by Jo Beverley
He did not try to touch her again. “Claire, I have two requests to make.”
“Yes?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“Nothing too onerous, I assure you. First, I would have you cease your labors now and rest for tomorrow.”
“You wish me to be a sluggard, my lord? You’ll regret that one day.”
A slight smile curled his lips. “Not if your laziness inclines you to loll around in our bed.”
“And your second request?” she asked hastily.
“I wish you to follow a custom of my own land. Once the first guests arrive, I ask that you keep to your chamber and see only your family and your women until the betrothal is about to begin.”
“Not even my friends?”
“Just until the ceremony. There will be time enough later for gossip.”
She gritted her teeth at the indulgent tone. “There will be too much work to be done.”
“It will be done without you.”
“My lord, you clearly have no idea of the amount of work necessary to put on a feast! Do you forget that Felice and Amice are absent?”
He ignored her forceful words. “It is not such a great thing to ask.”
She shook her head. In a way it was not, and yet it would feel so strange to hide away in idleness while others drowned in work. “I will do it, my lord, but I assume you want a wife who is fat and lazy.”
“I just want you for wife, my lady Claire. That is all.”
It seemed an odd thing to say at that moment, especially in such a flat tone. Had he lied about the king’s orders? Had he been ordered specifically to wed her so as to seal his possession of Summerbourne?
Had her father perhaps made a will that stated that?
But no. She had read for herself the documents taking away all the possessions of Clarence of Summerbourne. Any will would carry no weight.
She could make no sense of his words or manner, and shied from any thought of her father. The sun was sinking rapidly now, drowning red with blues and grays, and plunging all around into misty darkness.
Dangerous darkness.
He gestured. “Come, my lady, let me escort you back to the hall.”
She set off by herself. “I won’t slip away between here and there, you know.” He escorted her anyway, as she knew he would. At least he didn’t touch her again.
Until they arrived at the door to the hall. It was a mere brush of a finger along the edge of her jaw. “I hunger for tomorrow,” he said softly. “When you become mine.”
Hunger, indeed! Claire longed for the coherence to say something cool, something that would cut through the net he wove around her. Instead, helplessly, she flashed him a frantic smile and ran, memory of his touch still tingling on her skin.
She fled to her room to change before the evening meal. But she knew she was really running from a hungry wolf.
Chapter 10
Nils, flustered from kitchen duty on top of other things, ran Lord Renald to earth at the base of the stairs, and caught sight of Lady Claire fleeing up them as if she had the devil at her back. Nils was somewhat anxious about his lord’s handling of his bride.
“My lord?”
Lord Renald turned, and grimaced at the parchment in Nil’s hand. “More documents?”
“Managing an estate is mostly documents, my lord.”
“As I am finding. Come then.”
“The Lady Claire angers you?” Nils asked, following into the office.
“Not at all.”
Nils knew a rebuff when he heard one, but he persisted. The lady seemed a truly good woman, kindhearted and dutiful, much loved by her people. And Lord Renald was … shadowed. “You seemed to frown, my lord. Because the lady still resists?”
“Because the lady does not resist. Come, Brother”—he flung himself into the big chair—”what business plagues you now?”
The fact that the chair belonged to the father of your bride, the man you killed. Nils knew better than to speak of that even here. Their orders were clear. What was going to happen, however, when Lady Claire discovered the truth? He’d been tempted now and then to tell her, despite the consequences, but he knew that knowing wouldn’t help. The marriage must go ahead.
“Nils?” Lord Renald prompted, brows high. “Estate matters?”
“Salt pan rentals on the coast.” But Nils couldn’t leave it. “You think her wanton?”
“Who? Claire? Of course not. You and Josce fuss as if you think I’ll hurt her.”
“Won’t you?”
To his surprise, his lord flinched. “Yes. But there’s nothing you or I can do to prevent it. Explain salt pans.”
At the terse tone, Nils knew he had trespassed as far as he dared. He hastily got back to business.
Claire would rather have stayed in her room, but duty drove her down to the hall for the evening meal—duty to supervise the servants, and duty to play her unwelcome bridal role. She felt as if everyone, even her maids, was watching her, assessing how successful she was being at placating the threatening wolf.
She entered the room cautiously, braced for another encounter with de Lisle, but instead bumped right into her brother.
“I hear you’ve been out in the gardens, rolling around with him.”
“Thomas!”
“You’re falling in love with him, aren’t you?” His voice was shrill, and people were staring. “The man who’s stolen my home.”
“No!” She pulled him into a quiet corner. “Thomas, I don’t want to marry him. I’m doing it for you. For you, and Gran, and Mother, and everyone. I have no choice.”
He glared up at her and she knew the first numbness had worn off, bringing him sharp pain. She wished she could hug him, but he was too old for that. “Be obedient,” she told him. “I will take care of you as soon as I’m able. But in the meantime, you must not anger him.”
“He’s come here and ruined everything—”
“No,” she said firmly. “Lord Renald was given Father’s property. None of this is really his fault, and we could have fallen into the hands of someone much worse. You must admit that. Remember Baldwin of Biggin?”
