“He’s…ah…John Corbet.” She gave the name of her local pub landlord. She doubted Ralph would accept any more excuses, and it was the first name she could think of that sounded vaguely Norman.
Ralph’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t know of a John Corbet, but there’s Roger Corbet at Caus Castle. We’ll start there.”
Oh, great. Caus Castle wasn’t far away. Trust her to pick a name that could actually be possible. Her lips twitched as she imagined the confusion of Roger Corbet when Ralph arrived with a strange woman in tow, claiming to be a vassal. Still, it would silence Ralph’s questions for a while. Give her a chance to work out how on earth to get back.
She gave him a bright smile. “Good. How about another game?”
Tomorrow, if it stopped snowing, she would visit the mere. It was the key to getting home, she was sure of it.
A voice whispered in the back of her mind that she would miss Ralph when she left, but she ignored it. She couldn’t afford to be dependent upon him. Couldn’t allow her happiness to be tied to one person ever again.
Chapter Eight
How many feasts could one castle hold? So far there had been Christmas Day, St. Stephen’s Day, and the Feast of St. John. As far as she could tell, today had no special saint associated with it, but there was a feast anyway.
She picked at her food, anxious to escape. Today was the first day it had stopped snowing. Although the snow lay thick on the ground, she’d persuaded Eleanor to lend her a pair of sturdy ankle boots and a cloak. She was going to walk to the mere even if she had to dig her way through snowdrifts.
Not that she’d been having a bad time. The snow had confined everyone to the castle, and she’d seen plenty of Ralph as a consequence. Her heart did a little swoop when she thought of him. They’d spent hours in the solar, ostensibly playing merels, but most of the time the jet and ivory discs had sat untouched, while they’d lost themselves in conversation. If Ralph lived in her time, he’d have been someone she’d want to keep as a lifelong friend.
Yes, her stomach still performed acrobatics whenever he was near, and if they inadvertently touched, there was the crackle of electricity, but that was only due to her libido awakening after years of neglect. Nothing to do with Ralph himself. That wild kiss on Christmas Day had been entirely due to her heightened senses and confusion of finding herself in an alien time.
The minstrels struck up a carole. Finally! As soon as the others were distracted by the dance, she would make her escape.
“Will you dance?” Ralph had risen and held out his hand.
Yes please! Back in her teenage years when she’d been clubbing, if someone had told her how seductive it could be to dance opposite a man and never touch, she’d have laughed in their face. Whether it was the rhythmic discordant music, the amber candlelight, or simply the act of moving in counterpoint to a man, eyes locked, she usually ended each dance weak with longing. If she danced opposite Ralph.
Stop it! Stop thinking of him that way! “I feel a little light-headed. I should go back to my chamber.” She mustn’t look at him, or she’d allow herself to be drawn into “just one dance,” and before she knew it, she’d have danced the day away in Ralph’s company.
“I’ll escort you.”
“No!” She cleared her throat. “I mean, no thank you. I’ll be fine. I just need some air. You shouldn’t neglect your duties.” She’d learned by now that any hint he was neglecting his duty as Lord of Whitwell was a sure way to get his attention.
He nodded. “Very well. Send for me should you need anything.”
Don’t tempt her. Her need for him increased by the hour, and it was terrifying.
She left the hall, glancing back in the doorway. Ralph danced opposite one of his knight’s daughters, but his eyes were fixed on hers. She stood, transfixed for several seconds, fighting for breath. This couldn’t be happening. She mustn’t fall for Ralph. Complicated didn’t even begin to describe the situation.
She dragged her gaze away and fled into the courtyard. Pulling her cloak around her shoulders, she slipped out of the gates.
****
There she was. A dash of green against an otherwise brilliant white scene. She stood, motionless, gazing across the mere, her veil a fluttering pennant. What in God’s name was she doing down there?
