Blythe Gifford – His Border Bride (страница 5)
The flame trembled. ‘This is the family floor. What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for a bed.’
She glanced towards her door, still closed. Had he dared look inside? ‘I told you to sleep in the Hall with the rest.’ She took the final step up to the floor, yet still he towered over her.
‘You might at least offer me a blanket and pillow.’
‘I’ve offered you a roof.’ And it was more than she should have. ‘Don’t make me regret it.’
‘A lady’s hospitality normally includes something more comfortable.’
‘I have given you the same welcome that I would give any other fighting man. If that is unacceptable, then you won’t be sorry to leave tomorrow. Now stand aside so I can reach my chamber.’
He didn’t move, yet something crept over her skin, as if he had touched her. She started around him, but the space was narrow and she bumped against him, stumbled and lost her grip on the candlestick.
He caught her with one arm before she hit the floor and when she looked up, she saw the candle, straight and steady, in his other hand.
Knees bent, she tried to stand, but only fell against his chest. Embarrassed, she had to cling to his shoulders as he straightened, giving her back her stance, and then her candle.
She backed away, her forearm branded with his palm, her breasts still feeling the press of his chest, held just a moment too long, against hers.
‘Dream well, Mistress Clare.’
She reached behind her and pushed her door open, afraid to look away for fear he’d follow. But he didn’t move, and as she took the light with her his smile faded into the darkness.
She shut the door and leaned against it, shaking.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would be gone.
As she slammed the door against him, Gavin struggled to subdue his anger. Her disdain was sparked by such small trespasses, things that reflected none of the darkness he concealed. If she was so concerned about the shine of his armour, what would she think if he broke down her door and forced himself into the comfort of her bed?
He’d seen men do worse. He had ridden away from the English because their war had made it too easy to act on such dark visions. As easy as it had been for his father to seduce a Scots lady and leave her with a child forced to fight the heritage of his blended blood.
He was weary of war—the one on the field and the one in his soul.
He descended the stone stairs into the hall. A few men still gambled in the corner. The rest had curled up for the night. The fire had burned to embers and his small bedroll offered little cushion from the unforgiving floor. For weeks, he had braved cold and rain, staying clear of Lord Douglas’s men as they chased Edward’s troops. Grass and dirt had been his bed. He ached for a moment of comfort.
Stretching out close to the hearth, he saw the tapestry banker covering the chest beside it, keeping the wood warm when a man was cold.
He reached over, pulled it off and rolled up in it. The memory of her fingers caressing it when she thought no one was looking warmed him more than the wool.
Clare smiled as she entered the Hall the next morning and went over to pat the banker covering the chest. It had become a daily rite, reminding her of Alain’s expectation that she be a lady, cleaving to the ways his mother had taught her.
Her smile faded as she came closer. Black and grey smudges marred the red-and-gold wool.
She knelt beside the tapestry, anger mixing with a sick feeling in her stomach. What would Alain think when he saw what had happened to his beautiful gift?
She looked around the Hall. None of her men would have dared touch it. It must have been the stranger.
Fury swamped the anguish. First, fury with herself for being so foolish as to let him into her home. Then, fury at him.
She folded the tapestry carefully, exposing a back as neatly finished as the front. He had done it deliberately, she was sure—tried to destroy something precious to her.
She carried the folded fabric as reverently as an altar cloth, the pounding in her ears growing with each step. A lady must never show anger. A lady must be ever temperate. Yet rage pounded against her temples. She struggled to subdue it, blaming him for raising her temper. The strength of it frightened her nearly as much as the other feelings he’d raised.
The ones that had kept her awake last night.
She found him in the stable, kneeling before his horse, testing the animal’s fetlock. At least the man had the wisdom to look after the beast, a possession no doubt more valuable than he deserved.
She wondered whether he had killed the knight who owned it.
Angus sat in the straw at his feet, head bent over the chainmail, patiently polishing an individual iron link.
‘Angus!’ Her voice was sharp. ‘Ask the falconer if he needs help in the mews.’
‘That’s nae work for a squire.’
It was the first time the boy had ever crossed her and she added it to Fitzjohn’s list of sins. ‘And if you do not do as you’re told, you’ll never
Fitzjohn motioned his head towards the door. The boy put down the brush and hurried out.
‘Blame me, if you must,’ he said. ‘Not the boy.’
‘I do.’
The morning sunlight streamed through the stable door and poured over him, picking up streaks of gold in his hair. He did not wear his smile this morning. Instead, the light carved sharp shadows around his nose and mouth. He looked as fierce as a golden eagle. Powerful, graceful, beautiful.
Deadly.
Such a bird could pluck Wee One out of the sky without ruffling his own feathers.
She lifted the cloth in an accusation. ‘This was a beautiful tapestry.’ She swallowed, trying to clear the fury fighting to escape her throat. ‘It came all the way from France.’
She held it out, but he didn’t take it.
His wry look returned, masking the danger. ‘That’s a long trip.’
‘You ruined it. Deliberately.’ Her voice shook and she hated the power he had to upset her.
‘Now that’s a harsh accusation. You sent me to sleep in the hall without so much as a blanket. I wrapped myself up in it and it fell into the ashes during the night.’ He shrugged, his expression holding no remorse. ‘That’s what it’s made for. To ward off the cold.’
‘To ward off the chill when one is sitting on the bench.’
His smile widened, slowly. ‘But your bottom wasn’t on the bench last night, so I didn’t think you’d mind.’
She dropped it in the straw at his feet, releasing a puff of dust. ‘You dirtied it. Clean it before you leave.’
He looked down at the banker, then back at her, half-smile still in place. ‘That’s a lot of fuss to be making about a spot of dirt on a piece of cloth.’
‘It’s a tapestry, not just a piece of cloth.’ She bit her cheek to stop the tears. ‘From Arras. It was a gift.’
‘Are you sure that’s really what’s disturbing you?’
‘What else would I be distressed about?’
‘Me.’
‘You?’ The word fell from her lips as quickly as if he had slapped her. How did he know? His very presence violated the natural order. Knights were supposed to be noble, honourable and kind to women. He was the opposite and worse, he delighted in it.
‘That’s right. I think I just roil you inside.’
He did. In places she had never felt before.
‘Yes, Sir Gavin, if you are a “sir.” You do.’ She lifted her chin and lowered her shoulders, trying to regain a lady’s calm. ‘But do not smile with pleasure at the thought. You “roil” me because you deliberately flout the laws of chivalry.’
‘Chivalry?’ His mocking tone had a dark echo.
‘Yes. You must have heard the word.’
Gratified, she saw his easy smile vanish. His blue eyes turned hard and he stepped closer, forcing her to retreat. But she could not move far enough away. He still stole her breath.
‘Oh, I’ve heard of it. But I’ve been fighting in a war, not a tournament to entertain the ladies. You may not believe this, Mistress Clare, but we don’t see much chivalry in war, so forgive me if I’ve forgotten how to bow and scrape and bend my knee. In a real war, we don’t wave a lance and a lady’s scarf in hopes of winning a silk purse. In a real war, when someone loses, they die. And sometimes, the victor even enjoys the killing.’
She shuddered. Had