Velvet Bond
Velvet Bond
Catherine Archer
Lord Raynor Was No Match for the Lovely WomanHe'd Been Forced to Take to WifeThough Lady Elizabeth Clayburn was no stranger to the flattery of men, the enigmatic Baron of Warwicke wielded a power over her more potent than anything she had ever felt, and she'd tumbled quickly into a marriage bed, unwarmed by trust or love.The grim defenses around Lord Raynor Warwicke's heart had been erected long ago. But now his defiant wife had dared to breach his stronghold, challenging him to lay aside the armor of his suspicions, and surrender to the greater strength of love.
Velvet Bond
Catherine Archer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to my children, Catherine, Stephen and Rosanna, for all their love and support, with
special thanks to my Kate for all her editorial assistance.
And to my sister, Elizabeth, who cleans when she’s angry and gave me the inspiration for this character.
I must also add a note of thanks to Don D’Auria. Thanks.
Contents
Chapter One (#u5dc60bcb-2434-56d8-af70-88b58ef1736b)
Chapter Two (#udc05aed9-a710-52a3-868f-15f2bc3e9680)
Chapter Three (#uda3a3b45-4be3-59a0-99ef-7ebccd8b92a2)
Chapter Four (#uf0f3d330-3ad2-554a-807b-9604b0287867)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Elizabeth Clayburn sat on the stone window seat, her slender back supported by her brother’s broad one. Despite the velvet cushion beneath her, she was less than comfortable. Sighing, she wished herself in her own comfortable house for the third time in as many minutes. But she had promised to stay at Stephen’s side until Lady Helen turned her attentions elsewhere, and that she would do. No matter how much she disliked coming up to Windsor Castle.
It wasn’t Elizabeth’s usual custom to involve herself in Stephen’s affairs, but Lady Helen was proving especially difficult to discourage, and Stephen had come near to begging for Elizabeth’s help. He hoped that if he was never alone with his former mistress, she would soon give up and move on to greener pastures. Not even Helen was brazen enough to confront him about his obviously cooled interest before his very sister.
Restlessly Elizabeth’s gaze roamed the crowded ante-chamber as she toyed with one of the braided gold tassels that held back the heavy red brocade drapes. The three tall windows let in sufficient light to illuminate the high, wide room, but she saw little that pleased her.
Despite the perpetual chill given off by stone walls, the air was overwarm, due to the presence of so many people. The high-ceilinged chamber bore no furniture or adornments save the rich curtains, and needed none. Men and women alike displayed their best finery in the forms of colorful cotehardies, tunics and hose. Many of the older men wore a long-skirted cote over the body-hugging tunic called a pourpoint, but the younger or more daring favored the shorter version that was much frowned on by the church. The women wore their cotes slashed at the sides to show off tight-fitting tunics of samite, sendal, and damask. Linen wimples fluttered about cheeks that had been delicately tinted with cosmetics. Jewelry and fur trim were seen in abundance as their wearers moved about, seeing and being seen. And they waited, some patiently, some not so patiently, for a moment to present their case to their sovereign.
Elizabeth looked down with a start as the would-be troubadour at her feet struck a chord on the lute that rested across his knee. She had nearly forgotten Percy.
Eyes of the palest blue gazed up at her with abject adoration as he sang,
“Oh lips of deepest scarlet hue
And eyes that sparkle like the dew”
“Sweet Jesu, Beth,” her brother Stephen turned to mutter in her ear. “This one is more dreadful than the last.”
“Shh, brother mine,” she whispered, attempting to prevent him hurting poor Percy’s delicate pride.
This was to no avail, for Sir Percy Hustace had indeed heard Stephen’s comment. He dropped the lute, which broke a string as it struck the floor. Percy groaned, casting a wounded look toward the other knight.
Rot Stephen, Elizabeth thought. She was of no mind to listen to them quarrel.
When Stephen only stared at Percy with amused contempt, the blue-eyed knight turned from him in disdain. Percy moved forward on his knees to take Elizabeth’s slender hand in his. “My lady, do you find my song displeasing?”
As Elizabeth gazed down upon the young man, truth and pity warred inside her. Pity won. “Not at all, Sir Percy. 'Tis most clear you have worked long upon the words and melody. I am flattered by your efforts.”
This time triumph lit Percy’s pale eyes when he looked to Stephen.
Elizabeth heard her brother click his tongue in disgust. She frowned at him, her sapphire eyes flashing. “If you do not behave yourself, I shall go home and leave you to face Lady Helen alone.”
Stephen sat bolt upright. “Now, Beth. I was but jesting with Percy. He should not be so sensitive.” Stephen turned toward the other knight so that Elizabeth could no longer see his face, but she knew her brother well, and the expression he was directing at Percy would be unpleasant, to be sure. But she said nothing. Percy could be quite tiresome, with his whining ways. And he did cut a foolish figure in his mode of dress. Every fashion of the day was ridiculously exaggerated. His pourpoint was short to the point of indecency, the gold cotehardie he wore over it sporting tippets that trailed well past his knees, and the points of his shoes extended at least twice the length of his foot. If it weren’t for the fact that much of his foolishness was by way of trying to impress her, Elizabeth would have been less inclined to be patient with him herself.
She smiled decisively. “We will forget the matter.”
Stephen looked about them to see if anyone else had taken note of Percy’s stupidity. As a trusted messenger to King Edward III, Stephen had a certain dignity to uphold.
Few of the other sumptuously dressed occupants of the antechamber paid them even cursory attention. The antics of Elizabeth’s most recent admirer were of little interest to them. Sir Percy was new to Edward’s court, and like countless others before him had instantly become enamored with Stephen’s sister. And Stephen could hardly fault Percy for that. Elizabeth was indeed beautiful, with her deep blue eyes, creamy skin and luxurious black hair.
She was his only sister, and had been dreadfully spoiled by her three brothers, including Peter, who was four years her junior. But Stephen knew it hadn’t harmed her. She had a kind and generous nature. She was undeniably patient with each new suitor until he finally gave up after realizing he would get no more than kindness from her. Stephen knew she should be married at twenty, but none had ever stirred her heart, and her brothers were loath to force her into an alliance she did not want.
If he felt that Percy was of any real threat to Elizabeth’s happiness or virtue, Stephen would readily take him out and throttle him. But he was not, and Stephen could easily afford to be magnanimous with the lackwit. As long as he didn’t become too irritating. So he would do as his sister asked and say no more.
