He lifted a heavy Bible box from the top of the chest and helped Clemence open the lid, but his mind was not on the task.
“Clemence. What if Mistress Wentworth’s claim were true?”
She was busy rustling around in the chest. “Beshrew it. There’s naught here but old gowns and fur trimmings.”
She closed the lid and regarded him. “She was a fraud—I could read it in her face. I’m sure you have better taste than to ally yourself to a made-up strumpet like her.”
“Made-up?” He straightened and replaced the Bible box.
“Aye. Did you not see the rouge she wore, or the lip paint? The fine curls about her face were so precise, I’m sure it was a wig. I despise wigs—unless they are absolutely necessary. Now, I wonder if there are any hidden spaces in the walls where treasures might be stowed?”
He was no longer interested in finding things. His vision of women thrashing in ecstasy beneath him had blotted out all else.
He decided to experiment. “Indeed? I thought her most comely. And Queen Bess has been forced to wear a wig since she had smallpox, so you should feel sympathy for Mistress Wentworth.”
“Comely?” Clemence tapped her knuckles against the wooden paneling. “How could you tell through all the powder and paint?”
Jealous—as he’d hoped. Envy, he understood. He’d felt its bite when first he learned Clemence was intended for Walter de Glanville.
Seizing her around the waist, he lifted her away from the wall. “I only said ‘comely’. Not ‘beautiful’, or ‘desirable’.”
She pressed her hands against his chest. “If you want to flatter a lady, Sir Lancelot, you must do it with sweet words, not by grabbing her as if she were a sack of meal.”
“Surely, picking her up is as sure an indication he likes her as sweet words?”
Her hands relaxed, and her fingers splayed over his muscles. He hoped she’d flex her fingers, explore and tease him. He desired her. He needed to be desired in return.
“Aye. But you had the opportunity to say Mistress Wentworth was neither as desirable nor as beautiful as me. And failed to take it.”
He lifted her and nuzzled at her neck. There was that heady perfume again, making him think of hot summer nights, open windows, and endless loving. He nuzzled some more.
“Then, I shall endeavor not to miss any further opportunities to flatter you. But trust not only in my words. Trust this.”
He already knew a chaste kiss wouldn’t be enough. The moment he touched his lips to hers, he wanted to taste all of her, to possess her. Whence had this greed come? He’d spent too long alone—what had been acceptable for the past three years no longer was. Loneliness wasn’t acceptable either—he needed Clemence to be his, and forever by his side.
He felt the pressure of her hands on his upper arms and reluctantly drew away.
“One still needs to breathe, Lancelot.”
She gazed up at him, her lips fuller, darker—even more sumptuous than they had been before. There was a charmingly tousled look about her, and he knew an uncontainable urge to tousle her more; to undo the chaste tidiness of her hair, and cast aside the concealing armor of her clothing. Her bodice fitted so tightly that it pushed her breasts up to tempting roundness but made what could not be seen totally inaccessible. See, admire—but never touch, never explore.
To hell with that. He kissed her again, rough and eager—and she responded with a hunger of her own. As the heat of their kiss consumed him, he pulled off her coif and buried his hands in the rich gold of her hair, releasing a scent that intoxicated him even as it aroused him.
She pulled away again. “Lancelot, we mustn’t. This is—improper.” Her voice sounded deep, throaty, and utterly compelling.
“Who’s to stop us?” He applied his teeth to her kerchief, emitted a growl, and worried at it until it came away.
She laughed, a rich, bubbling sound—and he had to kiss her again. How had he survived this long without a woman?
“Sir, you forget yourself.”
He chuckled. “I never remembered myself, as you are well aware.”
A giggle escaped her. “A fitting choice of words on my part. But speaking as your tutor, the one reintroducing you to the world, I’m duty-bound to tell you when you trespass too far.”
“What matters is whether or not you like it.” He stroked the curve between her exposed neck and shoulder.
“It would be forward of me to say that I do.”
“I shall have to go on instinct then.” He trailed a line of kisses down her neck, resisting the urge to lick her like a honeyed pear. He needed to encourage, not to shock. As he ran his fingers over her breasts, he heard a sharp intake of breath, but she didn’t move away, and her hands flexed on his arms, gripping him more tightly.
When he trailed his tongue over the cleft between her breasts, her head fell back as if she were offering them to him. He took full advantage, tantalizing her with his tongue, teeth, lips, and fingers, before rekindling the kiss.
“Do you want me? Tell me you want me,” he demanded, pulling away to suck in a breath.
She ran her hand down his arm, then up to cup his cheek. He turned his head and kissed her palm.
“I want you. But this is all new to me, and you are so hot, so eager.”
“I cannot help myself. You’re the only thing I want.”
“Don’t you want your name back again, your home, your status? All this?” She indicated the space around them with her free hand. She meant Emborough, but all he saw was the spacious bed. He shook his head and ran his lips over hers in one last, lingering kiss. Then he placed her kerchief around her neck, pulled her forward, trapped her, and captured her gaze.
“I understand I can only keep you if I acquire the other things you mention. Your father would have it no other way. So yes, I want those, too, but only because of you, Clemence Fitzpayne. I shall count every second until we are married, and can finish what we’ve begun. Now, put up your hair—it tempts me too much.”
