Lord of Midnight

by Jo Beverley

  The sun had sunk, giving a pearly glow to the scene which soothed her rattled nerves.

  At a footstep behind, she turned, braced for his displeasure.

  But it wasn’t Renald, it was the Earl of Salisbury.

  “My lord.”

  “Claire.” He was a tall, rather thin man, but with a sinewy strength, not the thinness of frailty. “Strange indeed to see such warlike entertainments at Summerbourne.”

  “It was only a dance, my lord.”

  “Indeed. But a dance of death.”

  “They were in no danger.” She wished he would go away.

  “Certainly de Lisle was not.”

  “Neither of them were, fighting with sticks.”

  “Men like de Lisle can kill with sticks. Or with bare hands.” What, by heaven, was his point? If he wished to argue against this union, he was far too late.

  He was studying her, as if seeking the answer to a puzzle. “You must welcome a happy day after sorrow.”

  His tone made her protest. “I had little choice, my lord. I am simply making the best of it.”

  “You show great fortitude, then.”

  Then she understood. No wonder he sounded disbelieving. Her wanton display earlier, and her apparent eagerness to marry tomorrow must make her seem a horribly callous daughter. She moved a little farther from the hall, hoping he wouldn’t follow. But when he spoke, he was close behind. “Your father was not a supporter of Henry Beauclerk as king.”

  She turned with a sigh. “The whole world knows that, my lord.”

  “Yet you rush to marry one of Henry’s closest supporters?”

  She spread her hand. “What would you have me do, my lord? The king has given Lord Renald our property, and commanded him to marry here. Are we to make matters worse by refusing?”

  His jaw tightened. “Perhaps I am dismayed by your enthusiasm, Lady Claire.”

  Her cheeks were hot with shame, but she would not cower. “You would have preferred that I drag through this day weeping?”

  “Yes, I think I would.”

  “Well, that is not my way.”

  “When I saw you kissing that sword—”

  “Ah, the sword! The sword you smeared blood on, my lord?”

  He stiffened. “I? Why accuse me?”

  “Because you asked that it be brought out. Insisted on it, in fact.”

  “I had my reasons.” He seemed to frown even more deeply.

  “And what of the cup, my lord? What point was there in encouraging Lord Renald to use a cup that could only remind me of unpleasant matters?”

  “Claire, I thought you must know, but—”

  “Claire?”

  Claire turned and hurried to Renald’s side, feeling only sharp relief. She didn’t care if he was angry that she’d fled the hall. She just wanted to escape accusations and disapproval, to return to being a happy bride. She had no choice in all this. Unless she was to sacrifice her whole family, she had no choice.

  Renald glanced between her and the earl, but then smiled and took her hand. “It is hot in the hall, isn’t it? Would you care to walk in the gardens, my lady?”

  “That would be delightful.” She dropped a curtsy to the earl. “Thank you for your advice, my lord.”

  She thought Salisbury might continue what he had been saying, but after a moment he turned on his heel and stalked off.

  As the din of the raucous hall faded, Renald said, “Advice?”

  A thrush trilled in a nearby bush, balm to her lingering distress, and the slight breeze cooled her wine-hot cheeks. “He thought I should have avoided marrying you, and if I could not, I should have dragged myself through the day wailing.”

  “Thank God you have not.” He kissed her hand, studying her. “In the hall. You seemed upset.”

  She could not really express her irrational unease, so she said, “You were shaming Lambert.”

  “He looked too fondly on you.”

  So it had been deliberate. “Will you always attack men who look fondly on me?”

  “Would you rather I did not?”

  After a moment, she accepted that the answer was no. Something in his hot possession of her sang to a wicked part of herself. It was wicked, though. “I do not wish to be the cause of any man’s death.”

  “Then I will not punish unless you command it.” A smile flickered. “One advantage of being who and what I am is that I need only frown. As you need only frown at me.”

