Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  “You were crying out in your sleep.”

  He sat up, now able to make out Clemence’s shape in the gloom. His night vision had improved massively during his years spent in the forest.

  “A nightmare?”

  “Aye. Can you remember what you were dreaming about?”

  He closed his eyes, loosened his grip on her wrist, and—for a reason he didn’t care to examine—enfolded her hand in his.

  “Ah.” It must have been that recurring dream, the one which usually left him shaking and sweating—a cold sweat born from fear.

  “I don’t like to talk about it.” This was the secret he most needed to be kept hidden. Yet—would it not calm him, help banish his demons, were he to trust someone enough to share it? Had this woman not proved her worth, and her loyalty, time and time again?

  “I don’t like to tell you. You will abhor me.”

  “I could never do that. You can have done nothing that would make me hate you.”

  “You sound so sure.” He could already feel the stabbing pain in his ribs, the dryness in his throat that always followed the vision—or the memory that disguised itself as a dream.

  “Swear you’ll tell no one.” He clutched her hand.

  “I swear it.” She returned the strength of his grip.

  “I fear I may have done someone great harm.”

  She settled herself on the bed beside him, drawing the drapes closed behind her. He felt the brush of her hair as she laid her head trustingly on his shoulder.

  Curling an arm around her, he said, “The dream comes as I kneel by a stream or river. I know not which, but the current swirls speedily by me. My heart is full of grief and horror, and my hands are red with blood. I’m struggling to cleanse them, but they shake so, and the blood continues to flow from them.”

  “Perchance you cut yourself. That was the source of the blood.”

  “Nay, there is no pain. Not of the physical kind. But I know a soul-deep grief, made all the more poignant by a sense of guilt.”

  He heard her pull in a breath. She mustn’t condemn him—he couldn’t bear that.

  “What happens after that? In the dream, I mean.”

  “Nothing.” Only a swirling blackness, nausea, and pain all over his body, as if he were being punished for his crime.

  “You can never progress beyond that point?”

  “Nay. Would that I could. But I always wake from the horror of it. One day, I fear I may groan so loud that I’ll give away my den in the holly grove.”

  “You can’t go back there.” He felt the waft of her breath against his neck as she spoke. He would have to send her away soon—her closeness was far too tempting. But it was also the most welcome distraction from the grim experience of the dream.

  “I must. In your world, I’m nobody. I have nothing.”

  “And in the forest, you are lord of all you survey.”

  He smiled. “Aye, in a way. Though I shall miss this soft bed.”

  She shifted against him, snuggling closer into his side. “Is that all you will miss?”

  “I’ll miss having someone else prepare and cook my food for me.” He was enjoying this game—he loved to tease her.

  “Is there naught else?”

  “I shall miss your father’s disapproving frown, your mother’s garrulity and feigned humility, and your smile.”

  “At last. I feared I would never get a mention.” She clicked her tongue at him.

  “I shall miss you most of all, little one. You have returned to me much that was lost.”

  “And you’ll lose it all over again if you go back to the forest.”

  “Perchance I shall go elsewhere. Now that I have clothes in which you tell me I am fit to be seen, I could join in with village life, bend my back in the fields, as it is a strong one, or offer my services as huntsman to some great lord.”

  “Then choose somewhere close at hand, so I may visit you.”

  His hand brushed a silken curl of her hair, and he twined it around his finger. “I thought you were headed for court, so the queen might take advantage of your knowledge of perfumes and potions.” He was trying to imagine Clemence there, but the world of courtiers, faction, splendor, and politics meant little to him.

  “If I can escape Walter de Glanville, aye.” He could hear her chewing on her lip.

  “Mayhap you could marry him, then escape him by going to court. He’d never dare refuse a royal command, I assume.” He tried not to think of her wed, and couldn’t abide the idea of another man doing the things he wanted to do with her.

  “You should get back to bed now, Clemence.” He made his voice sound as stern as he could—not easy when one was whispering.

  There was a moment’s silence. “Shall you not kiss me goodnight?”