He allowed his gaze to wander freely about the room, then froze.
Elizabeth felt Stephen stiffen beside her as he drew in a sharp breath. Following the direction of his apprehensive gaze, she spied Lady Helen Denfield.
Lady Helen was an acknowledged beauty, and deservedly so. At thirty-two, she managed to look as though she had not seen a day past seventeen years. There was a fawnlike delicacy about her as she came toward them across the bare stone floor. To heighten the image of youth, she wore her golden-brown hair loose down her back in a shimmering curtain, with only a sheer veil to cover it. Her soft brown eyes viewed the world around her with an expression of wonder, and she smiled timidly at whoever she passed.
Elizabeth studied this performance with amusement, having to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. For the pose of timidity was just that, a pose. Lady Helen could be more truly likened to the fox than to the fawn.
Peeking over at Stephen to gauge his reaction, Elizabeth found her handsome brother tensed as if to do battle. He ran an agitated hand through his dark auburn hair, his forest-green eyes wary. For three days now she had accompanied Stephen when he came to the castle to await a possible summons. It was his duty as one of King Edward’s messengers to make himself available. But that put him into contact with the one he most hoped to avoid, his mistress until very recently, Lady Helen Denfield. The affair had ended the moment he found out that the fair widow had nothing short of marriage on her mind.
Lady Denfield stopped before them.
As if sensing some threat to his goddess, Percy leapt up to stand at Elizabeth’s shoulder. It was a clear but unnecessary demonstration of his devotion.
“Lady Elizabeth.” Helen nodded, without looking at her. The woman’s attention was completely centered on her prey. Though she tried to hide the feral gleam in her eyes as they rested upon Stephen, it was all too obvious.
“Lord Clayburn.” The greeting sounded like nothing so much as an endearment.
Stephen ran a large hand over his muscular thighs in their dark green hose. “Lady Denfield.”
Helen’s eyes followed the path of his hand hungrily.
Watching the proceedings with interest, Elizabeth was hard-pressed not to laugh aloud.
How amusing that Stephen should be working so desperately to extricate himself from the affair that a fortnight ago had been his greatest pleasure, Elizabeth thought. Widowed for a year, Helen Denfield had been ripe for the picking. But it was Stephen who would end by being the harvest, did she have her way.
Elizabeth could see that Lady Helen had no intention of remaining a widow for long, and Stephen had clearly been chosen as the honored bridegroom. As she had been unable to produce an heir during her fifteen-year marriage to Lord Denfield, Helen’s husband’s lands and money had passed to a distant cousin, and she was nearly destitute, living on her meager dower funds. When Stephen began to pursue her, she had put all her not inconsiderable charms to luring him to the bait.
Not only was Elizabeth’s brother a fine specimen of a man, he also had a large income left to him by their mother. And, to add cream to the strawberries, he had, according to court gossip, brought Helen to fulfillment for the first time.
If truth be told, Elizabeth had no personal experience in carnal matters, but she did know that the court ladies set much store by prowess in the bedchamber. To Elizabeth, it seemed they made a great deal about naught. She had met no man who stirred even the least bit of feeling in her. And from what she had heard, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. It was beyond her how one could allow oneself to be made such a fool of over copulating.
Helen’s gaze took on a desperate expression as she watched Stephen.
Elizabeth could not imagine prostrating herself the way Helen was now, no matter how much pleasure a man could bring. She nearly succumbed to sympathy for the other woman. Stephen was always one to pursue a female with everything in him. Then, once he had succeeded in his quest, he lost interest, especially when the idea of marriage was broached.
If Lady Helen had been wiser, she would have allowed Stephen to go on thinking he was the aggressor.
Elizabeth understood this much about her brother.
But Stephen was of her blood, and she owed her allegiance to him first. So thinking, Elizabeth hardened her heart and reminded herself that Helen had her own agenda as far as Stephen was concerned. The fact that she had fallen in love with him was incidental.
At that moment, Elizabeth noted that a hush had fallen over the room. She looked up, surprised to find everyone watching the entrance to the chamber. It was unusual for anyone to cause a stir among this lot, who had seen some of the most important men in the world come and go on a regular basis, and she wondered idly who had arrived.
At that moment, the crowd parted, and Elizabeth saw him.
The man was tall and wore his acorn-brown tunic, pourpoint and dark hose casually, seeming completely unconcerned with the way the fabrics hugged his wide shoulders and muscular legs. He had made no effort to garb himself impressively, and thus stood apart like a wolf among lapdogs. Dark brown hair brushed his shoulders, and his equally dark eyes surveyed the splendor before him with indifference. Even as he shifted restlessly, first running a darkly tanned hand through his hair, then clenching that same hand at his side, he moved with an animal sort of grace. He made her think of a dark forest in moonlight, and his expression had a strange haunted quality, as if he were used to being alert for hidden danger.
The man seemed unaware of the stir he was causing. It was as though his mind were on other matters of greater importance than what he saw before him. He turned to the equally broad-shouldered blond man at his side, who was also dressed in subtle forest shades.
They seemed of like taste, but Elizabeth hardly noticed the lighter-haired of the two. It was the other one who drew her, though she couldn’t have explained it if given a thousand chances, and so she didn’t try.
There was something wild about him, wild as the wind is during a storm, wild like the beating of her heart. An oddly pleasant shiver ran down her spine.
Who was he, and why had she never seen him before?
Without even thinking, Elizabeth rose and moved toward him. A narrow path parted for her, as if those in her way seemed to sense her need to get closer to this man, to speak with him.
Elizabeth stopped before him, her gaze taking in the strong features of his face, straight nose, hard, chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. In the pit of her stomach, something fluttered, like a butterfly emerging from its protective sheath.
He glanced down at her with eyes as dark as burnt umber, then away, dismissing Elizabeth as he scanned the room behind her.
Piqued, Elizabeth simply stood there, a knot of irritation replacing the excitement in her belly. Never in all her life had any male looked through her that way.
The man smiled as his gaze came to light on someone behind her. “Clayburn,” he said. Elizabeth closed her eyes, unable to halt the tingling along the back of her neck that hearing his voice brought. The sound was rich, like rough fingers in brown velvet. Then she realized that he had spoken her own surname, and she turned to see her brother standing there just as Stephen answered him.
“Warwicke. How do you?” Stephen was nodding, his smile one of welcome.
