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In sight of the tower, she was relieved of the need to answer, and waved to the guard standing on the wall to open the gate. ‘Who’s with you, mistress?’
The man beside her called out without waiting for her answer. ‘A hungry, tired man looking for a warm bed and a hot meal.’
The guard waited for her sign. She nodded. ‘Open the gate.’
They rode into the barmkin and she handed the sack of game to the falconer, closing her ears to his complaints. She started to dismount, expecting young Angus to help her off her horse, but instead, she faced the stranger.
He appeared before she saw him move, fast as a falcon diving for its prey.
He reached to help her down. She hesitated. Somehow, his hand offered an invitation to touch more than fingers.
Without waiting for her to accept, he grabbed her waist, lifting her off the saddle. She had no choice but to slide down into his arms.
He held her too tightly. As she stretched her toes towards the ground, she felt her breasts press against his chest. Something like the stroke of a bird’s feather rippled across her skin. She held her face away from him, but his lips, sharp and chiselled, hovered too close to hers.
Her feet hit the earth.
Standing, he was a full head taller than she. Though journey dust clung to him, he carried his own scent, complex and dangerous, like a fire of oak and pine, smouldering at the end of a long night.
His smile didn’t waver. Nor did his eyes. Blue, startlingly so, and framed by strong brows, they held her gaze strongly as his arms held her body.
‘I’m ready to dismount.’ Euphemia’s pout was audible.
And just like that, he was gone.
Clare sagged against her horse, realising she had held her breath the entire time he touched her. This was no perfect knight, but a dangerous man. Anyone who trusted him would find herself abandoned and alone.
Or worse.
She forced herself to walk away, ignoring the tug of his eyes on her back. The cook and the steward approached, stern looks on their faces. She hoped fresh fowl would soothe their anger at her for avoiding her day’s duties.
‘Mistress Clare.’ The man’s words were a command.
She turned at her name, hating herself for doing it and him for making her. ‘If it is food you want, the evening meal will be served shortly.’
‘What I want is to see the Carr in charge.’
Now she was the one who smiled, long and slow and she watched his face, savouring the moment. ‘You’ve seen her.’
And when she turned to the steward, the smile lingered on her lips.
Gavin watched the woman turn her back on him, never losing her smile.
You’ve seen her.
And he had. With her fair hair pulled into an immovable braid, suspicious grey-green eyes and straight brows, hers was not a perfect face. But she had the air of a woman accustomed to being obeyed, and he could well believe she was the castle’s mistress while her father or her husband was at war.
He had made no friend of her yet, he was certain, but he must try to do so now. He strode over and interrupted her conversation. ‘Then you’re the one I want to see. I want to join your men.’
The quiver on her lips might have been irritation or fear. Should she discover who he was, it would certainly be fear. Eventually, there would be no way to hide it. She had not recognised his name, but even the smallest band of warriors seemed to know it now.
Yet he refused to cower behind a lie. Men would think what they would. He had learned not to care.
‘No. You cannot.’ Her tone brooked no opposition.
‘Why not?’ Most of the castle’s men were, no doubt, harrying Edward all the way back to England. ‘An extra man-at-arms should be welcome.’
‘Oh, we’ll have men enough, just as soon as they capture Edward and come home.’
He stamped on a pang of regret. He had known his decision would mean abandoning the man who had brought him to knighthood, but he had hoped not to care so much. ‘Well, until they do, I’ve a sword to offer in your service.’
‘Do you always march in, demand what you want, and expect to get it?’
What he wanted was an end to endless war. That, he did not expect. Or even hope for. ‘I only expect that, as a knight, my duty is to fight.’
She studied his face until he feared she would see the English blood in it. ‘So you truly are a knight?’ The wonder in her voice implied that a knight was a special soul instead of a man trained, like her hawk, to kill on command.
‘Aye,’ he answered, the Scottish accent of his childhood remembered on his tongue. ‘I’m as true a knight as you’ll see.’
He watched her turn over his answer before she spoke again.
‘My answer is still no. If you’re hungry, fill your belly at the evening table. If you’re weary, sleep in the hall tonight. But tomorrow, I want you out of the place.’
He bowed as she left him, grateful, at least, for one night under a roof.
Fuelled by anger and desperation, he’d spent the last few weeks hiding in these desolate hills, avoiding both the Scots and the English. Just to the south, near the peaks, lay the border that two kings had drawn more than one hundred years ago.
Now, he had chosen his side.
And lonely and bleak as it was, Mistress Clare, by all that was holy, was going to let him live on it.
Chapter Two
Euphemia ran after her as Clare entered the hall. ‘No wonder you’re still unmarried. A braw man appears and you do nothing but insult him.’
‘Euphemia, you talk as if I should open my skirts to anything with a pillicock.’ Of course, the girl’s mother did, so she knew no better.
The girl shrugged. She knew who, and what, she was. Her mother might have been the baron’s companion for ten years, but she would never be his wife. ‘What’s the harm?’
‘He’s someone’s bastard son, attached to no lord. He may have been banished from his fellows. We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t murder us in our beds.’ And if he did, the fault would be hers.
‘Well, I’ll be friendly, if you won’t.’
‘No, you won’t. I don’t want to see his bastard in your belly after he’s gone. Now go and find out whether cook needs help with those fowl.’
The girl smiled and left, without answering yea or nae.
Clare gritted her teeth. She had tried to bring order to this place, but France and all she’d learned there was far away. The wildness of these untamed hills crept into everything and everyone. Even she had mornings, like this one, when nothing would soothe her but watching the falcon soar and taking pleasure in its kill.
She glanced up. Fitzjohn was still regarding her. He smiled, as if sensing her unruly urges.
She turned her back on him. Let the man fill his belly and be gone.
She tried to ignore him when he appeared in the Great Hall for the evening meal, sitting far below the salt. He seemed at ease there, among the men-at-arms, yet something set him apart, as well.
Euphemia leaned over to serve him soup, her breast pressing close to his shoulder. Clare clenched her fists.
He caught her looking at him and his eyes, in turn, travelled over her as if he saw not just under her clothes, but under her skin.
She looked away. He was not worthy of a lady’s attention. She rested her gaze, instead, on the small tapestry banker, a gift from Alain.
Alain, Comte de Garencieres, had come to Scotland a year ago with soldiers and money to aid, or more precisely, to rekindle the Scots’ war on England. He had brought with him the reminder of all she had left behind when she had returned two years ago after years of being fostered in France.
The banker, in threads of red, white and gold, depicted a man and woman, arms outstretched, about to reunite. On the woman’s shoulder perched the falcon who had already returned to her.
It was too beautiful to sit on, though it was designed as a bench cover. Instead, she had draped it over a chest beside the great hearth where she could see it.
Alain’s gift was a reminder of a better world, one where grace and chivalry reigned. And as soon as the fighting was over, they would be married. She would return to France as the comte’s lady, far from this crude and brutal land of her birth.
She glanced at Fitzjohn through her eyelashes without raising her head. A boorish Scot, like the rest. Interested only in fighting, eating and women.
He had left her thoughts by the time the evening meal was finished and she started up the spiralling stairs to her bedchamber. But as she reached the third level, Fitzjohn loomed before her, just beyond her candle’s glow.
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.’
Comfortable carried the lilt of an insult, but the words raised her guilt. A lady should show more hospitality. Yet his behaviour didn’t befit a knight, so she had trouble remembering to act as a lady.
‘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 be a squire.’
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.’
