The food when it came was just about palatable. The pea-and-ham soup was over-salted and greasy, and the bread was at least a day old, but it was fine for dipping in the soup. There was a soft goat’s cheese. It was surprisingly tasty. Clare cut generous slices and handed round the platter.
‘My thanks,’ Arthur said. ‘We shall survive till morning.’
Ivo grimaced, fished something out of his soup and wiped his hand on his chausses. ‘I am not so sure, sir.’
‘Eat up, lad. Until we reach Fontaine, we can’t be sure what we’ll be eating.’
Outside, twilight was falling fast. Clare noticed. She glanced towards the door and her mismatched eyes swept over the cracks in the walls. Her brow wrinkled. ‘Are we staying here tonight? Is there room?’
‘There’s space in the loft.’ Arthur jerked his head at a serving boy, who was at that moment wrestling a mattress up the ladder. ‘It’s cramped, but it’s warm and the thatch looks sound. No draughts.’
Clare smothered a yawn and nodded. They’d been in the saddle long enough to tax a veteran and Clare was no veteran, she was exhausted—she was so exhausted she hadn’t realised she was going to be on her own with him.
Arthur watched it sink in after they had climbed the loft ladder.
She dug in her heels at the storage room entrance and scowled at the mattress. ‘Arthur? There’s only one sleeping space.’
Arthur took her firmly by the elbow, ducked his head under the beams and guided her into the loft. The latch clicked behind them. ‘So there is,’ he said calmly. The lantern sat—slightly askew—on top of the crumbling barrel. ‘Holy Mother, that looks dangerous.’ Reaching out, he plucked the lantern from the barrel and placed in on a packing case.
‘Arthur?’ She folded her arms. ‘One mattress?’
He shrugged, which wasn’t easy given he was almost bent double under the low, sloping ceiling. ‘Look around, what room is there for two? Don’t you trust me?’
‘Yes, but...but I thought Ivo would be with us.’
Arthur sighed. ‘You can go back downstairs and sleep with the others in the draughts, I shan’t stop you.’
Her frown deepened. ‘I think I shall do that.’ She lifted the door latch. ‘Will you be coming down, too?’
He shook his head, cracking his skull on a beam. ‘Mon Dieu!’
Her hand went to cover her mouth and Arthur heard a distinct giggle. When the door latch fell back into place, he knew that she would not be sleeping downstairs.
Arthur looked so uncomfortable, stooped over, ruefully rubbing his scalp.
‘You look like a hunchback,’ Clare said, almost before she had thought. ‘A gargoyle.’
‘Flatterer.’ His hand fell away and he gestured at the mattress. ‘For pity’s sake, if you’re staying, can’t you settle down? I’m getting a crick in my neck.’
Nodding, Clare dropped on to the bed and shuffled to one end of the mattress. She pulled off her boots. The mattress wasn’t narrow, but it wasn’t very wide either.
‘We...’ she flushed ‘...we are to lie down together.’
‘Yes.’ With a sigh, Arthur lowered himself down a good yard from her and rolled his shoulders.
She untied her cloak. Someone—Ivo presumably, when she hadn’t been looking—had brought Arthur’s pack up. Blankets had been left on top of it.
‘Here.’ Arthur tossed a blanket at her, lips twisting. ‘Wrap yourself in this, it will save your virtue.’
‘I do trust you, you know.’
He shook his head and bent to ease off a boot. ‘No, you don’t.’ The boot landed by the lopsided barrel and sent up a puff of dust. ‘You would have answered my questions if you trusted me. You wouldn’t have resorted to a ridiculous ploy like pretending to fall from your horse if you trusted me.’
Her breath caught. ‘What questions?’
‘Each time I mention the thieves, you turn the conversation.’
‘I do?’
‘You know you do,’ he said, voice hard. He tugged off his other boot, his dark eyes bleak. ‘God knows why, but it irks me, it irks me more than I can say. I want you to trust me.’ He shoved his hand through his hair.
‘Arthur, I do trust you.’ She leaned towards him, twisting the tie of her cloak round her finger. ‘Am I not here with you now? Alone. Of course I trust you.’