Ralph set his teeth and descended the path leading to the mere from the postern gate, buffing his frozen hands. The deep snow crunching beneath his feet and the creak of branches beneath their snowy burden was the only sound in the still air. Even the pigeons and sparrows were silent and huddled on their roosts, plumage fluffed against the chill. They showed far more sense than Katherine.
Transfixed by the mere, she didn’t seem to notice his approach but remained on the very edge of the bank, motionless, seemingly studying the spidery trail of a moorhen upon the ice.
He ground his teeth. God’s blood, had the woman no concept of danger? She could slip and fall through the ice or be caught unawares by a wolf. And that was before one considered the danger from Welsh raiders or outlaws.
He drew a deep breath. He mustn’t startle her, or she might very well slip and fall.
And if she didn’t notice his approach, he could enjoy watching her, unobserved. Enjoy the way her gown clung to the slender curves of her breasts and hips.
Hellfire! Now images of what those curves would look like without her gown flooded his mind. Heat pooled in his groin.
“What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing out here?” Not quite the gentle urging to step back from the edge he’d intended. Katherine spun around, her breath wreathing a trail in the frosty air. She took a few paces toward him, her eyes wide.
He marched up to her and took her arm. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be wandering outside alone?” He couldn’t help himself. The frustration of being pent up for days in the same space as Katherine, without being able to slake his desire, released itself in this surge of irritation.
“What could possibly happen so close to the castle?”
“We get wolves here in the winter. And the Welsh are on the other side of the next valley.” He stabbed his finger at the hill on the far side of the mere.
“You came here alone.”
“I came here because the man at the gate told me he’d let you through.” He’d be on duty every night until Candlemas as a punishment. “And I’m wearing a sword. What were you planning to wield against outlaws—a hair pin?”
Katherine’s eyes flashed. She put a hand to her head and drew out a long bronze hair pin, and jabbed the air with it, perilously close to his eyes. “I could do a lot of damage with one of these, applied to certain vulnerable parts of the male anatomy. Would you like me to demonstrate?”
It took all his willpower not to shield his groin with his hands.
Katherine took another step forward. So close he could see the throb of the pulse point at her throat. “And don’t get me started with the hair combs. Bloody things have been digging into my scalp all day.”
Ralph held up his hands in mock surrender. “I had no idea women were so well armed. But you should talk to my mother if her maid hurt you.” He inspected her hair but couldn’t see any trace of blood on the ivory combs. Although it was hard to focus when all he wanted to do was unwind the coiled braids and see her hair tumbled over her shoulders as it had been on her first morning here.
She frowned, then her face cleared. “No, it’s an expression. It means…oh, never mind.” She gestured at the path that ran along the banks, skirting the foot of the castle motte. “Please don’t make me go in. I want to see more of the mere. Will you walk with me?”
Why was it impossible to stay angry at her for long? He’d marched down here intent on dragging her back to the castle, but now the prospect of a walk through the freezing snow, with the Welsh an ever-present threat, actually sounded appealing. He gave her his arm to lean on. Only because he didn’t want her to slip and fall. Not because he enjoyed the touch of her fingers through his sleeve. “Now
we’re here, it can’t do any harm to stay out a while longer. But at the first hint of trouble you’re to do as I say, or I’ll have you confined to your chamber for the remainder of your stay. Understood?”
She dimpled. “I’m sure there’s nothing to fear now you’re here with your sword.”
His heart skipped. No woman ever dared teasing him. Conversations with women usually involved complimenting their embroidery or discussions about music. He thought back to Katherine’s view on marriage. Who would he rather share his life with: a woman who only talked about domestic matters, or a woman who made him smile? Even if her tongue was as sharp as her hairpins. More than that, with Katherine, every new meeting was an adventure. He enjoyed trying to decipher her odd turns of phrase. Her unique opinions.
With luck the dancing in the great hall would continue for some hours. Give him time to spend walking with Katherine before his absence was noted. It was a relief to be with someone who didn’t see him just as their overlord but seemed genuinely interested in him and his thoughts. “Come, then, Lady Katherine. With my sword and your hairpin, we’ll be safe enough.”