The man shrugged. “I could be better. You know how I hate coming to court.”
“Aye,” Stephen agreed. “So what could have brought you to Windsor?”
Elizabeth could only stare at her brother. He talked as if he and this incredible man were long acquainted. And never had he so much as mentioned the friendship to her. Of course, she did know that Stephen met many people in his duties as the king’s messenger. But he might have at least thought to speak about this one.
The brown-eyed man looked around them with a frown. “I would rather not speak of the matter in the midst of so many. It is somewhat private.”
“I understand,” Stephen said. “Do you need to get in to see the king?” He nodded toward the closed door at the other end of the chamber. “I may be able to help you there.”
“My thanks,” the other man answered, “but King Edward has arranged this audience himself. Methinks he will see me as soon as he learns I am here.”
Stephen only nodded.
Elizabeth had had quite enough of this. She wanted to be introduced to this man Stephen had called Warwicke, and she meant to see that she was. “Stephen,” she said with a smile for her brother, “you do not behave very well. Where are your manners? You must introduce me.”
Both men looked down at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there.
Stephen hastened to do as she asked. “Lord Raynor Warwicke, let me present my sister, Lady Elizabeth.”
Her heart fluttered in her breast as his deep brown eyes settled upon her. “Lady Elizabeth.” This time there was a faint hint of recognition in them, but his gaze did not linger as most men’s were wont to do.
“My lord Warwicke,” she replied.
But he had already turned back to Stephen. “Mayhap you could help me by finding a cleric who could tell the king I am here?”
“Of a surety,” Stephen replied, and they moved off through the throng.
Elizabeth stood there in surprise. Then she looked down at herself, wondering if she might find the answer to Lord Warwicke’s rudeness in her mode of dress. But she could find no fault with the scarlet gown. The sides were slashed wide to show off the black tunic beneath, which fitted her narrow waist and gently curving breast and hips most becomingly. The sleeves of the tunic were fashionably wide and embroidered with a pattern of musical instruments in gold and scarlet threads. She ran her hand over her gold veil and found it to be securely in place.
No, it was not her attire that had caused Warwicke to look through her as if she had no more substance than the contents of an empty cup.
In her twenty years upon this earth, never had she been so summarily dismissed. He had completely failed to acknowledge her. Even her brother seemed to have forgotten her presence. And after she had come to the castle to help him.
But what made the insult doubly hard to take was the fact that never had she reacted to any man the way she had to Warwicke.
A deep flush stained her cheeks as she recalled her actions. Elizabeth had felt drawn to the man by some force outside herself, going to him without even pausing for thought. And had, in doing so, made a complete and utter fool of herself.
Surreptitiously she looked around the room, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Now that Warwicke had left with her brother, they seemed to have gone back to their own interests. Even Percy was busily fixing the string on his lute.
Then her gaze came to rest on Lady Helen, who was standing close by, with cruel amusement in her eyes.
Elizabeth flushed, but forced herself to raise her head high. She would not allow the other woman to think she had been bested.
Lady Helen smiled thinly. “He cuts quite a figure, does he not?”
Raising finely arched brows high, Elizabeth asked, “Who?”
But the other woman was clearly not fooled. “Why, my Lord Warwicke. I felt certain that you took particular notice of him, Elizabeth.”
She shrugged with as much indifference as she could summon. “Nay. I took no particular note of the man. He is my brother’s friend, as I'm sure you heard.”
“Oh, methinks there was more to it than that,” Helen countered.
The spite in Helen Denfield’s voice was discomfiting, even though Elizabeth sensed the cause behind it. She was not so simpleminded that she was unaware of the fact that most folk thought her beautiful. It was not her fault that her looks drew so much attention, but they had made her more than a few enemies. There were many who would be happy to hear of her embarrassment. Elizabeth was a very private individual and did not care for the idea that idle court gossip would be turned her way. This was one of the reasons she and Stephen had a house in the village instead of residing at the castle itself. If she did not do something to silence Helen now, her encounter with Lord Warwicke would likely have become an affair by nightfall. Court gossips never hesitated to embellish a story beyond recognition.
But Helen Denfield had her own vulnerability, in the form of Stephen, and Elizabeth wasn’t above reminding her of this.
Helen did not know her well enough, and so could not know Elizabeth would never actually spread tales. But Elizabeth was aware that most people were apt to judge others by themselves, and so Helen would likely believe otherwise. The widow would surely hold her tongue, if she thought Stephen’s sister might talk about her affair with him. Rumor of the liaison would not aid her in her quest for a husband.
Elizabeth said, “My dear Lady Helen, I'm most certain you misunderstood. After all, you seem too much fixed on the things my brother does and says to take note of aught else.”
Lady Denfield gasped, and raised her hand as if to slap Elizabeth. Then, as the younger woman continued to return her stare, the widow seemed to realize that her genteel pose would not be served by such an act. Helen turned and fled the room.
Elizabeth arched a brow, watching as the brown-haired beauty lifted a delicate hand to wipe away nonexistent tears, just in case someone had taken note of their exchange.
But Elizabeth didn’t really care. She had already forgotten Helen as she turned toward the other end of the room, where the door to the king’s audience chamber lay. There was no sign of her brother or the other two men, and she could only assume they had gone into the inner room.
Her mind was ablaze with unanswered questions concerning Raynor Warwicke. He was the most compelling man she had ever seen. Her lips tightened as she recalled the way he had barely acknowledged her presence. It simply would not do. Because of her own interest in him, Elizabeth felt a need for him to show some reaction to her.
Pensively she frowned. Not once in her life had Elizabeth been denied anything she wanted. And she did not mean to set a different precedent now.
She was not finished with Lord Warwicke yet.
* * *
The luxuriously appointed audience chamber left little impression on Lord Raynor Warwicke as he walked down the wide aisle at its center, leaving Stephen and Bronic waiting just inside the oaken door. He forced himself onward on legs that felt as stiff as tilting posts as he passed by the somberly dressed clergy and sumptuously dressed courtiers who stood at either side of him. All his attention was focused on his king, where he sat on a raised dais at the end of the audience chamber. Edward III was flanked by two of his knights, both members of the Order of the Garter. Roger Mortise and the earl of Caliber were men of exemplary character, and battle-hardened warriors loyal to the throne. Edward was a king who set such store by honor and chivalry that he had established the Order of the Garter in 1348 for the purpose of exalting those qualities.
