Blythe Gifford – Innocence Unveiled (страница 6)

‘You disappoint me. I would expect an expert smuggler to supply whatever I want, no matter how costly.’

‘Bread and cheese will have to serve.’

She reached for the bread and touched his fingers instead.

Her glance tangled in his. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Warmth from his fingers crept up her arm, weaving them together. Something sweet and weak happened inside her.

Flushed with shame, she snatched her hand back and popped the bread and cheese in her mouth. He took a swig of the beer, then handed it to her. She sipped it to wash down the cheese, then tried to hide her surprise. He might be a stranger, but he had found the best brewer in the quarter quickly enough.

What manner of man had she allowed under her roof? If she were not more careful, she might lose her coin and more.

‘Tell me of yourself, Renard. You must share our Count’s allegiance to King Philip to go to such lengths to overcome the English embargo.’

‘Kings are nothing to me,’ he said finally. An upraised eyebrow teased his face. ‘What, mistress, are they to you?’

Her gaze travelled over the familiar room. A lonely grey cloud of coarse Flemish fleece floated on one woven basket handle. Hooks were bare instead of piled with hanks of carded wool ready to sell to the spinsters. Empty shelves should have been stacked with ells of cloth ready for market.

She had a sudden, fierce desire for him to see it as it was supposed to be—busy, bustling, shelves piled high with a rainbow of fine woven woollens.

‘As you can see,’ she said, finally, ‘this shop has been one of their battlegrounds.’

‘A battleground? With whose forces do you fight? Valois or Plantagenet? Philip’s or Edward’s?’

She ignored his question, as he had hers, steeling herself this time not to fear silence. The more she talked, the more lies she had to tell. Nibbling her cheese, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. ‘I cannot fight. I am only a woman, not a chevalier.’

‘There are many ways to fight a war,’ he answered.

His words gave her pause. How did he fight?

And for whom?

‘This husband of yours, for example,’ he continued. ‘Where is he?’

Husband. Where is my husband? She took a bite of cheese, trying to think. Aunt Matilda was right. She should be mindful of her tongue. She was creating too many lies to count. She should never have left the man here alone. If he had prowled the house while she was away, he would know no man lived under this roof.

She took another sip of ale. ‘I told you I am responsible. He is away.’

‘Away.’ He pulled at the word as if it were the thread that could unravel a whole cloth. ‘And what is he doing…away?’

What lie is something like the truth? ‘Buying… selling.’

‘Buying and selling what?’

He leaned towards her. Too close. A shaft of late-afternoon sun sculpted his strong cheekbones, softened by an unruly curl of chestnut hair.

The silence grew so large that she had to fill it.

‘He is trying to find more wool.’ That at least was true. But it was her father, not her husband, who had travelled to England on a wool-buying trip.

‘How pleased he will be when he returns to find you have succeeded.’

‘Certainly he will be pleased when you succeed.’

He gave her a lazy smile. She let go of her breath. He was satisfied. There would be no more questions about her husband.

‘Has he been away long?’

She had relaxed too soon. ‘A while.’

‘You must miss him.’

She felt her face melt. Too late, she wondered if her expression was appropriate to a wife. ‘Yes.’

‘And where is your husband looking for this wool?’

She reached for the ale again. Any answer she gave would be wrong.

If she said her husband was in England, Renard would know he was either jailed or a traitor to the Count of Flanders.

If she admitted she had no husband, she would be caught in her lie and exposed as a vulnerable woman at Renard’s mercy.

If she admitted she was under her uncle’s protection, Renard would demand to confer with him.

‘I really don’t know where he is this week, Monsieur Renard,’ she said.

‘You’re unprotected?’

She bit the unguarded tongue that had revealed too much. Once again her impulsive words had led her to the brink of disaster. He must learn no more.

Yet his eyes would not let her turn away. They put her in mind of the things that men and women did. Alone. What would she do if he reached for her?

If he kissed her?

A sinful thought no decent woman would have. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘You will be my protector.’

Did she only imagine his eyes became a darker blue? ‘More demands? You haven’t even paid for the wool.’

‘I said you would have an answer this afternoon, not your pay.’ Her father’s bag of coins lay hidden safe in her chest. ‘I do not keep such sums lying about.’

His smile became a scowl. ‘First you cannot decide, then you cannot pay.’ He sat up, wrapping the last of the bread and cheese as if to leave. ‘I have no more time to waste with you.’

‘No. Please. Wait.’ She grabbed his arm. She must not lose him now.

He paused. ‘For how long?’

How long would it take to get to her uncle’s house and back? ‘’Til curfew.’

The lazy smile was gone and she saw no pity in his eyes. But something shifted inside him.

‘Curfew. No longer.’

She nodded and left the shop, closing the door with shaking fingers. She was still trembling as she crossed the bridge and hurried past the Count’s castle, thrusting out at the junction of river and canal like a mountain looming over the city. But she had no time to think about Renard’s eyes or the uncomfortable feelings he raised.

She must enter and leave the house without being seen or she would not be back before curfew. If her uncle forced her to go with him to Gravere, she would not be back at all.

Chapter Three

Katrine tiptoed up the stairs to her room unseen by her aunt, who was peering carefully at each fork before she wrapped it for travel. But as Katrine opened her trunk to grab the bag of coins hidden under her clothes, she heard the heavy thump of her uncle’s steps.

Wood scraped on wood as he flung open the door. She stuffed the coins back to the bottom of the trunk, then smoothed the folds from her second-best kirtle, re-folding the warm gold wool with damp palms.

‘Don’t turn your back on me.’ He grabbed her right arm and swung her around him. The kirtle tumbled into a golden puddle.

A sour taste cut her tongue. ‘I am facing you now,’ she said, chin up, looking squarely into his eyes. There was a strangeness there that made her shiver. ‘What do you want?’

‘Hurry your packing. We must be well along before dark.’

Think before you speak. But there was only the truth. ‘I am not going. I must tend my father’s work.’

He tightened his grip and shook her. ‘Your place is where I say it is.’ He closed the open lid. ‘With us. Your father indulged you too long. The shop is closed. Now. Today.’

‘No.’ She wrenched her arm away from his grip, rubbing the spot his fingers had bruised. It was too late to placate him and she had never been good at it.

‘Wilful wench. You’re a curse on the name of Gravere.’

Over and over, he had said so, until all she wanted to do was hide from a shame she didn’t even understand. ‘If you think so, then I’ll free you from concern about me. I’ll move to the shop.’

The thought alone brought blessed relief. How wonderful to be away from the reach of his fist.