They followed the path in silence for a while. Ralph tried to stay alert to danger, concentrate on the sounds of the woods, listening for any stealthy noises masked by the rattle of last summer’s withered leaves. But all too often he found himself enthralled by the sharp-sweet scent that lingered about her, the shift in her expression as she studied the mere and its environs. He even found himself fascinated by the ripple of her throat each time she swallowed.
He cleared his throat. “What scent are you wearing?”
She tilted her head. “Scent? Oh, you must mean my sham—my hair. It’s lemons.”
“Lemons? So that’s how they smell. I’ve never seen one, but my father described one in a letter.” It had turned out to be his last letter. He’d sickened and died only a few days after sending it.
“You must miss him. How long ago did he die?”
“Ten years. And yes, I do miss him. Every day.” He’d not been able to talk about his father’s death. The moment the news had reached Whitwell, he’d divided his attention between caring for his grief-stricken mother and taking on the mantle of Lord of Whitwell. But now, with Katherine, who had her own experience of grief, he found he wanted to unburden himself.
He made a sweeping gesture with his free arm, taking in the castle and surrounding land. “My father made Whitwell what it is today. Everything you see, the rich grazing land, the stone castle, the good road connecting us to Ludlow and Shrewsbury…without my father, none of this would be here. There aren’t many castles that can boast glass windows in the solar and chimneys.”
Katherine studied the castle, shading her eyes from the low, slanting sun rays. “It is impressive.” Then in a soft undertone, she added, “I’ve often wondered what it looked like.” But he must have heard wrong. After a brief pause, she seemed to recollect herself and gave him a shrewd look. “What plans do you have for the place?”
“To defend it. Keep it safe from the Welsh on one side and prosperous enough to pay the Crown’s ever-increasing taxes on the other.” He’d never forgive himself if all his father’s good work was undone under his rule.
“But you must want to stamp your own mark on it, as your father did.”
“Of course I do. But it’s been a struggle simply to maintain it without any extra income. My father…” He hesitated. He hated to say anything that sounded critical of his father, especially to an outsider. Except Katherine didn’t feel like an outsider. And it was only now that he realized how good it felt to share his concerns. His thoughts. His hopes.
It was worryingly similar to Katherine’s description of a loving marriage.
He drew a breath. “My father emptied Whitwell’s coffers to fund the crusade, then I was forced to hand over a vast sum to pay my share of King Richard’s ransom. Unless I can bring in more money, I’ll never be able to expand.”
“And your prospective bride comes with a rich dowry, I take it?” It was a rude reminder that his future lay with a woman other than Katherine.
“Of course. Only a fool would marry for love.” But he would miss conversations like these.
Katherine looked away for a moment, chewing her lip. Hellfire, it was difficult to concentrate on anything else when she did that. All he could think about was how plump and luscious it felt against his own lips. He tugged at the neck of his tunic. He’d have to have a word with the woman who sewed his tunics. This neckline was far too tight.
Katherine released her lower lip. Thank the saints. She gave him a smile that looked a shade too bright to be natural. “If you did have the funds, what would you do?”
That was easy. He’d lain awake every night dreaming what he would do given the money. Well, every night until Katherine arrived. Since then his nights had been disturbed by rather different imaginings. “I’d apply to the king for a charter to hold a market. That would draw merchants and tradespeople who would otherwise settle in Ludlow or Shrewsbury. In time, I imagine a prosperous town growing around the castle.”
“Oh, yes. Up on that hillside.” Katherine pointed to a hill that was currently buried under a dense thicket of blackthorn and alder. Funny. That was exactly where he’d imagined it to be. He’d even imagined endowing a church to sit right at the crown of the hill, proclaiming Whitwell’s prosperity.
“And a church with a high tower, at the highest point.” Was the woman a mind reader?