The baron of Warwicke did his best to relax the rigid muscles in his face and shoulders. The king would not know that Raynor had come here fully prepared to forswear himself, nor that the very future of an innocent three-year-old child hinged upon his doing just that.
Raynor was totally aware of the tall, slim man who stood to the right of the dais. There was nothing in that one’s outward appearance to tell the world that he was the most despicable of men. He was dressed as the other courtiers were, in rich fabrics and colors, and his face was strongly made, his Viking heritage firmly stamped upon it. Harrington’s eyes were blue, the hair a deep golden-brown. Not one hint of the black heart that beat inside his chest was visible. But Raynor knew it was there. Nigel Harrington had caused more misery in twenty-four years than most would bring in several lifetimes. Raynor would not allow him to have custody of little Willow. After what the man had done to his own step-sister, he was not to be trusted with the care of any female.
But Raynor had no more time to think on that now. He came to a halt only a few feet from the seated monarch, squaring his shoulders, deliberately keeping his mind focused on what he had to do. Drawing the hatred down into the deepest part of himself.
King Edward shifted his long legs as he leaned back, studying the men before him, seeming to miss little. The baron of Warwicke forced himself to bear this scrutiny without flinching.
The forty-eight-year-old Edward’s golden hair and beard were liberally streaked with gray, but he was still a vital and vibrant ruler. Over his chair was a shield that bore the arms he had taken for his own. Raynor knew it irritated the French greatly that Edward had chosen to place his own leopards on the first quarter of his shield, rather than the fleur-de-lis. Though of Norman descent, Edward had always been one to think of himself as an Englishman first and foremost.
The king caught and held Raynor’s gaze for a long, tense moment. But Raynor kept himself erect, not giving away any hint of his inner anger.
Edward spoke, saying the words Raynor had feared he would. “And you are ready to swear on a relic of the one true cross, Lord Warwicke, that the child is yours?”
His back became arrow-straight. Even though he’d known all along that the situation would come to this, Raynor was surprised at the quick shaft of guilt that pierced him at the idea of forswearing himself. But the feeling was short-lived. He must carry through, for the sake of the little one. Raynor nodded, sharply, then raised his square chin. “I am.”
He heard a quickly indrawn breath from his right, and looked toward Nigel Harrington with a quirked brow. If nothing else, Raynor was pleased at having shocked his adversary. Nigel had made the mistake of believing Raynor too honorable to play by his own tactics.
King Edward nodded to his cleric, then motioned toward Raynor. “Kneel down.”
Raynor fell to his knees, his gaze locked on the front of the monk’s black robe.
The cleric brought forth a small wooden box, which Raynor knew would contain a sliver of the Lord’s cross. He held it toward Raynor. “Do you, on your honor as a knight, swear by this piece of the one true cross, and in the name of Edward III, king of England, that the child called Willow is of your own seed, without doubt?”
Forcing himself to take the box without hesitation, Raynor brought it to his lips. “I do swear this on my honor as a knight.”
Nigel Harrington let out a growl of outrage. “He lies.”
King Edward turned toward Nigel with an expression of forbearance. “My lord Harrington, in the days you have been at court you have shown no evidence that what you say is fact. Do you have some proof to offer us at this time?”
There was a silence as Nigel fumed, his blue eyes locked on Raynor’s with fury. “No, my liege, I do not, but—”
Edward interrupted him. “Then there is nothing more to be said.” He shrugged wide shoulders encased in purple velvet. “Unless you were present at the child’s conception, you have nothing to add.”
As the king spoke, Nigel cringed, but quickly recovered. Raynor felt a burning urge to run him through right there before them all, and his fingers passed fondly over the hilt of his sword. He and Raynor were the only two people on earth who knew the true circumstances of Willow’s conception. The coward would not, could not, tell them that he had raped his own sister-by-marriage. Raynor had counted on this, but seeing the fear on the other man’s face only made him all the more disgusted.
Nigel sputtered out, “But, King Ed—”
Edward looked toward him with a dark scowl. “Lord Harrington. We have listened to you, and done our utmost to bring this matter to a speedy conclusion. We have ordered Warwicke here in haste and put him to the test. In all things we have tried to do our duty by you.” His lips thinned. “Warwicke has given his word, and as you have no proof that the child is not his, you may consider it done. We bear you no malice in this, Lord Harrington, feeling that your sister’s death has clouded your thinking, and in your grief you simply try to retain some piece of her by wanting guardianship of her child. But ’tis most clear that the child is the natural offspring of Warwicke, and he has already assured us of his intent to see the little girl well done by. You may leave Windsor with those comforting thoughts to see you safe home.”
When Nigel opened his mouth as if to protest, the king raised an imperious hand. “The matter is done.”
With that, Edward turned to Raynor. “It is our hope that such a dispute will not again occur concerning you, my lord Warwicke. In future, should you dally, make most certain that the gentlewoman is your wife.”
Raynor lowered his eyes and nodded. “King Edward, you have my assurance that I will do so.” He did not add that he planned to stay as far away from that type of female as possible.
Edward motioned with a beringed hand. “Arise, my lord Warwicke, and consider this dispute settled. I would have no more strife because of it.” He stared at Nigel Harrington for a long moment.
Knowing that he had been chastened by the king, however politely, Nigel Harrington turned and hurried from the chamber.
Raynor felt a sweet relief ease the tight band of tension around his chest. Now Willow would be safe from that bastard who called himself her uncle.
King Edward waved a dismissive hand. “We have many other matters to attend, Lord Warwicke, and thus I must bid you good-day.”
“My thanks to you, my liege.” Raynor bowed himself from the room. He was more than glad to have this interview at an end. He forced himself to walk the length of the room with carefully measured steps.
Bronic and Stephen followed him as the great oaken door was opened, and they passed into the antechamber.
Bronic looked at Raynor, letting out his breath, as if he had been holding it for a very long time. He raked his hand through his shaggy blond hair. “Praise God.”
Stephen was looking from one to the other with curiosity.
Raynor gave a mental shrug. He might as well tell Stephen the story he had decided upon. The day’s events would be all over court in a matter of hours, anyway. And it might as well be Raynor’s version of the tale as anyone else’s.
He smiled at the auburn-haired man. They had fostered together as boys, with the earl of Norwich, but Raynor had left after only one year, when his father died. Though many things had passed in the thirteen years since, Raynor had always remembered Stephen with friendship and a sense of trust. He knew that Stephen would not embellish the story he was about to be told, but would relate it to others just as he had heard it.