  If only she knew how much he hoped to do that very thing, and more. But if he were to remain safe, and undiscovered, he must make as little impact on this foreign world as possible. When it came to the matter of Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne, no matter how overwhelming his desires, he must tread lightly.

  And maintain what he had now learned was a respectful distance. He began to ease away from her.

  Whether she mistook his intention or deliberately ignored it, he never knew, but the very next moment, she had rolled on top of him and, somehow, his arms had enfolded her, and he was raining kisses all over her face. The instant he found her mouth, his common sense left him. He rolled them over again, so she was beneath, trapped partly by the bedclothes and partly by his body. Then, after a couple of nips at her lower lip, he kissed her properly, relishing the honey-sweetness of her mouth. She kissed him back, her hands twining around his neck, pulling him closer until he felt the pressure of her breasts against his chest, and the pounding of her heart’s rapid rhythm.

  He dragged his mouth away from hers for a moment. “This is surely no way to teach a gentleman good manners.”

  She huffed at that. “You started this.”

  “I’m certain I did not. But now, I intend to finish it.” He lowered his head once more to plunder the bounty of her lips and felt her shift beneath him, her hips lifting and pressing against him in unwitting invitation. Suddenly, he wanted to know all of her, strip her naked, feel her flesh against his, feast his lips on her breasts, her nipples, the tender flesh where her neck met her shoulder.

  By Jesu, this needed to stop! He was ready to rut with her like some beast in the fields. But with people, it was never that simple. Indeed, it was vastly complicated.

  Summoning every ounce of his strength, he broke the kiss and lifted his head. “We play with fire, Clemence. Neither of us is free to pursue this—you are bound by propriety, and while I’m beneath your father’s roof, I must observe his rules. Return to your bed, my sweet. If I dream again, take no notice. You know I will come to no harm.”

  He made up his mind to leave as soon as she departed the room, though he knew it was ungrateful to sneak away like some thief in the night. His gut had told him not to enter the world he’d lost, but the danger he’d encountered did not take the form he’d expected.

  Now, she was in even more danger than he.

  But she refused to let him go. Delicate fingers smoothed over his back, tracing intriguing circles and lines, leaving rivulets of sensuous heat in their wake. She was making this exceedingly difficult.

  “Lancelot, what are these ridges on your back?”

  “What do you mean?” The exploration of her fingers was weaving a compelling web about him, like an enchantress casting a spell, making him long for the touch of her lips once more, and ache for what he knew he could never have.

  “On your back. In places, it feels as if you have scars.”

  “I beg of you, cease touching me like that.”

  “Get up. I’ll strike a light. I want to see.”

  Right now, his will was so weak, he’d to do anything to please her. He rolled away, drew back the drapes, and stood by the bed while she hunted for a tinderbox and set a candle burni
ng.

  For a moment, he wondered why she’d dramatically thrown her hands in front of her eyes. Then he remembered, reached for a sheet, and tied it around his waist.

  She circled him with the candle. “Stand up straight.”

  He obliged, folding his arms across his chest. Only to be subjected to the delightful torment of Clemence tracing shapes on his back.

  “I never noticed these before.” She sounded totally immersed in her examination. “I would say these have been done with a blade. Like the time I sliced my thumb with the ax when chopping kindling. The scars are old, I think, but each shows the same depth of healing as if the injuries were all made at the same time.”

  Of course, he could not see what she meant and had no intention of asking her to hunt through the sleeping house for a mirror so he could examine his back.

  “I can give you no answers. Now, hadn’t you better return to your bed?”

  Suddenly, the door to the chamber was flung open. William Fitzpayne stood there in nightcap and gown, a flickering candle in his hand and a thunderous expression on his face.

  “I’m in complete agreement. Get you gone, Clemence. I shall deal with you later. Now, sirrah, what have you to say for yourself?”

  Lancelot stood in front of Clemence. He didn’t know how this kind of scene was meant to play out, but his instinct was to shield her from her father’s wrath. Parent or no, if the man harmed her, he’d do whatever he must to protect her.