‘Prove it. Talk to me. Tell me what you know about Geoffrey’s death.’
‘He was killed at the Field of the Birds, before the tournament began.’
‘That I know. He hoped to sell that stolen relic on behalf of the thief, did he not? He was acting as a middleman.’
Clare bit her lip. She had thought—hoped—that only Count Lucien knew the full extent of Geoffrey’s shame. Somehow Arthur had divined the truth. It was hard talking about it.
When Arthur touched her arm, she almost jumped out of her skin. ‘There is no disloyalty in you admitting this,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious what he was about.’
‘Geoffrey regretted his alliance with the thieves,’ Clare said softly. ‘He realised what a mistake it was, but he was far too naive—when he tried to break free—’
‘That’s why he was killed?’ Arthur’s eyes were intent. ‘Because he wanted to break with the thieves?’
She nodded. ‘He was foolish enough to tell them that he intended to return the relic to the Abbey.’
The dark eyes held hers. ‘That’s the truth?’
‘I swear it.’
‘They must have decided he knew too much. Lord, what a waste. But it’s a relief to know Geoffrey saw the error of his ways. I always did like that lad. He had potential.’ Arthur scrubbed his face. ‘At least the man who killed him is dead. What concerns me is how bold the other outlaws have become. Time was when most of them would abandon Troyes once a fair was ended. They would follow the fair to the next town in search of richer pickings and they’d only come back when the fair returned. This winter it’s different—a number are known to have stayed behind. Clare, why did you flee Troyes? Do the thieves have a hold over you? Did they threaten you?’ His eyes held hers. ‘I cannot shake the thought that something else is afoot. Please help. You might prevent other deaths.’
Clare fiddled with the ties of her cloak. On the one hand, she wanted to help him, he was straightforward and honest. She liked him, too much for her own good. As Captain of the Guardian Knights, it could only advance him in the eyes of Count Henry if he returned to his post with information about the thief and his connection with slavers. On the other hand, it was unlikely that he would be satisfied with a brief warning that slavers were at work in Champagne.
Arthur would want every last detail and she would end up being forced to confess that, up until a year ago, she had been a slave in Apulia. And from there, he would be but one step away from learning about the accusations that had been levelled against her. Attempted murder.
Count Myrrdin might be the most honourable man in Brittany, but he is a nobleman—he is bound to be proud. What will he think if he learns that his supposed daughter is an escaped slave with a price on her head?
And Arthur...
Briefly, Clare closed her eyes. She didn’t like to think how Arthur would react. She slanted a look at him, sitting so calmly beside her. The man exuded power. Tonight, the lamplight softened those dark, clear-cut features. It blurred the determined line of his jaw. None the less, his attention was entirely focused on her, he was trying to read her.
I am safe with this man.
Clare dropped the tie of her cloak. It was an innocuous movement, but he noticed. This man was, she was learning, peculiarly attuned to every move she made. Voices were floating up from downstairs—the low rumble of a man’s voice; a child’s high-pitched laughter. She was fully conscious of the clatter and chatter of the customers below, and of a str
ange vulnerability in Arthur’s expression. There was a kiss in his eyes. A kiss.
Her pulse quickened. Arthur wanted to kiss her. Her mouth went dry. It was nerves. The temptation to accept that kiss was irresistible...
Her cloak fell open. Her gown hadn’t been cut with seduction in mind, she could never compete with that woman—Gabrielle—at the Black Boar in Troyes, but there was warmth between them. She really liked this man. Dare she take his kiss?
Scarcely breathing, she reached for his hand. She hoped she wasn’t trembling. She didn’t think she was, but she had never initiated contact with a man in this way and wasn’t entirely certain how to proceed.
I shall be myself.
His eyes searched hers before dropping to her mouth.
‘Clare?’
She shifted closer and the mattress rustled. Broad shoulders blocked out the light. She saw him swallow and it gave her pause. Arthur couldn’t possibly be nervous. Not a strong, red-blooded man who was in the habit of visiting Gabrielle at the Black Boar. Of course, Clare wasn’t Gabrielle, but it was good to think that she had the power to attract him. It was a heady feeling.
