Unveiling Lady Clare

by Carol Townend

  ‘I doubt Ivo will be fit to travel for some days,’ Clare said, picking up her spoon.

  ‘I realise that.’ Arthur winced as Ivo coughed in his sleep. ‘I knew he had a cold, but this—if only he’d spoken up. I wouldn’t have driven him so hard.’

  ‘He knows how eager you are to return to Troyes. Do you have family there? I recall you saying your father was dead. What about your mother? Is that why you’re so eager to return?’

  ‘No family. They’re all gone.’

  ‘All?’ Arthur’s tone hadn’t been encouraging, but the question was out before Clare could call it back. To her surprise, he answered.

  ‘Father, mother, brother—they are all dead.’

  For someone of Arthur’s age—Clare guessed that he was in his late twenties—it was not surprising to find that his parents had died. But how sad that he had lost a brother...

  ‘You had a brother... Were you close?’

  Arthur nodded, he was staring at the ale jug. ‘His name was Miles. He was knighted some years before me. He was older than me by ten years, but, notwithstanding that, we were fast friends. That sword—’ Arthur jerked his head at the sword on the hook ‘—belonged to Miles before it was mine. Father made it.’

  ‘Your parents must have been proud to see both sons knighted.’

  ‘Mother only saw Miles knighted—his death all but destroyed her. She died before I received my spurs.’

  Clare put her hand on his. ‘Arthur, I am sorry.’

  He squeezed her hand. When he bent his head and kissed her fingers, her heart gave a little jump.

  ‘Father was never quite the same after Mother died.’

  ‘That is understandable.’ She swallowed. ‘What happened to Miles?’

  The dark head shook and he dropped her hand. ‘It’s an ugly tale and I don’t like talking about it. One day, perhaps—’

  There was a world of pain behind his words. Clare was opening her mouth to tell him that she didn’t care that the tale was ugly, that it might be better if he talked about it, when the door swung open and the cold rushed in.

  It was the novice who had brought their meal. ‘I’ve come for the tray, if your supper is finished, sir?’

  Arthur glanced at Clare. ‘You’ve had enough?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  The novice loaded the tray, leaving the cups and ale jug on the side table. ‘Will you care to break your fast in the morning, sir?’

  ‘If you please. We may have to rely on your hospitality for a couple of days. I doubt my squire will be fit to travel tomorrow.’

  ‘Fresh bread will be ready shortly after dawn, sir. And should you need more candles, there’s a supply in the box by the hearth.’

  ‘My thanks.’ As the door clicked shut behind the novice, Arthur glanced at the stairwell leading to the upper chamber—the guests’ dormitory. ‘You are ready to retire?’

  She nodded. ‘What about Ivo?’

  ‘It would be a crime to wake him. He looks settled by the fire. Let’s get you comfortable upstairs. Would you like me to escort you to the wash house first?’ He gave her a rueful smile. ‘The monastery won’t have been built with the comfort of female guests in mind, I can stand as your guard to ensure your privacy.’

  Clare returned his smile. ‘My thanks.’

  * * *

  Clare sat on a pallet in the guests’ dormitory, combing her hair by candlelight. Arthur was yet to return from the wash house, and she had dragged two pallets close together. Very close. She had put them next to the chimney flue, where they would be warmed by heat coming up from below.

  Arthur had told her that they were more than halfway through their journey. The news should be welcome, but Clare’s stomach was tight with anxiety. She dreaded meeting Count Myrrdin. She wanted him to acknowledge her, indeed she prayed daily that she might make a home at Fontaine, but everything was so uncertain.

  How would the Count react? What would he expect of her? Her life would never be the same again and, for the most part, that had to be a blessing. If Count Myrrdin accepted her, she would never be hungry again; she would have fine clothes and a place in the world. On the other hand, her life might not change that much...

  Would Count Myrrdin expect unquestioning obedience? She knew next to nothing about how the illegitimate daughter of a count was expected to behave. She might find herself in a position where she had no more control over her life than she had when she was a slave.