He released her then and was amused when she tutted at him. “It was you who pulled it down in the first place.” When she raised her arms to push it back into her coif, her breasts rose, too, threatening his resolve.
“Mayhap we should return to the inn, where our behavior would be more constrained?” He needed to be locked in the cellar to stop him from touching her again. Or doused in the duckpond.
“Nay, we haven’t finished searching.” She set off breezily around the chamber, examining the bed, and tapping the wooden panels at its head and foot.
He groaned aloud. She had no idea how much danger he represented, how much temptation she offered him. She must never know what it cost him not to pursue what they had begun—it would scare her away.
Or would it? When they’d kissed, she’d met his demand with equal fervor.
Forcing his mind away from lecherous thoughts, he attempted to concentrate on the task at hand. Did any valuables remain in Emborough Hall, or had they been removed? Assuming Walter, the stepbrother he barely remembered, had robbed the house, he had no idea how to get the items back. Or even if he wanted to. Did one call on the man and demand their return or their worth in coin? He had a sword now, but in this strange new world he now inhabited, he imagined brute force was not the usual option.
“If you’re going to hide important items, you take extra precautions. Perchance even create a special place in which to put them.” He glanced down at the linen chest, then heaved it away from the wall, and pressed at a panel behind it. With a creak, the panel suddenly sprang outward, like a tiny door. Clemence knelt beside him, her eyes wide. “What have you found? Did you know it was there?”
He shrugged. “It might have been luck. Or deduction—I know not.”
Reaching in, Clemence pulled forth several objects and spread them out on the floor, examining them in the light of the lantern.
“A silver goblet and plate. A cross. This looks like a Bible.” None of it excited him.
&nb
sp; Clemence had paled.
“What ails you, sweet lady? What is it?”
She picked up a necklace of beads, with a small pendant cross attached. Her hand shook. “It’s a communion set. And a rosary. If I’m not mistaken, you’ll find that is the Vulgate.” She pointed to the vellum-bound book.
“The what?” He flipped open the cover and leafed through a few pages. “It’s the Bible. In Latin, apparently.”
“Exactly.” She turned her face to him, and fear clutched at his heart.
“I don’t understand.” What could be the problem?
“Don’t you see? It means the owners of this room, if not the owners of this house, were Catholic.” Her voice caught.
“Catholic?” He tried to recall what he’d read. It was complicated, but he understood Catholics and Protestants had contrary religious beliefs.
“Is that a problem?”
“Indeed, it is.” He read despair in her eyes. “My family are staunch Protestants. Nothing on earth would induce them to let me marry a Catholic.”
Chapter Sixteen
Despite Clemence’s belief that no one need ever know what they’d found, she couldn’t bear to stay in the house any longer. Even though Lancelot had sworn, on his knees, that he’d recant or take any punishment he might deserve, she couldn’t stay. With that discovery, all hope of a blissful future with him had fled.
She had run through the echoing hall, chased down the avenue, and scurried back to the inn. As soon as she reached her room, she dragged a heavy armoire in front of the door, then collapsed on the bed, all the fight gone out of her. She was more devastated now than when Simeon had died—her hopes had been snuffed out, and there was nothing left to rekindle the flame.
As she lay on the bed, battling the tears, her body thrummed with alarm. What if Lancelot came after her? What if he shouted, broke down the door? Neither subtlety nor patience was a strength of his. Nay, he mustn’t do it. She needed time for calm, time in which to think, and plot what she must do.
Duty urged her to tell her father about Lancelot’s faith. But if she did, would she not put Lancelot in harm’s way? If you were a Catholic in Queen Elizabeth’s England, it was best to be reticent. Too many of them had allied with Spain, or supported Mary, Queen of the Scots, or fomented discontent and plotted to overthrow the monarch. Then there was the cunning Sir Francis Walsingham, rumored to have spies hunting traitors in every town—was Milforde any exception?
She chewed on her lip in an agony of indecision. How could she endanger Lancelot when she cared for him so deeply? If she loved him, should she not protect him? And even if he, or his family, had been closet Catholics—what did it matter now? Lancelot could write himself anew, the past wiped out and forgotten, his sins expunged.
Getting to her feet, she began pacing the room. What must she do? Could she, in all conscience, keep this knowledge from her father? Could she wed a man who might once have been a Catholic?
A soft scratching at the door sent her heart into her mouth.
“Clemence. It’s me. Open up, I beg you.”
She clenched her fists. His voice was so earnest, and she could hear his pain. She’d wounded him horribly by running off like that. He wouldn’t understand, could he? How could she expect him to?
Her footsteps dragged on the floor, and when she set her shoulder to the armoire, it felt as heavy as lead. Eventually, it shifted. When she opened the door, she half-expected to see the owners of the inn, and all the other residents standing there, having come to see who was moving furniture in the middle of the night.
Lancelot stood there, one forearm resting on the lintel above her door, his face solemn, shadowed, unfamiliar.
“Am I now so detestable that you have to barricade me out with furniture?”