Raynor said, “Harrington can go to the very devil, for aught I care. He has tried to make trouble for the last time. Edward has upheld my claim to guardianship of the little one. She will remain at Warwicke.”
Stephen asked, “What is he about? Some weeks ago he came to court, whining to whoever would listen that his sister’s child was stolen from him. Obviously the tale gained him today’s audience, but nothing more, for Edward has upheld your claim. I had no idea you were the man who was supposed to have done the evil deed until just now. Why would Harrington accuse you of such a ridiculous crime? Who does he name as the father?”
Unable to stifle a rush of anger, Raynor looked at the floor. He didn’t want Stephen to guess at his overwhelming hatred for Nigel Harrington. He must guard Willow’s secret at all costs. He had promised her mother, Louisa. “He names none, because there is none besides myself. Harrington plays a game of greed. Willow is an heiress through her mother. The lands must pass through the female of the line if there are no direct male descendants, and there are none. Nigel is the son of Lord Harrington’s first wife, and has no claim. Without the little one, he has no access to her wealth. That is why he has dragged me here to publicly humiliate both me and my child.” Raynor’s lean jaw flexed, and his lips twisted with derision. “King Edward could only take my word or Harrington’s and he has no proof to discredit me.”
“Well, it’s hardly surprising that King Edward would believe you, when Harrington could not even name any other as the father. The man is hardly rational.”
Even though his stomach was knotted with hatred and tension, Raynor nearly laughed aloud, albeit bitterly. To say Nigel was irrational was most surely a gross understatement. If Stephen only knew the truth of why Harrington kept the child’s parentage to himself. “I fear,” he said, “that there is no mystery here. Louisa’s child is my own. I regret that I was not able to marry her before she died, because our child’s parentage would not have been in question had I done so.” His brown eyes darkened to walnut in sorrow as he remembered how he had tried to convince Louisa to marry him so that her stepbrother would no longer hold sway over her. But she had refused, saying Raynor had a right to some happiness of his own. Just taking Willow in and claiming her as his own had been more than Louisa had the right to ask. Raynor’s voice was barely audible as he finished. “She died before I was able to convince her otherwise, shortly after the child was born.”
Stephen laid a hand on his arm. “I am sorry, my friend. This trouble with Harrington must make it very difficult for you.”
Bronic spoke up, his Nordic features hard, his blue eyes narrowed. “The man is crazed. Would that this were his throat.” He clasped his large warrior’s hands together tightly.
Raynor sent him a warning look. He did not wish anyone to suspect there was more to the story than they told. If they displayed the depth of their hatred too openly, any reasoning person would begin to wonder at its cause.
And no one must ever find out the reason for Raynor’s fear for Willow. Not even Bronic understood the true circumstances of Willow’s parentage. His vehemence stemmed from loyalty to Raynor.
All Raynor said was “Harrington must follow his own course, as I must mine. Mayhap the king’s decision today will set him on a more constructive path. Now he must realize that he cannot take Willow from me.”
“You are a good and true father, to take the child though she be a bastard,” Stephen told him. “Harrington has indeed tried to besmirch you there, as well. He lays it about that you are the one who would have the little girl for her inheritance.”
Raynor stiffened. It was true that once he had been a poor man. His father had mismanaged and overspent in an effort to give his greedy mother all she wanted. After Raynor inherited the lands and title, she had tried to control and manipulate him in the same manner. But even at fourteen he had been too strong-willed for her to control him. No woman would destroy him as Mary Warwicke had his father.
The years since his father’s death had seen him turn the properties around, and while he was not the wealthiest of the king’s barons, neither was he the poorest. He knew that since Harrington had spread the lie, many would continue to believe he had taken on the responsibility of raising Willow because of her lands. But he didn’t really care, not if it kept them from looking further.
Besides, Raynor controlled her lands only as her guardian and overseer. He took no payment of any kind for looking after her interests. Everything would go to her in the event of her marriage or her twenty-first birthday.
Stephen interrupted Raynor’s thoughts with a clap on his back. “Enough of this, my friend. All has gone well for you today. Now you can be about some more pleasant sport. I have not seen you in years, and would hear what you have been about.”
Bronic nodded, looking about the crowded antechamber with ill-concealed discomfort. “But we should find some more comfortable spot for the discussion to take place.”
Raynor eyed his friend in agreement. He had no love of the court and its crowds. In fact, he would not be comfortable until they were well on their way back to Warwicke on the day after tomorrow. “I stand with Bronic. We are sharing a room with several other knights, but me-thinks they would not mind us bringing you along, Stephen. I'm sorry we cannot offer you better hospitality, but Windsor is full to overflowing, even with all the new building the king has had done in the past years.”
Stephen laughed. “Do not apologize. I know the circumstances well. That is part of why I have a house in the village.”
They started from the chamber with Raynor in the lead.
Raynor stopped as a woman moved between him and the entrance. He paused, his head tilted to one side as he looked at her. She was quite beautiful, with her creamy skin, high cheekbones and long-lashed sapphire eyes. And she seemed somehow familiar, though Raynor could not think why.
“Elizabeth,” Stephen called out from behind him. His tone was sheepish. “I had forgotten you were here.”
The woman did not deign even to glance Stephen’s way. “Obviously.”
Then he remembered. It was Clayburn’s sister. He had been introduced on his way in to see the king, but he had been of little mind to take note of anything then. Even a woman as lovely as Elizabeth Clayburn.
His eyes met hers, and for a moment a strange sort of current passed between them, making his belly tighten pleasantly. But Raynor pushed it aside. This was his friend’s sister, a noblewoman. And Raynor had no intention of dallying in that direction.
His lips twisted in a self-derisive grimace. Though he was guilty of nothing where Louisa was concerned, he had just admitted to being so. He had no intention of becoming entangled with Stephen’s sister. Even if he did see a stirring of warm challenge in her lovely eyes when she looked at him. Long ago he’d decided no woman was to be trusted in his life. Raynor’s father had loved his wife blindly, giving up every shred of self-respect to please her. And if that was love, Raynor wanted no part in it.
With that thought firmly in mind, Raynor stepped aside so that Stephen could speak with her.
He pretended not to notice how her gaze lingered on him as Stephen told her where they were going and made arrangements for her to be taken home.
Chapter Two
Late that night, Elizabeth waited in Stephen’s bedchamber for him to come home.
