhead. The wet linen clung to his chest, molding around the planes. Bands of lean flesh pressed against the seams of his breeches. He arched his back, bringing the juncture between his legs to full view.
Clarice frowned, chewing on the inside of her lip. What kind of a fool am I? A score of men worked in the yard and she followed the enemy as if he carried her last meal. Tearing her gaze from the man, she forced her attention to the children in the courtyard.
Mistress Erwina had found Hamish. He squirmed under her hold, dragging his feet as if being led to the devil himself. Pulling him along by the ear, she led the boy to the lord’s side.
Clarice regretted that Hamish had showed her the secret passage. She was the reason the lad was in trouble. Her knees wobbled as shrieks filled the bailey. She stood on tiptoe to lean over the parapet, searching for the fastest way down to the ground.
“What’s this?” Her head cocked to one side as she listened in disbelief.
The shrieks had turned to laughter. Lord Ranulf now stood under the shade tree, holding Hamish upside down and tickling his ribs. After Hamish’s tepid plea for release, he set the boy back on his feet and nudged him toward the workers. She sighed, her back pressed against the castle wall. The lad did not need rescuing after all.
Clarice rubbed her lip and searched the bailey yard. If she planned well, she could escape Sedgewic while everyone was busy attending to the repair of the solar. There were horses aplenty tied at the posts, awaiting their riders. However, they stood in plain sight and offered no chance of escape. Her attention caught a tall black horse, saddled and standing by itself near the edge of the stables. It looked similar to Robert’s stallion. Hidden in the shadows as it was, had she not been searching, she never would have noticed it.
She wasted no time in finding the stairwa
y leading to the kitchen garden. She kept to the shadows, recalling the layout of the outer buildings, which she had seen from the window of the bedchamber. Angling away from the corner of the garrison, she made her way to the bailey yard. Smoke swelled from the smithy’s hut, creating a cloud of haze to help her slip past the fire pit and anvil. Once across the bailey, she headed to the stables and ran to the side where she had seen the beautiful black horse.
Clarice skidded to a stop. “Shite,” she whispered.
The horse looked much larger now than it had from the parapet. She swallowed the dust lodged in her throat.
The stallion towered over her. Noting a stranger’s scent, it tossed its head. Nostrils flaring, its fiery gaze cut into her resolve. The powerful hooves stamped the earth, threatening to shatter her hope of escape.
She had to hurry. The racket seemed to be louder than her heart attacking her rib cage. Someone was certain to come to see what agitated the beast.
Frantic, Clarice glanced around. A mounting block was nowhere in sight. There was no possible way she would be able to get into the saddle, let alone manage that demon. There had to be another way. Another horse. Buttercup.
After checking to see if anyone came, she ran to the stable’s large double doors and slipped through. Darkness enveloped her. Without light from the lanterns, the shadows consumed everything. Her nose itched from the musky scent of horses and hay. But the stables were empty of groomsmen. Even the stableboy was absent. Why? Where was everyone?
Clarice’s skin prickled under her chemise. Someone was there, stumbling in the shadows. A curse and a clang of metal rang out in the stable. Hurry! Hurry!
Forcing her legs to move, one by one she searched the stalls. Buttercup, her father’s gray palfrey, nickered. The old war-horse leaned its neck over the door and nudged her cheek.
Relief flooded through her veins, weakening the dam that kept her tears at bay. Someone had tied bits of ribbon in the long strands of white hair. “Oh, Buttercup, you are a treasure,” she whispered against the horse’s neck. “Who has treated you so well? Micah? The one Hamish chatters about?”
Buttercup’s velvet ears twitched, then flattened back. She began backing up, fidgeting anxiously, shaking her full mane.
With everyone distracted, she opened Buttercup’s stall and led her out of the stable.
She turned to soothe the agitated horse. “Come, girl, ’tis a short walk to the gate and then—”
Their escape came to an abrupt halt when she backed into a solid wall of muscle.
Ranulf stood in her path. Fine white lines bloomed from his thinned lips. Silently, he held out his hand and waited for her to surrender the reins.
Clarice measured the distance from stable to main gate and knew she would never make it. Buttercup had only known her father’s seat and had had little time to adjust to her own. If she were to ride without a saddle, ’twould end disastrously.
She bit her lip and winced. Nodding in surrender, she handed Ranulf the reins and turned to walk away.
His arm, corded with muscle, wrapped around her waist. “I think not,” Ranulf said softly.
Clarice closed her eyes. The knot in her stomach grew. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing he terrified her at that moment. “Lord Ranul—”
“Enough.”
Before she could attempt an argument, he flipped her over his shoulder and had her hanging upside down. Gasping for air, she bounced upon his shoulder as he took the stairs two steps at a time.
Her head pounded with her heart. She glared at his backside as it came perilously close to her nose. The waistband she had noted earlier was close enough that she could touch it with her lips. Eyes squeezed tight shut, she hoped at least one of her prayers would be heard. Dear Lord, let me survive his punishment. Then let vengeance be mine!
She kicked out and bit his back. Although rewarded with a yelp, her joy was short-lived as she earned a resounding smack on her backside.
“Try that again,” Ranulf said, “and I swear by all that is holy, you’ll get more of the same.”