  “My lord, I doubt it.” Yet deep inside, his words settled like a warm comforting flame in a place that had once been cold with fear.

  “Don’t doubt. Don’t doubt your power over me, Claire of Paradise.”

  He wove his fingers with hers and led her—unsteady as she was—into the garden, down misty, shadowy paths. How different now from the evening before, when every nerve had been on the alert. Now she was soft with warm security, even if tingling with spicy hopes.

  He paused beneath one of the pear trees that grew against the wall. Leaves and branches blocked the fading light, creating mysterious shadows. He led her to a bench set deep in the shade. She knew she was going to be kissed again, and unlike last night, her heart danced with anticipation.

  But he did not immediately take her into his arms. “I spoke honestly in the hall, Claire. I do intend and hope to make you happy.”

  “And I you, my lord.” The words were more than formal courtesy. Happiness, that had once seemed gone forever, now hovered within their grasp.

  “I know my nature bothers you. I’m a warrior. That is my life and my nature. I must train for war. And train my men.”

  “In Summerbourne?” Claire hoped her dismay hadn’t marked her voice. She controlled herself and added, “Could it perhaps be outside the walls, my lord?”

  “Most of the time. I, too, would keep Paradise untainted.” He smiled and looked around. “Perhaps this is the Garden of Eden. I’ve never known a place with such a halo of peace within it.”

  “An Eden without snakes, thank goodness,” Claire said, “except the occasional harmless little adder.”

  “Heaven on Earth.”

  She tried to see the familiar garden with his eyes. It had always been part of her life—the shape of its beds, the cool of the stone paths, the seasonal glories of leaf and flower, providing food, healing, and balm for the soul.

  “I suppose you’ve never had a garden of your own.”

  “Nor access to many. They are generally a ladies’ domain. Except for the lord, lusty men would definitely be seen as snakes.”

  “Surprising then, my lord, that you’ve seen any.”

  He grinned at her joke, and she studied the garden further, seeking to see what he saw.

  It was just a garden, wasn’t it, and not really at its best in this fading light. Flowers clouded in mottled shades of gray and white above dense shadows of bush and leaf. Yet she and Renald sat surrounded by scents and music. Insect-hum filled the air, bass note to the busy chorus of birds. Flowers, herbs, and good healthy greenery spiced every breath.

  She was suddenly, fiercely grateful that she would never have to leave. And that was because of this man. She turned to him, and dared to put her hands to his face. Then she kissed him gently on the lips in gratitude.

  He accepted it, suddenly still. “And what was that for?”

  “Is a bride not allowed to kiss her husband’s lips?”

  “Indeed she is. And the husband is very grateful. But it seemed a kiss of thanks.”

  “I am thankful to be here, and to be staying here.”

  He raised her chin and kissed her back, as gently. “Then we are both blessed. Remind me never to eat an apple again. I have no wish to be thrown out of Eden.”

  She thought that now he would kiss her properly, but he relaxed and looked around. “Is all this your work?”

  Ah, well. It would come in time, and she shouldn’t be greedy. “Not at all. I work here, but the garden is old and passed on from lady to lady.” She smiled ruefully. “You m
ight as well know more of my faults. Not only do I lack a sensitive soul, I’m too impulsive to be a good gardener, and too much the dreamer. I don’t like to plan years ahead, and I forget to water the new plants.”

  His eyes crinkled. “Somehow, I might have guessed. But an impulsive dreamer sounds charming, too. What plant is that with the purple flowers?”

  “Foxglove.”

  “You grow gloves for foxes?”

  She smiled. How precious to have the gift of humor back. “When you get old and your heart falters, you may be glad of it.”

  His smile faded. “Perhaps I’d rather not grow old. What use is an old wolf?”

  Claire wanted to protest, but she knew what he meant. She’d seen old warriors, weakened by age, gnarled by joint disease, frail with a wheezing sickness, reduced almost to beggary once their one asset—their strength—was gone.