He grimaced, and she ruffled his hair. “Go on. Get on with what you are supposed to be doing.”
He went, but at a slouch.
“Claire!”
She turned to find her mother positively glowing as she reached to pat Claire’s hand. “I hear you were out in the gardens with him. Good girl.”
Claire wanted to groan. Renald de Lisle could stop guarding her. She clearly couldn’t take a step without the whole manor knowing. “We talked, that was all,” she lied. It was almost true.
“If you talked, I’m sure you’ve realized that he is not a fearsome man.”
“I’m resigned, Mother. Isn’t that enough?”
Lady Murielle paled and her mouth trembled. “Why must you be so difficult? I only want both my children to be happy.”
With a sigh, Claire put her arm around her mother and hugged her. “Mother, I’m sorry! I know I have to do this. You’re right. It won’t be so bad. But please don’t try to make us into lovebirds yet.”
Eyes damp, Lady Murielle touched Claire’s cheek. “But I want you to be lovebirds. I want happiness for you.”
Her mother’s needs dropped on Claire’s shoulders like a yoke. She concentrated on looking at ease. “I’m sure I will be happy in time. As you say, he is not a bad man. But it is too soon for love yet, Mother. You must see that.”
De Lisle entered the hall from the study then, still talking to his clerk. His eyes scanned the room in that way he had, checking for danger, then rested thoughtfully on Claire and her mother.
It seemed to Claire that everyone in the hall watched them watch each other. With a sigh she prepared to play her part—the part of the uncomplaining bride. She went over to take her seat at the high table.
Lady Agnes was already there, and looked up to say, “Hear you’ve settled to it. About time.”
“Does no one in Summerbourne have
anything better to do than watch me?”
“You hold our fate in your hands, girl. Of course we watch you.”
From across the room, where he stood with bowl and cloth, ready to serve, Thomas was back to scowling. The trouble was, the happier she appeared, the more miserable he would likely be. She was like to be torn apart by all this!
De Lisle strolled over and took his seat beside her. Claire saw Josce push her brother toward the high table and prayed that he’d behave. Thomas did perform his duties adequately, but his eyes stayed fixed on the bowl, and his mouth was set with discontent.
Claire picked at the simple meal, grateful that at least de Lisle only bothered her with necessary comments. When the meal ended and she rose, however, he caught her hand. “Stay, Claire.” His tone was light, but his hold on her hand was firm. “See, some entertainers have already arrived and wish to give us a taste of tomorrow’s fare.”
Claire looked to where man and woman were preparing to juggle goblets. “I don’t feel very merry, my lord.”
“Our people deserve their pleasure. They’ve worked hard through a long day and will work as hard again tomorrow.”
She knew that our was a weapon, deftly used. “But do we have to stay? I long for peace and quiet.”
“For a while at least. Yes.”
Another dutiful burden. Claire sat for the sake of her anxious people, and even smiled.
He smiled, too, and applauded the clever tricks, but she suspected he gained as little pleasure from the entertainment as she. In fact, at one point, his fingers rapped an uneasy message on the table in counterpoint to a merry melody.
He turned abruptly to her. “I know this is not easy for you, Claire. But by the king’s will this betrothal must be soon.”
She reminded herself that in some ways, he was as much a victim in this as she. After all—new thought, this—he might have favored another lady before the king gave him Summerbourne, and instruction to wed here. And he had given the maids of Summerbourne free choice. It wasn’t his fault that two of the three had bolted.
“I understand, my lord. I am resigned.”
They watched some dancers, but the silence began to press on her. What could they talk about that wouldn’t lead into uncomfortable paths? When the dancers had finished and been applauded, she said, “Tell me more about the harsh land where you grew up, my lord.”
He looked at her as if he was searching her question for traps, but then he said, “My father was not a noble. A knight, yes, in that he had a warhorse. But his property was little more than a farm with walls, stuck to the hillside.”
So the lordship of Summerbourne was a great rise for him, and clearly he felt prickly about it. It was not, however, something Claire would hold against him.
“I’ve never been to a really hilly place,” she said. “Would I like it?”
“Probably not. It’s a harsh land, breeding harsh people.”
“I don’t find you harsh.” It was instinctive courtesy, but she realized a moment later that she meant it. Hard, yes. Cold, a little. Dark in some way she did not understand. But harsh? No.
Dark eyes met hers. “Perhaps you just don’t know me very well.”
And she felt she should deny that, which was ridiculous. They’d known each other for a day, and spoken together just a few times. Why should she feel she knew him at all?
Perhaps because of the communication that came from body pressed to body. She shivered. “You sound as if you are pretending to be what you are not, my lord.”
He glanced at her as if startled, then she saw him shield himself. “We are all both more and less than we seem at first.”
Claire turned to watch a conjurer, trying to hide her own expression from him. He was pretending about something.
What?
Her stressed mind took flight, imagining that perhaps he was an imposter. Not Renald de Lisle at all. Or that the documents giving him Summerbourne were forgeries. Or that he already had a wife—
She made herself stop. Those were all ridiculous. Life was difficult enough without letting her vivid imagination run wild.