Clarice peeked out from the veil of her hair. Her humiliation mounted as giggling children followed behind them like a flock of ducks. They had paused, watching wide-eyed as he carried her up the flight of stairs. When she heard the door kicked shut she realized they had reached their destination.
Chapter 15
What am I to do with this wench?
’Twas unclear why he had brought Clarice to the privacy of his bedchamber. ’Twould have been a better idea to question her in the remains of the solar, his friends at his side to add their opinions. Instead, Darrick and Nathan were out chasing their own prey.
In times past, he had been too softhearted with the gentler sex. And what had it gained him?
Grimacing, he scanned the bedchamber. Until recently, it had been devoid of Mary’s memory. Now there were signs of a lady’s presence. A woman’s cloak hung on a peg. A brush lay on the table by the fire, ready to bring shine to her hair. Blankets, tossed about, showed signs of a restless sleep. His blood stirred at the thought of Clarice in his bed.
Her skirt rode up her leg, revealing tender flesh and a well-turned ankle. She had stopped flailing long enough for him to rest his hands on delicately shaped calves. No longer dodging a well-planted foot to his chest, he enjoyed the satiny feel of her skin. His thoughts danced out of control. Is the back of her knee as soft as her calves? Does she sigh when a lover places a kiss upon that tender crease?
“God’s nails! Take your hands off me, you whoreson dog.” Her muffled voice reverberated against his spine.
Ranulf hesitated. As much as the thought of letting her drop to the floor was compelling, he could not bring himself to do it. Instead, the bed beckoned him, standing as a refuge in a desolate land. It promised him a brief paradise in a lonely, barren life.
“If you don’t, I swear I will give you the same as I gave Robert,” she warned.
Ranulf froze. Robert of Margrave? She knew his given name? Her barb struck him solidly. What did they mean to each other?
He ran his hand up her backside and jerked her forward. Freeing her waist from his shoulder, he let her slide down the front of his chest. Without a word, he whipped her around, pointed her to the bed. He gave her a little shove between the shoulder blades with the palm of his hand. She landed on the mattress with a thump.
Her lips curled in a snarl as she pushed the wayward strands of hair out of her wide eyes. “Touch me again my lord,” she said, struggling to rise, “and I promise you will get what you deserve.”
Was she one of Robert’s whores? Willing to spy for her master? Ranulf stepped closer, shrinking the space until the air between them felt as if it snapped with lightning. He squashed the urge to touch her, jerking his hands away and clasping them behind his back. “You will not ply your trade in Sedgewic.”
Her outraged gasp twisted his gut. Clarice came within an inch of his chest. “Exactly who . . . what do you think I am?”
Ranulf lifted her chin. “You’re Robert’s play—”
She jerked her face away. “I would rather stick a blade into his putrid flesh than have him look in my direction.” She stepped out of his reach, clutching her skirt as if to run. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.”
“You are his serving wench?” Ranulf advanced, stalking her as she attempted to evade his questions.
“You’re wrong.”
He jammed a hand through his hair and refused to hear her denials. She was crying now, and he hated it when women shed false tears. Had it been a lovers’ quarrel? Had she wanted too much from the Margraves? This should have encouraged him. Her allegiance was attainable for a price. But whose? His jaw tightened. I have to know.
He grabbed her arms. “Did you tire of a defeated old man to pursue his stepson instead? ’Tis the truth, is it not?” He pushed his point. “What’s the matter, my sweet? Did you learn what a snake Robert really is?”
“No! I—”
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“Was there poison in his bite? His fangs a bit too sharp?” He stopped, suddenly aware of the difference in their strength, and released her.
“Please. I beg you to hear me out.”
Ranulf snapped his head in agreement, regretting it as soon as he did. He searched her face, looking for the lies.
“Robert came to my bedchamber and tried to . . .” Fear hid behind the shadows in her eyes. She shook her head, the cap of raven glistening in the light. “. . . I protected myself. I didn’t try to kill him.” Her legs sagged and she dropped to the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. Just scare him away. Fa . . . Lord Margrave was no longer there to see that Robert kept his distance.”
Another abused servant? But how did they miss her in their raid on Margrave Manor? Clarice trembled, her teeth clicking together. Ranulf sighed and knelt where she sat huddled on the floor. Perhaps she knew of the maiden with the long raven hair. Pressing her might break her, but he did not need a broken soul. He needed answers. He tipped her chin so that she met his gaze and found himself lost in the azure chips wet with tears.
“There was another who needed my protection from the snakes of life. And I failed.” He stroked the pad of his finger across her cheek and caught a crystal tear before it followed the others. “I was young and foolish to believe that here in this dilapidated castle we were safe enough, even without walls to protect us. But I forgot that sometimes we must be protected from ourselves.” He let his hand settle on her shoulder. “My offer of protection stands. The Margraves will no longer harm you.”
“I . . . uh, thank you.” She withdrew, leaning away from him. Her mouth wobbled in an attempt to smile. Her hands never ceased plucking at the folds of her skirt.
Ranulf caught her fidgeting fingers, urging her to trust him. “And now, thanks to two adventurers, I am forced to examine the inner walls sooner than I planned.”
Grimacing, she ducked her head. “I’m sorry about the damage to your castle, Lord Ranulf.”
Ranulf smoothed back her hair. “Not to worry. You and Hamish have done me a favor.”