  And then there was Arthur. She glanced at the pallet next to hers. He was yet another reason to dread reaching Fontaine. He was returning to Troyes and she knew she’d miss him. She didn’t want them to part.

  Which was why she had decided that tonight was the night. Such an opportunity—a whole chamber to themselves, a cosy bed—wasn’t likely to present itself again. She was alone with him. Anything might happen after they reached Fontaine, but if she wanted Arthur—and she did—it had to be tonight.

  Her pulse quickened. She could never have imagined trusting a man enough to have him stand guard outside a monk’s wash house while she completed her toilette. Something in Arthur inspired her complete trust.

  In her life, Clare had trusted only one other man—Geoffrey. When she had met Geoffrey, she had been exhausted and hungry. Sheer desperation had her agreeing to accompany him to his mother’s house. As soon as she had set eyes on Nicola and Nell, she’d known she would come to no harm. But would she have been so quick to stay if Geoffrey had lived there on his own? She doubted it. She smiled sadly at a candle glowing on a wall sconce. Poor Geoffrey. He had bitterly regretted his dealings with thieves and he had never had his chance to make amends. Geoffrey had proved to be something of a broken reed.

  Downstairs, the lodge door slammed. Footsteps were coming up the winding stairs. Arthur. Arthur was no broken reed. She found herself praying that the kisses they’d exchanged at the inn hadn’t quenched his desire. It was possible that he’d stopped for honourable reasons. Well, she was about to find out...

  Her pulse jumped. How would he react when he saw the intimate way their pallets were arranged?

  He pushed through the door, a lamp in one hand, his cloak and sword in the other. Their eyes held. ‘Warm enough?’

  Shadows moved as he strode towards her. He broke step when he noticed the positioning of the pallets.

  ‘Clare?’

  Arthur’s thoughts were so clear, he might as well have spoken them aloud. This was not the cramped loft in the Running Fox. The dormitory here was spacious, there was no excuse for them to be sleeping within reach of each other. Unless...

  To remove any doubts as to her intentions, Clare dropped her comb and held out her hand. ‘I think we shall both do very well. It’s beautifully warm by the chimney.’

  Arthur dropped his cloak and sword on the pallet and sat down beside her. He set the lamp to one side. ‘Clare.’ His voice was thick. Reaching out, he picked up a strand of her hair and wound it round his fingers. His eyes went black. ‘It’s good to see your hair again. Those veils...’ he shook his head ‘...I prefer you without them.’

  Clare set her hand on a broad shoulder and gave a little tug. Their lips met. The contact remained gentle until Arthur turned more fully towards her and gathered her to him. Clare closed her eyes and pressed against him, opening her mouth to his tongue. His masculine, earthy fragrance surrounded her.

  Breathing ragged, he pulled back. Clare felt a soft touch on her cheek. He was shaking his head. ‘Clare, I’m here to protect you, not ravish you.’

  ‘And if I want to be ravished?’

  ‘When you meet your father, you may find he has plans for you.’

  ‘Who knows what will happen at Fontaine?’ Clare heard her voice go hard. It took effort, but she softened it. ‘Arthur, I have been prey to the wishes of others all my
life. This is something I want for myself.’

  For an instant she thought she saw vulnerability in him. Then he smiled. ‘You want me.’

  ‘Yes, Arthur, I do.’ She lowered her eyes. This was harder than she had imagined it would be, her cheeks were on fire. ‘Unless you no longer... That is, the other day at the Running Fox I hoped...’ Bracing herself, she glanced up. His mouth was soft. Receptive. ‘Don’t you want...?’

  He looped his hand in her hair and tugged her back. ‘I want you, rest assured.’ He fitted his lips to hers and she lost herself in the warmth of his kiss. ‘Of course, I want you, ma mie,’ he muttered. ‘But you are not a woman to love and leave. I don’t know what happened between you and Geoffrey...’

  Clare made as if to speak, but he put his finger on her lips.