She returned grimly to the relatively safe matter of his home. “Were you a younger son, then? You clearly didn’t inherit.”
He picked up his goblet and sipped from it, looking away at a female tumbler who performed with manly braies beneath her skirts. “None of us inherited. My father lost favor with his lord and we were exiled.”
“Like us,” she breathed, feeling a sudden, sharp connection. “How old were you?”
“Ten.”
“Is that why you’re being patient with Thomas?”
“In part.” He glanced at her. “Mostly it is to please my bride.”
Could she believe such a cool statement? She thanked him anyway as she must, and added, “I will try to make sure that Thomas sees reason once all this is a less raw wound.” She looked over to her brother, who was watching the performers, but with a scowl. “He still hopes the world will turn again and put him back where he was.”
“I remember that feeling.” He took another moody sip of his ale.
Claire watched the tumbler do cartwheels up and down the room. “The affairs of man do seem to roll in circles,” she said.
“But unlike acrobats, never backward.” He looked at her. “The past is dead, Claire, and cannot be undone, no matter how much we might wish it so. The great wheel of fate can only run into the future, and the future is ours to shape.”
She didn’t feel at all in control of her future, but essentially he was right. Her father was dead. Summerbourne was lost. In a way, she was as bad as Thomas, still hoping deep inside that something would make all this disappear and put her back where she had been, happy with her father in Summerbourne. Free of this marriage.
He put his hand gently over hers. “Claire, with God’s will and good hearts, we can make something of this. Work for the future, and persuade your brother to do the same.”
Aware of his warm skin against hers, she looked over to where Thomas sat glowering. “He can be horribly stubborn.”
“Then he must change before he joins the king’s household.”
Claire bit her lip at the thought of the consequences of rebellion there. “He’d be safer here.”
“In my tender mercies?” His hand tightened slightly. “Or do you think to control me?”
She looked at him, realizing that was exactly what she’d thought. “Surely a wife has the right to plead—”
“Not for the impossible or disastrous.”
“It wouldn’t be disastrous to keep Thomas here for a while.”
“It would be disastrous to thwart the king’s will.”
“But—”
“No.”
It was an absolute, lordly, commanding no.
She snatched her hand away. “I am not good at blind obedience, my lord!”
“Then I suggest you learn.”
“Or you’ll beat me into submission?”
Brows rose, as if the question astonished him. “If necessary, yes.”
Claire realized her own hands were fisted, pathetic little fists on the table. He captured one in his big, dark hand, and there was nothing tender in it at all. “We obey the king’s commands. At all times.”
“What if the commands are wrong?”
“That is for God to judge.”
She tried to pull free again, and couldn’t. “Some of us have consciences to serve as guides, my lord.”
“Like your father? See where his conscience led him.”
She leaned closer to hiss, “To heaven at least!”
“Whereas I am destined for hell?”
She bit back agreement. That would be wickedly unchristian. “You said you’d done penance.”
“I said that I could have.”
“If you haven’t, you should. Any sin can be forgiven if repentance is true. Even yours.”
“You give me great solace, my lady,” he said in a tone so dry it should burst into
flames.
A tubby, middle-aged man stepped into the open area and held up a hand for silence. Claire seized with relief an escape from such a flammable conversation. But what if he hadn’t confessed? What if he didn’t feel sorry for all the lives he had taken?
What did that say of their future together?
Her relief at the interruption soured when she realized the performer was not a storyteller but a riddler. She wasn’t ready to hear riddles here, in the hall of the man who had been master of the art. She made herself keep her seat and her smile, but took a deep drink to steady herself.
The ruddy-faced man was quite good. Though Claire had learned riddles from the cradle and guessed every one, she began to enjoy his clever way of telling them. It helped that his style was different from her father’s. He used more gestures, and roamed the hall, playing to his audience. He liked risqué twists, too, something her father had tended to avoid.
“One for you, my young sir!” he cried, halting before Josce, who was bracketed by Claire’s attentive maids. The squire sat straighter, blinking. His mind clearly hadn’t been on riddles at all and people chuckled.
“I rise up straight and tall in the bed, young sir,” said the riddler, grinning. “Erect and proud, I am, but hairy underneath in shadowy places.”
Josce’s freckled face turned deep red, and laughter rippled around the room. Claire could see the squire had never heard this one, and she murmured, “Lord Renald, do you think—?”
He shook his head. “One of life’s many lessons.”
“Women relish me,” the riddler continued. “Some even say life has little savor without me. The bold ones, young sir, they seize me to put me in a special dark place for their pleasure. But I have my revenge when I make young maidens weep. So, young sir, what am I?”
Josce gaped and looked, appalled, at the two young maidens by his sides. Prissy, who must have recognized the riddle, was giggling. Maria was as red-faced as the squire.
“Well, Josce?” asked Lord Renald. “A good warrior never sees only the obvious way. And what you’re thinking should not, with care, make maidens weep.”
Brought back to his wits by his lord’s calm voice, Josce’s high color ebbed and he frowned slightly. Then he laughed. “Very good, Sir Riddler! It is an onion, I think.”