And she had spoken the truth earlier—she did feel safe with him, Arthur was no Sandro, he would never push her to give more than she wanted. She ached for that kiss...
Arthur’s hand turned, palm up and he held it motionless as though curious to see what she would do. Shakily, she slid her fingers between his and squeezed gently.
His breath hitched and he cleared his throat. ‘This is another of your ploys.’
‘Ploys?’ Slowly, Clare released his fingers and moved her hand on, under the sleeve of his tunic. Light though she kept her touch, she could feel the strength in his forearm—the muscles, the slight abrasion of masculine hair...
Her heart thudded. She felt fluttery and nervous—she was longing to try out his kiss, but none the less this would be the first kiss that had not been forced on her. I like this man. She moistened her lips and waited.
‘Clare...’
His voice was husky. It sounded as though he hadn’t used it in an age. In the poor light his face was unreadable, but she thought his skin had darkened. His eyes glittered like jet—she could see the grey flecks in them. She was unaware of moving again, but he was nearer than he’d been a moment ago. His mouth—she was watching it closely—went up at a corner.
‘Clare, I’m warning you...’
Face aflame, she inched in, only stopping when her breasts touched the front of his leather gambeson. A tingle shot from her breasts to her belly.
‘Clare.’
And then his hand was round the back of her neck, steadying her head, and his mouth was on hers. One kiss. Two. Three. They were brief kisses and they tantalised. With each touch of his lips, the thrill in her belly intensified. She felt warm right through. He was so gentle. He smelt of leather and horse and a fresh earthy smell that was simply...Arthur.
She pressed closer, catching hold of his shoulders when he paused and she feared he was making a move to end the kiss before they’d truly begun.
No, she was mistaken—he wasn’t retreating, he was raining kisses on her mouth, on her cheeks. One. Two. Three. On her neck. One. Two. Three. The tingle turned into an ache. Clare had never felt this pleasure that was pain before, but she knew what it was. Want. These small kisses were torture. They made her want a deeper, more thorough kiss. She wanted the kiss she had seen in his eyes.
Shocked at herself, she pulled back. Breathing hard, Arthur tore off his gambeson, tossed it on to the boards and took her in his arms. As her breasts pressed against his linen tunic, his lips fastened on hers and he smiled against her mouth.
‘Better. Much better,’ he murmured.
They were kneeling on the mattress and, with the gambeson out of the way, Clare had his tunic under her fingers instead of leather and padding. She could feel the heat of his body. Through the slighter barrier of linen, his wide, muscled shoulders were hers to touch. The skin of his neck was warm. His hair sifted through her fingers, gleaming in the lamplight. She eased back and, with a quiet mutter of protest, he allowed her to explore his chest. Strong. So strong.
If only Arthur could be her guardian knight, in truth. She wouldn’t have to worry about slavers. The past could remain in the past, and she wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not Count Myrrdin would accept her.
Nipping her ear, he held her firmly against him. His tongue ran round her lips and Clare found herself opening her mouth to accept a full kiss. His tongue swept in and touched hers. Though startled, she found herself responding in kind, sliding her tongue against his. It was disarmingly playful and she loved it. Her bones were melting. She ached everywhere.
Oh dear, she liked this man far too much...
* * *
Arthur was enjoying the restless slide of Clare’s breasts against his tunic. He would kiss her for ever if it meant she kept moving against him like that. His hands ached to tear that homespun gown from her and see if her breasts were the same perfect ivory as the thigh he had seen earlier. But there could be no tearing of gowns, she only had the one.
He tore his mouth from hers. This must stop. He shouldn’t be kissing her, she was under his protection. Her mouth—Lord—it was swollen with kisses and he yearned to kiss it again. Her breasts were straining against the fabric of her gown—they were beautifully shaped, and her nipples were pressing into the weave. For a slight woman she had the most beautiful breasts. ‘Tomorrow...’ he swallowed ‘...tomorrow we shall find you a warmer gown.’ And an undergown, even if it means I shall feel less of you. Even if I can see less of you.