  Already, however, the thought of his distant death was painful. As his wife, it would be her task to keep him healthy, and now he had property he was protected from the worst.

  He asked about other plants and she answered, pointing out the most interesting and describing their uses. His voice, she realized, was deep, relaxed, and comfortable, in harmony with the surrounding peace and the evening shadows.

  He clearly knew little about gardens, however, this man whose trade was to damage, not to nurture or heal.

  No. She would not think of that.

  A robin flew down to the turned earth quite close to their feet and trilled a song.

  “Letting us know that it owns this patch of ground,” she said. “Ordering us to dig to make its hunt for worms easier.”

  “Lazy bird. Work for your dinner, sirrah.”

  As if it understood, the robin stopped its song and cocked its head at them. Then it hopped along. It soon found a worm, tugged it out, and flew off with it.

  “More death.” Claire sighed. “Why do we not care about the fate of worms?”

  “Perhaps because they’ll eat us in the end.”

  Then he stiffened, clearly realizing his words were unfortunate. She touched his hand. “We cannot avoid all mention of death, my lord.”

  He took her hand in his. “You are a pearl without price, my lady Claire. May I request a boon?”

  Without any wariness, she said, “Of course.”

  “I would have you call me by my name. Renald.”

  Claire realized that over the past hours she had begun to think of him that way, and so she smiled and said, “Certainly, Renald.”

  He drew her gently into his arms, and lowered his head to kiss her, gentle again at first, a mere brushing of lips against lips. Then his hand slid into the back of her hair, rough and warm against her nape and scalp, shaping her to him. He kissed her then as he had in the hall, but here in the private dark, it was softer, sweeter, and more deeply intimate than she could ever have imagined.

  Every sense heightened, Claire delighted even in the slight roughness of his stubble. And by the stars he was solid. She was half over mighty thighs, her hands clutching broad, broad shoulders hard as wood, hot as hearthstones …

  And she liked it!

  She, who had once thought she could never like a fighting man, was stirred in a secret part of herself by the dark power beneath her small, soft hands.

  His mouth eased free of hers at last, but the strength of his body still encompassed her as their breath mingled. She drifted her hands across the breadth of his shoulders and over the heavy curves to his arms. A startling vision seared her, a vision of him naked to her questing touch, of herself in pale conquest, as beneath, he darkly surrendered.

  As if he knew, he pulled her suddenly against him, tight against his chest, cradled her there, his chin nestled in her hair. She knew his strength, knew she could not escape, and yet she did not feel confined. She felt, for a brief moment like a child in a safe place—one where death was just a fable, and where the sun shined every day.

  His chest rose and fell with his breaths, and she began to breathe in rhythm with him. Her own spicy aroma blended with his—sweat, wool, horse. She remembered writing that to Felice. Something about him not smelling foul, but somewhat of horse and sweat. At the time it had seemed a problem to be explained away. Now, however, it was just him.

  She found that she had closed her eyes and was taking deep breaths, savoring him as she might enjoy a flower, a spice, or bread fresh from the oven.

  Her mouth was watering slightly as if she were at a table loaded with tasty dishes. But beneath the sweet anticipation, something lurked like a stone in the shoe or a thorn on the chair.

  What?

  The earl’s last words. I thought you had to know.

  Why did they bother her so?

  Because they echoed something.

  Felice’s words at the convent gate! Wait till you find out …

  If Felice could be dismissed, the earl could not. But what could both of them know that was still secret from everyone at Summerbourne?

  He shifted to look at her. Too late she knew that doubts could be sensed.

  “What troubles you, Claire? Is it something Salisbury said?”

  “No. Not really.” But before she slid into complete surrender with this man she had to try to chase away these pricking doubts. “Mother Winifred said you were a murderer. Have you ever killed?”

  He moved slightly to look at her. “I am a warrior.”

  “I mean, outside of battle.”

  “No. Or yes, in tourney.”

  “That is wrong, isn’t it?”