She sat in his chair bedside the fire, a cup of warmed wine in one hand, drumming the fingers of the other in a steady rhythm against the seasoned wooden arm. She was still fuming over the way Stephen had sent her home, as if she were some child to be gotten out of the way. He had no right to treat her thus.
But truth made her admit, at least to herself, that Stephen was only a small part of her irritation. Most of it was directed at herself, because of her own reaction to Raynor Warwicke. Whatever had gotten into her?
Any number of men would fall upon their very knees to have her notice them. But she, fool that she was, looked to a man who acted as though he could not even see her.
But hadn’t there, just for a moment, been a spark in his eyes, when she’d stood before him as the men were leaving the antechamber? Yes, she was sure there had been more than indifference in his gaze as it slid over her. He’d covered it so quickly that another woman might not have noticed. But Elizabeth was not another woman. She responded to even the slightest of reactions in the baron of Warwicke. When he’d looked at her that way, seeing her as a desirable woman, her body had answered in kind. Elizabeth had been left achingly aware of him, the tanned flesh on the wide column of his throat, the very deep rhythm of his breathing. There was something about Lord Warwicke that made her feel alive as never before.
Why, she did not know. But Elizabeth was going to find out. She couldn’t just let this feeling go, this strange singing in her veins that she had heard spoken of but had never thought to experience.
And she meant to enlist her brother’s aid.
She simply had to see the baron again, speak to him, find out whence these stirrings came. What manner of man was he, to engender such feelings inside her? She knew he was handsome, with his dark eyes and unruly hair, but what of the person inside? Surely he must be a knight of great repute to awaken such amorous reactions in her so easily.
Then she forced herself to pause in her headlong thoughts. Mayhap he was not as he appeared. Her own girlish twitterings did not mean that Raynor of Warwicke was of good and noble character.
But Elizabeth could not make herself believe this. How could her own instincts be so badly askew as that? Surely, if she was to judge by her feelings, Raynor was truly a man among men. Else how could she explain how her heretofore-dormant emotions had been so suddenly awakened?
Just then she heard the sound of her brother’s booted feet coming up the narrow wooden stairs that led from the large living chamber below. Olwyn must have let him in. Elizabeth felt a stab of guilt at thinking about the other woman. She’d managed to avoid speaking to her mistress since Elizabeth snapped at her upon coming home from Windsor. But she had given Elizabeth many long, disapproving looks to let her know how badly she had behaved.
Elizabeth knew that as soon as Olwyn was ready to listen, she would need to apologize to the woman who was more friend than aught else. After all, it was Stephen she was unhappy with. Olwyn had been her companion since the day Stephen brought her to court, after their parents died, seven years ago. At seventeen, four years Elizabeth’s senior, Olwyn had just been widowed, and had needed a way to make her living. Her husband had been the youngest of six brothers and thus had left her with little but his horse and sword. Stephen had felt the older girl would be able to teach Elizabeth about the realities of living at court, and hopefully keep her out of trouble.
But Elizabeth didn’t want to think about that now. She and Olwyn had had more serious disagreements over the years, and had settled them quickly enough. At the moment, she wanted to concentrate her attention on Stephen.
Stephen opened the door of his chamber, his face taking on a pained expression as his gaze swept the room. The chamber was not large, and in the cheery glow of the firelight he could see that it was immaculate. The wooden floor had been scrubbed clean, the hangings on the bed had been pulled back, so he could see that the linens were tucked so tightly he could have bounced a sword upon them and not made a wrinkle. Not one single item of a personal nature was visible. The lids of his two chests were shut tight upon their contents, which were usually spilled about in happy disarray. “Ah, Beth, you've been cleaning again.”
She smiled with feigned politeness. “I thought your chambers in need of a good airing, dear brother. You would not have me neglect you.”
He grimaced. Not so much as a speck of dust dared lend a hint of casual livability to the room. The only objects she had let remain unhidden were the pitcher and cup on the table beside his chair. And, judging from the mug she held in her hand, that had not been for his comfort. He shut the door behind him with a sigh. “It will be weeks before I am able to find everything again. What has come over you now, woman? I asked you last time to stay clear of my personal chamber.”
Her chin tilted. “But think, dear brother, and you will have your answer. I was most laboriously occupied in helping you to fend off the attentions of your former mistress when I suddenly found myself banished for home.” She shrugged, her blue eyes wide with feigned innocence. “I but looked about for some way to make myself useful.”
“God’s blood, Beth. Do you mean you hold that against me? I hadn’t seen Warwicke for years.”
She arched delicate black brows. “I do mean just that.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. “I do suppose I could have been more considerate of your feelings, but I didn’t think you’d mind. After all, you had done nothing but complain about going up to the castle with me, as it was.” He lifted an apologetic hand. “I can but say I am most sorry for having offended you.”
Feeling that she had made him suffer quite enough, Elizabeth grinned. Stephen was really very good to her, and she did believe he had thought she would be happy to be gone from the castle. He could have no idea that she had become so easily enamored with his friend. She inclined her head. “You are forgiven. And if you like, I will go through your chests and throw everything about as it was before.”
He chuckled wryly. “Nay, help me no more. I knew where things were then. You could not put them back where they belong, did you try.”
She rose and poured him a cup of wine, then held it forth as a peace offering.
Stephen took the cup.
It was a long moment before Elizabeth got around to the next order of business. But get around to it she did. “Did you enjoy your evening?”
He grinned. “Aye, that I did.”
“And Lord Warwicke? He enjoyed the evening, as well?”
Stephen frowned. “I suppose. We caught up on many years. I had not seen him since we were both boys of fourteen.”
Ah, she thought. That might explain why Stephen had failed to mention the other man. “And has he changed a great deal from when you were younger? You recognized him readily enough, after so long a time. And he you.”
“You are right. I did recognize him, but as I think on it, it is not really so very surprising. Even though he is a man now, rather than a boy, his eyes are the same. One doesn’t forget those walnut-brown eyes so easily, they are most uncommon. And we were rather close as fosterlings. Both of us trained with the earl of Norwich, and shared a room for the year Raynor was there. He left upon his father’s death, when he was but fourteen.”
“He has been a baron since the age of fourteen. 'Tis a great responsibility,” she remarked thoughtfully.
Stephen cast her an assessing glance before he went on. “What you say is true. But what have you, Beth? What concern is it of yours?”