She didn’t answer, not in words. A small hand curled round his neck and guided his mouth back to hers. His palms ached to cup her breasts. As for his loins, he was like a rock. Ready. Aching. Desire pulsed through him, every bit as strong as the desire Gabrielle’s clever fingers had wrung out of him back in Troyes. Stronger. He had to stop. He must.
Clare moaned his name. ‘Arthur.’
Even though Arthur knew this must go no further, his hand slid over a breast. Perfect, as he’d suspected. Even more perfect was the way she gave another moan and pressed into him. Simply perfect. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes fanned prettily across deeply flushed cheeks. Her breath was coming in short gasps, drawing his gaze down. He weighed her breast in his palm, longing to see her body. He burned to touch her, flesh to flesh.
This elfin girl had aroused him with incredible ease. He couldn’t fathom it. She had only been in his arms a few moments and it was obvious that Geoffrey had taught her very little. She hadn’t half the skill of Gabrielle and yet...
He grimaced. He was hard, painfully, agonisingly hard. But he could do nothing about it, not without risking his honour. She was under his protection...
‘It would be wrong,’ he muttered, releasing her.
Mismatched eyes gazed up at him and her breath feathered across his face. Her shy smile was confirmation that this woman was not one to tumble lightly. Particularly if her father might be the Lord of Fontaine. Arthur might want nothing more than to roll with her on to the mattress and take his joy of her, but that was impossible.
He reached for the second blanket. ‘Sleep now. Sleep.’
It was only after they were both cocooned in their cloaks and blankets that Arthur realised that once again, the conversation had been turned and she had avoided his questions. He grimaced up at the rafters, shifting to ease the tightness in his loins. Had the kiss been but another of her ploys, another attempt to distract him? If so, she had succeeded. She had touched him at a deep, primal level. They’d done little enough, but for a while he’d almost lost control. Their brief—some would say innocent—exchange of kisses had roused him enough to have him tearing off his gambeson like a lad of sixteen. He’d been desperate to get closer. Well, this girl was out of
bounds to him, they must not get any closer.
Arthur listened to her breathing. Soft. Quiet. She had her back to him and was pretending to be asleep. He knew she wasn’t asleep, but he would let her think she had him fooled. What was she thinking? Was she regretting having kissed him? Something—likely a mouse—rustled in the thatch above them. The soft rumble of voices floated up through the boards from below. A child coughed.
Throbbing with thwarted desire, he found himself painting a picture in his mind of what Clare would look like naked. Naked beneath him. She’d be soft and delicate, all feminine curves. Welcoming. It was odd how much he wanted to see—and touch—her naked skin. At the Black Boar, Arthur had tumbled Gabrielle every which way, but not once had he bothered to undress himself. It had never occurred to him. He’d had Gabrielle whilst still clad in his tunic and hose; he’d had her with his gambeson firmly in place; he’d had her with his boots on...
But Clare... Lord, he’d give a month’s pay to lie with her naked and play the lover.
Arthur knew as much as there was to know about bought love. Bought love was the only sort of love a landless knight such as he could afford. Clare made him wonder about an altogether different sort of love. What would it be like to play the lover, in truth?
He studied the back of her head. Her loosely braided hair drew the light from the lamp. A coppery skein flowed across the blanket. Other colours were twisted amongst the copper—blonde, chestnut, brown. Reaching out, he was about to stroke it, when he checked himself. Lord, he must take care. Clare wasn’t his lady-love. A landless knight had nothing to offer someone like Clare. He must remember what had happened to his mother—the way the townsfolk had shunned her because she had given birth out of wedlock. That was not going to happen to Clare. He rolled on to his back. He’d only kissed her, thank God. But had things gone much further, he wasn’t certain he’d have been able to stop. He wanted her.
This must go no further.
Best keep his eyes on the ceiling. No—best close his eyes. Best sleep.
Unveiling Lady Clare Page 9