When he’d broached the idea to his mother, not long after he’d inherited, she had cried that he would undo his father’s legacy. He’d only been fifteen at the time, too young to overrule his mother and increase her grief.
He glanced at Katherine. She was staring up at the hill as though she could already see thatched cottages sheltering in the shadow of the magnificent church, and a bustling marketplace.
She turned to face him, and his breath caught at the beauty of her smile. Unguarded, open, blazing her enthusiasm. “How wonderful to be the founder. To see a town and know you designed it.”
His breath caught in his throat. What man wouldn’t want a magnificent creature like Katherine at his side? It was as though she’d blossomed from a tight, frost-damaged bud into a proud rose in the space of the few days he’d known her.
How would she blossom were she to stay longer?
He quickly shut out the thought. If he was to have any hope of carrying out even part of his plans, he needed his heiress.
A clatter from the far side of the mere made him spin away from her and strain his eyes to see what had caused the disturbance. He caught Katherine around the waist and thrust her behind him. “If I tell you to run, go, and don’t look back.”
“What is it?” Her voice was a hiss.
“I don’t know yet.” But as he had already pointed out, the Welsh were on the other side of the next valley. He’d thought the snow would have prevented a raid, but if they were hungry, desperate, who knew what they would attempt?
And the river would have frozen over. They wouldn’t need to travel the ten miles downstream to the nearest bridge. Fool! Why hadn’t he foreseen that?
He backed away from the mere, keeping his body between Katherine and any possible Welshman with a bow.
Another crack. He jerked his gaze in the direction of the sound. There! His heart beat a tattoo against his ribs. A branch shivered, as though suddenly released from a weight. A mass of snow cascaded from the branches, glittering in the sunlight. The hiss of falling snow was clear even from this distance.
“Back to the castle. Now.”
He half expected Katherine to argue, but she must have caught his urgency, for she turned and floundered up the path, slipping every now and again as the snow slid beneath her feet. He backed up, still keeping himself between her and danger.
Another rustle of falling snow snagged his attention. This time it was higher up the hill. The spot between his shoulder blades itched. At any moment an arrow could fly from
the trees and strike him down.
More crashes. He paused. A spy wouldn’t draw attention to himself in this way. What—?
A buzzard broke free from the branches and soared into the air, its mewling call pierced the air.
A bubble of laughter burst from his lungs. “Sweet Jesu. I’ll be drawing my sword against squirrels next. You can come back, Katherine. It was only a buzzard.”
She slithered back down the path, only to slip when she reached his side. He caught her around the waist and pulled her close, helping her regain her footing. For a long moment he couldn’t tear his gaze from her face. She parted her lips to draw a sharp breath; the tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lower lip.
God’s blood, how he ached to kiss her. Maybe his desire showed in his face, for suddenly her pupils enlarged until only a narrow rim of blue remained. He should let her go. She could stand unaided. But his arms didn’t want to release her. They reveled in the feel of her supple waist, the curve of her hips. Holding her was the most natural, most wonderful feeling in the world.
Katherine gave a small sigh and leaned into his embrace. Sweet Jesu, all he had to do was lower his head and their lips would meet. She smiled up at him, her sweet lips curving, forming dimples that he yearned to kiss. “Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For protecting me. Ever since I arrived, I’ve felt insecure, not knowing how to look after myself. But you made me feel safe. I knew you wouldn’t let me come to harm.”
“I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”
Her cheeks glowed red, making her eyes appear even brighter, and she stepped back, out of his arms. Her smile widened, but it looked strained. “Then be glad your mother armed me with such fearsome hairpins. There’s no chance of anything happening to me while I have those.”
It was a warning he was getting too close, another attempt to evade her feelings, but she was right. Nothing had changed. She still wanted to return home, and he would be forced to marry the Welsh heiress.
If only his arms didn’t still ache to hold her.
The Gift of Time Page 7