She looked toward the fire, hardly feeling its heat on her already flaming cheeks. “I am but curious because you never mentioned him before now. Please go on. Tell me all you know of him.”
Stephen’s expression told her that he was not wholly content with her answer, but he did continue. “He spoke little of his family. I do believe that he loved his father, but I felt there was some bad blood between them. Of his mother I know nothing. He seemed reluctant to mention her at all. I do know that she died some few years after Raynor inherited.”
'Tis most odd, Elizabeth thought as he took a sip of his wine. With a pang, she recalled the deaths of her own parents by plague. She and her brothers often spoke of them, even now. They had been a close-knit family. It had been hard to lose them both so quickly, but she felt her father would not have been happy without his beloved wife.
Perhaps Lord Warwicke was one who did not wish to share his personal life with others. That he was something of a mystery simply made him all the more interesting to Elizabeth. He only needed the right person to confide in. Not that Elizabeth would allow herself to think that she could be that someone. She refused to go that far in her imaginings.
“What is he like now?” she queried softly. “Is he noble and kind and true?”
Stephen watched her intently. “We spoke of general matters, Beth. Many years have passed since we knew each other well but if he is anything like he was as a boy, Raynor is a decent sort. Neither saint nor devil, just a man. He was more open as a boy, but then, life has a way of changing people, does it not?” Stephen stopped, obviously tired of pretending he didn’t see her too-avid interest. “Have you taken a fancy to Raynor?” He laughed. “That’s a tangle, when you could have half the men in England, did you but want them. You don’t even know the man, in fact barely spoke to him.”
“I...” She scowled, her delicate brows meeting over her slender nose. Then she shrugged, deciding to just come out with the truth. There was no sense in prevaricating with Stephen, he knew her too well. “He is quite fascinating, don’t you think?”
“Well, I couldn’t really comment from a woman’s point of view, but I'll be content that you might think so. But hear me, Beth, you’d best set your sights elsewhere. From what he said tonight, I got the impression that Raynor is in no hurry to wed. He told me his personal life has been more than complicated of late. Raynor has a bastard child by a noblewoman, though that is a tragic story in itself.” He went on to tell her of why Raynor was at court and what he had told Stephen about his child, Willow. He concluded by saying, “Though I do like him, you will stay clear of Warwicke, Beth. It would not be right for you to set your sights upon him. Though he meant to wed the child’s mother, the fact is, he did not.”
Elizabeth listened to all this with complete fascination. Many men tarried with serving women as a matter of course, but to get a gentle woman with child and then not marry her? That was another matter.
Yet Stephen had said circumstances had kept them from marrying. And hadn’t Lord Warwicke come to court to claim the child? Wasn’t that the act of a truly honorable man?
Far from discouraging her, Stephen’s remarks made her even more determined to know Raynor better. She had thought, simply by looking at him, that he was not a man to live by the rules of others. His long hair, his arrogant walk, the cool indifference in his eyes, set Lord Warwicke apart on first sight.
She smiled at her brother with not-inconsiderable charm. “I want you to invite him here to sup.”
Stephen stared at her. “I have already done so. But had I known then what I do now, I would not have. As I said, you must set your sights elsewhere, Elizabeth. Mayhap I will send a note and cancel.”
Sapphire eyes widened in horror. “You will not! When is he to come?”
Looking as if the reply were being forced from him, Stephen said, “On the morrow.”
“On the morrow!” Elizabeth rose in flurry of velvet skirts. “How could you give me so little time to prepare?”
His expression relaxed in relief. “I will simply go to him and explain that he can’t...”
She appeared not to hear him. “You must excuse me while I go speak with Olwyn. We will need every moment to prepare a proper meal. We will need fresh pastries and bread. And I shall certainly call in the butcher to kill a pig in the morning. We cannot feed Lord Warwicke salted pork.”
She passed through the doorway with a gentle sway of her slender hips, leaving Stephen staring after her. He knew he should be concerned for his sister, but the only sympathy he felt within him was directed toward Raynor Warwicke. Stephen would himself be here to see to Elizabeth’s well-being.
Raynor had no one to protect him from Elizabeth.
Besides Raynor had said he was returning to Warwicke on the day after the morrow. How much trouble could Elizabeth get herself into in one day?
* * *
The next afternoon found Elizabeth and Olwyn standing in Elizabeth’s bedchamber, looking at the array of gowns they had laid out on the high, wide bed.
“I think the red,” Olwyn said at last, tucking a stray lock of streaky blonde hair into her kerchief. Her gray eyes studied the scarlet cotehardie, with its embroidery of gold.
“Aye.” Elizabeth nodded. “It is my favorite, but I just wondered if the blue...or the saffron...” She turned to run her gaze over the nearest of the three trunks that stood open, their colorful contents spilling over the sides. “I did wear the other red yesterday.”
Tilting her head to one side, Olwyn frowned. “Nay, the red will do very nicely. Men never remember what you wore the previous day. Only that you looked well.”
Elizabeth grinned. Red was her favorite color. “Then that’s that. And I think I'll wear the new gold underdress.”
Olwyn eyed her mistress with surprise, then uncertainty. “But, Elizabeth, I thought you were going to have me loosen it. You told me yourself that it was too tight for common decency.” The slender blond woman went to the chest beneath the unshuttered window and took out a tunic of fine black samite. “I had thought you might want this one.”
Elizabeth blushed, but tried to hide it as she picked up and began to fold the blue cotehardie. “I have rethought the matter. 'Tis not so very tight.”
She would not have Olwyn know why she had changed her mind about the gown. The older woman seemed to think she must still look after Elizabeth as closely as when she had first come to them. But she was no longer thirteen, and would not be treated as such. Elizabeth hoped that if she made an attempt to be even slightly alluring, Lord Warwicke might find it harder to ignore her this night.
For the most part, her beauty meant little to her. It was not something she had earned or achieved by her own hand. It was something God had seen fit to gift her with, and until yesterday she accepted it as such.
But for this once she found herself thinking of her attributes in a different way. She would make Lord Warwicke take notice of her. He was a man, after all, and if all Stephen had said was true, Raynor was not completely immune to the fairer sex. Why couldn’t he at least pause long enough to notice that Elizabeth was a woman? She didn’t think that was so very much to ask.
When Olwyn continued to watch her with speculation, Elizabeth could not control the further rush of color in her creamy cheeks.