  “Nothing happened, Father.” Clemence stepped out from behind Lancelot, but he waved her back again.

  She peeped around the other side of him. “Listen to me, and don’t lose your temper. I think Lancelot has been attacked. In a cruel, cowardly manner, from behind. Come, see these marks on his back.”

  “I’ll not be distracted.” Fitzpayne’s voice sounded thick as if he were trying not to choke. “Get dressed Clemence, and you, too, fellow. You have shamed my daughter, and must now make reparation.”

  Reparation? Lancelot knew, from what he’d learned about society, what Fitzpayne meant by that. Marriage. But he had no idea how it could be achieved.

  Clemence answered for him. “Marriage? You go too far, Father. Nothing untoward has happened, I swear. You know how unconventional Lancelot can be. I heard a noise and came to—”

  “Silence.” The single word fell between them like a rock in an echoing chasm. Clemence sucked in a breath but held her tongue.

  Lancelot waited, dread mingled with joy. The possibility of uniting himself to Clemence was enormously attractive—but what had he to offer her that would be acceptable?

  Fitzpayne finally broke eye contact with him, so he relaxed his shoulders and unclenched his fists. This was a situation that could only be amended with words, not deeds.

  “Much as I hate to disappoint de Glanville, I think he will not want you now. And I don’t intend to deceive an honorable man. You must marry the one who has sullied your reputation. And to further that end, we are going to find out who he is, and see him restored to his place in society. If you’re correct about his noble blood, he’ll be well able to maintain a wife.”

  Lancelot went rigid. This was the very last thing he wanted.

  Panic made him hasty in his answer. “And if you are unlucky, sir, you will have allied your daughter to a murderer, and your family will be ruined.”

  He could tell, from the astounded look on Fitzpayne’s face, that he had just revealed far too much.

  Chapter Eleven

  The following day, Clemence joined her father, mother, and Lancelot in a deputation to Hackpen Court, the home of Sir Kester Bayliss, Justice of the Peace.

  Though Lancelot would have preferred to involve no one else in his affairs, she knew he’d sacrifice whatever he must to protect her. The knowledge sent goosebumps skittering across her skin, and tied her stomach up in knots, stoking the embers of affection to a flame of admiration. He couldn’t possibly be a murderer—she could never admire a man who’d done so terrible a deed. And if he were guilty, there must have been extreme provocation.

  She glanced across at him, straight-backed and proud as he rode her father’s tallest stallion, Marathon. Lancelot’s features were set, but he held his head high, staring ahead. No one had known, until this moment, if he was able to ride a horse, but when he’d taken the reins, he’d held them correctly—and after a few words in Marathon’s ear, the great beast was more than content to carry him.

  Not a word was spoken during the half-hour it took them to reach Sir Kester’s abode, but an air of doom lay about them like a cloud. Clemence did her best to look unashamed, to appear the injured innocent. Yet part of her thrilled at the idea that—after last night’s events—she might no longer be forced to wed Walter de Glanville. And if—as she surmised—Lancelot were a nobleman, mayhap he had connections at court, so she would still be able to attend upon the queen.

  But with a husband like Lancelot, would she want to be a maid-of-honor? Wouldn’t she miss those strong arms, that masculine allure, that fascinating, unpredictable character? What she felt for him was so different from what she’d felt for Simeon Bayliss that she hardly knew what to call it.

  She’d been obsessed with Simeon, had worshipped the ground upon which he walked, and wanted to be with him each waking hour. She’d hung on his every word, drinking each syllable in like a drop of sacred nectar, revering him almost as a god. But now she knew those to be the fancies of a besotted young maiden, not the needs or desires of a woman. Simeon had been little more than a youth when he died, despite the agility of his mind, and the depth of his learning.

  Lancelot was fully a man, a feral spirit, a portal to some unknown world that both fascinated and frightened her. To be his would be to be consumed by him, like a feather in a flame. Was she strong enough to win his devotion, fulfill his needs, and carry his children?