She backed away, shocked at the agony that sliced through her. Too much wanting, too little hope. But she must stand firm. Whatever that meant. “As you see, I changed my mind.”
“Thank you. May I enter? Only to talk—we cannot leave things as we did.”
No, they couldn’t. She’d created a breach between them because of his suspected religious beliefs—but what if that was wrong? There was no proof he’d hidden the Latin Bible and rosary. Besides, any number of people might have Latin Bibles lying forgotten in their houses—it didn’t mean they used them.
“Speak to me, I beseech you. What are your feelings?”
If the overwhelming ache in her soul was anything to go by, her love was made all the keener by being rendered dangerous. Fate was unkind.
“I know not. What does it matter how I feel, if such a chasm divides us?”
“I imagine people have traversed chasms before.” He spoke softly, his gaze enveloping her. He held out a hand. “See? All you need to do is take it. The chasm is then bridged.”
How she longed to touch him! Her body cried out to him—with his kiss, he’d unlocked unfathomable yearnings inside her, which she knew only he could fulfill. It would be too cruel to refuse his hand. She took it and was immediately suffused with his warmth.
“There. Easily done.” He squeezed her fingers, then kissed her knuckles. “I wonder—might you visit me when I return to the forest? Just to maintain my humanity and to prevent me from becoming even less desirable to society?”
When he returned to the forest? She felt herself sway. She’d crossed the chasm, and he was now abandoning her? When she could trust her voice to be steady, she asked, “You mean us to be friends, but not to wed?”
The sadness in his eyes wrenched at her. “You said it would be impossible for us to be together now. I’ve seen how stubborn your father can be—give him any reason to disapprove of me, and he’ll take it. My potential as heir to Emborough was all that interested him, as it was when Walter was your suitor. Nay, don’t shake your head at me. I can read people now—I use my instincts about them. So, yes, I would like us to be friends, more than anything in the world. But we may not be lovers, and you must, someday, marry.”
She pursed her lips. “I could still go to court, remain unmarried, and be friends with you if I can escape Father. He doesn’t understand how much status I can bring to our family if I have the queen’s favor. I don’t know why Walter wanted to marry me—my family is no longer wealthy.”
“Walter wanted you because you’re a prize beyond imagining, would bring him respectability, and remove the shadow that hangs over him—the disappearance of me and my brother.”
“You do know how to flatter with your tongue as well as your body.” Having Lancelot so close again had set her all a-tremble. His presence, his masculine quality and allure, filled the space around her. A knot of tension tightened in her stomach—so much depended on the outcome of this conversation, but she could not, as yet, envisage a satisfactory one.
“You have taught me more than you know, Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne, and I’m forever in your debt. You saved me from a bout of sickness, too.”
“You were poisoned,” she interjected. “It was more than just pheasant gone too green. Fortunately, you have a strong constitution.”
“If you’re right about that, all the more reason for me to disappear. Nothing good has yet come of my leaving the forest—I’ve interfered with your plans, thrown a local woman into the horse trough, attracted the interest of a poisoner, and turned out to be a closet Catholic.”
“I understand. I wouldn’t want you to stay if you cannot be easy.” But it would break her heart if he left.
“I court trouble, Clemence.” His eyes were dark, his mouth taut. “I cannot risk bringing that down on you. I should return to obscurity in the forest—mayhap leave the Eastern shires altogether.”
She felt sick. “How should I visit you then? Even if I can convince Father to let me continue with my herb-collecting expeditions in the forest, nothing would persuade him to let me go farther afield unaccompanied. We’d never see each other again.”
He turned her hand over and rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “Then I’ll
not go farther away just yet. I’ll return to the forest. If you choose a particular day for your herb hunts, I shall look out for you at the forest margins.”
That sounded better than nothing. “Still not prepared to let me know exactly how to find you?”
He gripped her hand. “Not while danger lurks. As I said once before, I fear I may have blood on my hands. Now that my identity is known, my peril is even greater.”
She hung her head. “I understand. If you leave on the morrow, we’ll return to Clairbourne. I’ll go on my wild plant walk every Tuesday. ’Tis market day and Father likes to view the fowls and pigs and collect whatever news there may be. Mother uses his absence to put the house in order or gossip with our neighbors—I’ll not be missed.”
“What shall you tell them has happened between us?”
Her voice wobbled. “I’ll say we decided we didn’t suit.”
“Your father won’t accept that as a reason—and well you know it.”
“Then, I shall say the attempted poisoning put me off. You feared to put me in peril before the culprit was found and hanged. ’Tis partly the truth, and will serve better than pure invention.”
“When I leave you, I shall leave part of myself behind.” He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.
She feasted her eyes on him—on his ruggedly handsome face, heated gaze, broad shoulders, and powerful chest. She smoothed her fingers over his cheek, then pushed back a lock of his unruly hair. “And part of me will be torn away when you go.”
“I would give all the gold in the world to kiss you now, Clemence. But a fire burns within me. It smolders now, but one touch of your lips would fan it into a blaze that could never be quenched. Then there would be no choice for us, no turning back. I don’t want to steal that choice from you.”
To her distress, he released her hand and turned away.
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