  ‘Say nothing. When I asked you before, you told me it wasn’t my business and you were right. What happened between you and Geoffrey is nothing to do with me. However, we cannot simply take pleasure in each other. You are not a Gabrielle.’

  Clare’s heart swelled. ‘No?’

  ‘You...’ he kissed the hair wound round his hand ‘...you are a beautiful, desirable woman and I want you.’ He went on playing with her hair, stroking it, examining it in the lamplight. ‘Clare, we both know what it is to be illegitimate.’

  Clare felt herself go still. ‘You, Arthur? You are illegitimate?’

  His mouth tightened. ‘I am.’

  As far as Clare was concerned, illegitimacy was not so terrible a slur. How could it be? She had been enslaved. Next to that, illegitimacy paled into insignificance. But she could see that for an ambitious knight like Arthur, illegitimacy might present some problems. Particularly since he came of humble stock.

  She frowned. ‘Your parents never married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Heavens, why not?’

  Broad shoulders lifted. ‘It would have made their lives easier if they had married, but my mother refused to consider it. Discussions about marriage were banned and Mother rarely spoke about her early life, so it was hard to discover why she wouldn’t marry Father. Over the years I picked up enough to realise that she was already married when they met.’

  ‘An unhappy marriage?’

  ‘Mother had been mistreated. She rarely talked about it. Father adored her and our house was filled with love and laughter. When I was a boy, it didn’t occur to me to probe for details. And after Mother died—it was soon after Miles—it seemed irrelevant. It would have wounded Father to discuss it and he was wounded enough by two great losses coming so close together.’ He slid his hand round her neck, catching the rest of her hair and drawing it forwards over her shoulder. ‘Clare, all I am saying is that I understand what it is to be illegitimate. We cannot simply take our pleasure of each other. I won’t bring another illegitimate child into this world.’

  Clare bit her lip. She felt very small. Very foolish. Arthur was refusing her. It felt like rejection, though she couldn’t fault him for it, he was a responsible man. She nodded.

  ‘However...’ shifting her hair aside, he kissed her neck and a warm shiver went through her ‘...there is something I would ask you. Clare, will you permit me to ask your father for your hand?’

  Clare blinked. He wanted to ask Count Myrrdin if he could marry her?

  ‘Well?’ Arthur’s brown eyes were intent. More watchful than ever.

  Clare couldn’t seem to take it in. One moment he was saying he wouldn’t take her as his lover and now he was asking her to marry him?

  ‘Arthur, my parentage is not yet proven and you want to marry me?’

  His smile was crooked. ‘I hadn’t thought to marry, but you and I are both of a kind. We are equals.’

  ‘Because we are illegitimate?’

  ‘Exactly. I never liked the idea of marrying someone who might look down her nose at me because of my birth.’

  Clare hesitated. She was at a loss as to how to respond. She was unfamiliar with Arthur’s world, but surely his skill at arms and his captaincy would have been more than enough to ward off any scorn that might have attached to him because of his birth? And if that were not enough, he was kind, honourable, handsome... In short, Arthur was the perfect knight. She was dreading being separated from him, she had enjoyed his protection and it would be wonderful to have someone on her side when she reached Fontaine.

  But never in her wildest dreams had she thought he would offer her marriage.

  And never in her wildest dreams had she thought she would consider marrying any man, not even for a moment.

  Marriage is but a form of slavery.

  Something told her that marriage to this man might be different. However...

  ‘Sir...Arthur, I am not the best match for you.’

  ‘I think that you are.’

  She gripped his arm. She could feel the strength of it through his sleeve, strength that she needed and admired. Yet she spoke the truth when she said that she was not his match. Arthur might not cavil at marrying someone who carried the stigma of illegitimacy—but someone who had been a slave? Someone who had been accused of attempted murder? For the Captain of the Guardian Knights that would be a different case entirely. She couldn’t marry him when he knew so little about her. And she couldn’t tell him about what had happened with Sandro, she simply couldn’t.

  ‘You don’t know me,’ she muttered.