  Hah! Foolish speculation—all of it. There were many obstacles to overcome, and a great deal more she needed to know about him and how he felt before she could take her chance at happiness. And if Lancelot couldn’t wed her, and de Glanville wouldn’t wed her, she might still find a place at court. Although, if she were truly unlucky, she could end up a miserable spinster, sad-eyed and slowly decaying within the confining walls of Clairbourne Manor, dispensing her medicines to the local populace like an old hedge-witch.

  Their ride was at an end—Hackpen Court was in view. Clemence experienced the usual plunge in mood that she always felt when visiting this house, feeling Simeon’s absence as physical pain. Only… this time, the agony lasted but a moment. He was gone. She hadn’t been able to save him from the deadly sweating sickness, despite her frantic brewing of concoctions and pounding of herbs. But now, there was someone else she could save—if only Lancelot would allow it.

  Sir Kester greeted them enthusiastically. “Dame Fitzpayne, Mistress Clemence, sir. You are most welcome.” He bowed low as they were ushered into the paneled parlor with its elaborate plaster ceiling.

  “Do we have a name for you yet, sir?” he inquired, as he bowed to Lancelot.

  Apparently much chastened by having let his desire get the better of him last night, Lancelot was on his best behavior. He bowed elegantly, doffed his borrowed cap and replaced it, then straightened.

  “Alas, no. A few enigmatic memories have returned, and I have been reintroduced to the social graces since last we met, but my name and my origin continue to elude me.”

  Sir Kester’s eyebrows shot up. He looked impressed by both Lancelot’s speech and manner. Clemence allowed herself to bask in reflected glory—she was responsible for much of the improvement. Her pleasure, however, was short-lived.

  “I’ll come straight to the point, Sir Kester.” Her father pulled out a chair each for Clemence and her mother, then stalked to the window. There, he occupied a position of state, hands clasped behind his back like an attorney making a speech.

  “It is imperative we make inquiries into this gentleman’s background. I need him identified,
damn it. He has taken advantage of his time spent under my roof, and risks sullying my daughter’s good name.”

  “Nay, Father. He has just forgotten what is proper and what is not. ’Twas my fault—”

  The steely glint in her father’s eyes silenced her. If she argued, the look warned her, he’d embarrass her still further in front of their family friend.

  “I’m not saying that anything sinful has occurred but, from what I’ve observed and how I found them, Lancelot here owes my daughter the protection of his name—whatever that turns out to be. The world must believe them to be betrothed. At least, until reason can be found for them not to be.”

  Until reason could be found? What if Lancelot already had a wife? Clemence’s blood ran cold. He certainly kissed effectively, and with a finesse that she’d not expected.

  “I see.” Sir Kester helped himself to a seat behind a table covered in documents and scrolls. “Has there been any moment, sir, when a name sounded familiar to you—as if it might be your own?”

  He held Lancelot’s gaze but was greeted by a shake of the head.

  Clemence sat up straight. “There was Walter de Glanville. Remember—you wondered if you’d seen him before. Mayhap Sir Kester should ask him.”

  Her father turned to her, his brows furrowed. “Where were you, that you witnessed Lancelot’s response to de Glanville?”

  Her cheeks went hot. “We were in the barn, sheltering from the rain.”

  Her father rolled his eyes and held his hands out to Sir Kester in appeal. “You see why I feel these two should be betrothed? They cannot be trusted to be alone together. I would rather their situation was official than otherwise.”

  She saw the disbelief in Sir Kester’s face. Her father must sound like a madman, wanting to ally his daughter to a nobody.

  “We believe Lancelot to be of noble blood,” she said hastily. “We came to seek your advice on how to find out.”

  Sir Kester shot her a knowing look, then turned back to her father. “I quite understand your concerns, Fitzpayne. And yes, it may be meet to speak with this Walter de Glanville. De Glanville… de Glanville. Where have I heard that name before?”