  “Most people don’t think so. And both deaths were accidents. We try not to kill in friendly fights.” He was still studying her as if she puzzled him. “I’ve killed any number of brigands and rogues in my time.”

  But that wasn’t murder. That was righteous execution. So much for Mother Winifred.

  The sword. The earl had seemed obsessed by his holy blade. “Why did the king give you that sword?”

  “For honorable service. I swear it on my soul.”

  It wasn’t a direct answer and she sensed a slight distance over it, but she had to believe such an oath. His slight change in manner, however, made her seek to know more. “It was black. I didn’t think swords were black.

  “It’s just dark, Claire. Something to do with the forging. Don’t fret about it.” His big hand rubbed her back down low, soothing her. Stirring her. Distracting her.

  “You must excuse my nervousness about such things, Renald. I am unused to violence.”

  He kissed her brow. “It is a blessed state, and I will try to preserve your peace. I vow it.”

  Only one thorn remained. “The earl …”

  “Is a rebel,” he said, sealing her lips with his finger. “Claire, he cannot like this marriage. Don’t let him distress you.”

  Her shadowy doubts became mist, and she wafted them away. Enough of it. She knew this man by now. “You will give up killing now?” Looking up, she caught his grimace.

  “I’m a warrior,” he said again. “If called upon by the king, I must fight.”

  “I understand that. I mean tourneys.”

  “I could be called upon to represent the king in a tourney.” His fingers played in her hair. “But tourneys are not held in England. The sensible kings here think they waste too many lives.”

  She smiled. “So you will not have to fight like that again. I’m glad.”

  His gentle torment across the back of her neck made her smile even more, but then his hand stilled. “I’ll doubtless damn myself with this, Claire, but I do enjoy it.”

  She pushed away to stare. “Enjoy killing?”

  He held her. “No, never that. But I enjoy fighting. In a tourney, we fight to overcome and win ransoms. Killing is not in the plan.” He shrugged, but with a glint of humor in his eyes. “It tends to put a cloud over the event.”

  “How can you joke about such a thing?”

  Humor fled, but something in his expression made her feel foolish. Was it foolish not to want peo
ple to play at violence? Not to want anyone to risk their life for fun?

  “Now that I’m a baron with estates to care for,” he said, “I’ll have less time for games. Unless we’re attacked, I’ll likely do little but mop up brigands. I assume you won’t mind me dispatching a few of them now and then.”

  Stung by his wry tone, she muttered, “I suppose not.”

  He stroked her lips, coaxing a smile. “I must keep up my training, though, Claire, or what use will I be—to you or to the king?”

  “I understand. I’m sorry if I seem foolish. This is all so different …”

  “And I seem like a snake within paradise,” he said. “But I’m not, Claire. I want to keep this place whole as much as you do.”

  She believed him, and obeyed his teasing by parting her lips for his finger. She welcomed the rough taste, flicking her tongue around it. She didn’t resist when he slid it deep into her mouth and out again, again and again, even though she knew what he was doing, and felt the response in another part of her body.

  Tomorrow.

  At that thought, she tightened her teeth and lips around him, growing almost faint at the look in his eyes.

  Then he captured her lips with his mouth and sealed her to him all along his body, pulling her to straddle him. She ached and pressed closer, feeling him hard between her thighs, separated only by layers of clothes. Frustrating layers of clothes.

  For the first time she understood why some foolish maidens did not wait …

  At long, long last, he drew back, sucking in a deep, unsteady breath, rubbing his head against hers. “Spices again. Delicious lady.”

  “You can’t still be hungry …”

  “Not hungry. Famished.” He bit quite sharply at her neck.

  Claire squeaked and scrambled away, but she was laughing. Laughing for the first time in so long.

  He lounged there, looking tussled, younger, lighter and unbearably tempting. And he knew it. He grinned.

  A watering bucket caught her eye. Without thinking, she grabbed it and tipped it over him.

  After an appalled moment, she ran.