  ‘I know all that matters.’ He leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers. The kiss was hot. Slow. Deep. It heated her blood and curled her toes. It was the kiss of a man who would be her lover. Her husband. And there were more kisses in his eyes.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I want you, Clare. I want you as I have wanted none before. Let me pleasure you, I can do that.’

  A pulse throbbed in her throat and her cheeks warmed. Pleasure her? She wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but it would seem he wasn’t rejecting her. She felt like pinching herself—he’d asked her to marry him!

  Her hands went to his shoulders. ‘Arthur, I want you for my friend.’

  He drew his head back and gave her a puzzled smile. ‘You don’t have to let me pleasure you to have me as your friend.’

  ‘I know.’ As she smiled shyly up at him, her fingers went to the ties of his gambeson. ‘I want you for my lover as well as my friend. But you don’t have to marry me. I trust you to take care, Arthur.’

  A hand covered hers, stopping her from pulling off his gambeson. ‘You don’t wish me to approach Count Myrrdin?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. You must do as you see fit. I don’t want you to be obligated.’

  His face cleared. His hand fell from hers. ‘There is no obligation.’ He looked pointedly at her mouth. ‘Kiss me, ma mie, kiss me.’

  Chapter Eight

  A delightful frisson ran through Arthur’s body as she knelt up and pressed her mouth to his. Clare intrigued him. The ladies at the Champagne court had never approached him with such candour—such shy candour. It was as appealing as it was uncommon. The manner in which she had confessed to wanting him for her lover would in any other woman be proof of great experience. And yet, as her soft mouth sought his—so sensual, so tentative—there were times when all he could see in her was innocence.

  He shrugged out of his gambeson, gathered her close and bore her with him on to the mattress. He would give her pleasure and then he would stop. He couldn’t take her to her father and leave her worrying about the possibility of bearing his child.

  Her hair tumbled about her like copper silk; it glinted like fire. Pushing a strand from her cheeks, catching the scent of lavender, he leaned over her. Her lips were parted, and her eyes, her mismatched, beautiful eyes, were looking at him with complete trust. He was utterly disarmed. And his thoughts were in knots.

  Did she want him to approach her father with an
offer of marriage? Or was she, like his parents, against marriage for some reason? He longed to know. What did she see when she looked at him? A friend—she had said she saw a friend. And a lover. Why not a husband?

  She was reaching up, combing her fingers through his hair, breaking the thread of his thoughts with that soft touch, that quiet smile. Catching her hand, he kissed a work-worn finger. Then the next and the next. He took the last, smallest finger into his mouth and sucked.

  He heard a breathy giggle. ‘Arthur.’

  Her free hand was wrestling with the hem of his tunic, pushing it up. Easing back, he dragged if off and tossed it aside.

  Her gaze slid over the silver unicorn he wore on a chain round his neck and her cheeks flushed as she studied his chest. She sighed, once, and reached to touch him. It was the lightest of caresses. Again, and he could not have said why, he felt utterly disarmed. With infinite care, finger trembling, she traced a line along his collarbone. His groin tightened. She ran her hand over his muscles, slowing slightly to ruffle the curls on his chest. It seemed she was taking pleasure in the contact. Simple pleasure, though she must have done this before.

  When she smiled, the dark burn of desire throbbed deep in his veins. Arthur swallowed and, lowering himself alongside her, found her mouth. He kissed, he nipped and licked. She tasted delicate and sweet, and set off a raging hunger in him. He would devour her if he could.

  Devour her? No. He might want to devour her, but all the signals were telling him that this woman needed careful handling. She hadn’t hesitated to express her desire in the manner of the most experienced of women, but he must not forget the shyness of that smile, that tentative touch...

  He would be gentle. There would be no devouring, not today.

  * * *

  Clare’s head was spinning. Longing was twisting tightly inside her. Arthur had said he would pleasure her. Whilst she was hazy on what exactly he meant by that, it would seem that at last she would know something of what went on between a man and a woman who desired each other.