“What are you about, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth gave up trying to dissemble. Olwyn knew her better than anyone, and there was no use trying to hide anything from her.
She put the blue gown back on the bed and turned to smooth back the heavy amber velvet bed hangings with a sigh. “I do not know. I can’t explain what has come over me. I just saw this man for the first time yesterday, and I can’t stop thinking about him. And the worst part of it is that he barely seemed to notice me.” She dismissed that one moment of awareness, for it could have been nothing so much as wishful thinking on her part.
“Ah, Beth...” Olwyn put her hands to her slender hips as she sank down on the edge of the one chair in the room. “I should have known it would be this way. All these years the men have been after you like hounds after a bitch, and you don’t even look at them. And now one comes along who ignores you, and you lose your foolish head.”
The sound of booted feet on the stairs saved Elizabeth from making a reply. The footsteps came across the solar and halted outside her bedchamber. There was a scratching at the door. “Beth.”
“Come,” Elizabeth called out, recognizing her brother’s voice.
Stephen entered, and she looked at him with curiosity, as he was dressed for traveling, in a dark woolen cloak that was held together at the shoulder by a heavy silver brooch that bore the Clayburn emblem of a griffin rampant. “You are going somewhere?” she asked.
He seemed less than eager to speak. “Yes,” came the reply.
“You must needs hurry, as Warwicke will be here within hours.”
“Well, you see, that is going to be a problem.” Stephen looked at the floor. Then he raised his eyes and shrugged. “I am away to deliver a message for the king.”
Elizabeth knew a growing unease. “How long will you be gone?”
“Several hours.”
Disappointment flooded her. “Several hours. Stephen, how could you? You know how I have been planning this. Everything is in readiness.”
“It cannot be helped. We will simply ask Lord Warwicke to come at some other time.”
“When?”
He hesitated and Elizabeth frowned. “When, brother mine?”
“I know not. Raynor must return to his estates on the morrow.” He wouldn’t look at Elizabeth. Obviously he had hoped to avoid having to tell her they were leaving so soon.
She placed her hands on her hips, glaring her anger. “Do you mean that this is it? I shall not see him again?”
Stephen smiled encouragingly. “Mayhap he will come to London again in the future.”
“You know he will not.” She couldn’t seem to breathe past the unexplainable ache in her chest. It was as if something dear to her had died aborning. “All these years you have not seen him because Warwicke only chose to come to court when he was summoned. What chance is there that he will return before another ten years has come and gone? I shall be an old woman.”
He eyed her sternly. “Now, Beth, don’t carry on so. I told you that Warwicke is not for you. I but live up to my responsibilities in protecting you. Besides, I have no choice in whether I stay or go. The king does require me to see to my duty.”
She subsided then. What Stephen said was true. He must needs fulfill his duty to the crown. But she had wanted so badly to see Warwicke again. Not that she was under any illusions about what would happen between them. Elizabeth had hoped for no more than to make him take note of her as a desirable woman, nothing else. Stephen really had no need to warn her away again.
It seemed particularly unfair that Raynor could not come simply because Stephen would be late.
Then an idea came to her. She looked at her brother with an expression of cool reason. “Why can Warwicke not come here anyway? He has been invited. It would be rude to ask him to stay away now.”
But Stephen began to shake his head before she had even finished. “Nay, Beth, ’twould not serve. The man cannot come here and spend the evening with you unchaperoned.”
She faced him squarely. “It would not be the whole evening. I could simply entertain Lord Warwicke until your return. By your own mouth, he is friend to you. Can you not trust me to spend a few short hours in his presence?”
He scowled, his dark brows meeting over his straight nose. “'Tis not so simple, madame, as well you know. I am not blind. You have an interest in him that goes beyond any I've seen you show before. You as much as admitted it last eve.”
“But, Stephen—” She stamped her foot. “I am not a child to be ordered about. I am a woman full grown, with my own funds to support me. I have no need to be commanded by you.”
He stopped her with a raised hand. “What you say is true.” He looked into her eyes, and when he spoke again, his tone was reasoning. “But, Beth, I am your brother. In all conscience, I must not allow you to do anything that would be of harm to you. Please, I say again, the answer can only be nay. It is for your own good. You cannot be alone with him.” He paused for a long moment, obviously torn. She knew it was very difficult for her brother to deny her anything. Finally he shrugged. “There is one way, and one way only.”
“Yes?” she answered eagerly.
“We will ask Raynor to come at a later time. That way there can be no hint of impropriety. I'll write a note to explain the matter to him.”
Elizabeth rushed to her chest and removed a piece of parchment and a quill, which she handed to her brother. Quickly Stephen scratched out his message. “You will send this around to him at Windsor, please.” He held the missive toward his sister.
Elizabeth took the parchment between two fingers. She gave Stephen a sweet smile. “Thank you, brother.”
“I will see you ere long.” Stephen told her, with obvious relief at having the matter settled to both their benefits. “And now, I must be off. I go with two of the king’s own guard, and they wait for me in the lane outside.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek, then turned and dashed from the house.
When he had gone, Elizabeth stood there, the note to Raynor Warwicke in her hand. This was not what she had hoped for. If Warwicke was leaving in the morning, he would as like not stay for long now. Elizabeth sighed, her gaze lingering on the sheet of parchment. As she looked at it, she began to experience thoughts of mutiny. Why should she do as Stephen told her? He was only her brother, not her master.
What harm would it do for Warwicke to spend an hour or two in her sole company?
He was a knight and a nobleman. Surely there could be no harm in serving him a meal and speaking with him. She looked toward her companion, who had said nothing during her conversation with her brother. Olwyn was watching her with a frown, as if she knew what Elizabeth was thinking and liked it not.
Elizabeth tilted her chin. “You will be close by.”
“Nay,” she answered. “As your brother said, it will not serve.” Olwyn held out her hand. “I shall have that sent around to Lord Warwicke for you.”
Putting the missive behind her back, Elizabeth smiled. “I think not,” she said.
They argued for some time. But in the end, the message did not go out, though Olwyn never stopped frowning and muttering dire utterances about the consequences of behaving foolishly.
Chapter Three
Raynor rode his charger through the narrow tracks that passed for streets just as the sun was beginning to set. Its early-spring light gilded the castle walls above and behind him, as if to give testament to King Edward’s belief that Windsor was somehow special. Having been born there, the king had a deep fondness for his home, and believed that King Arthur of old had once housed his knights of the Round Table on this very site. Looking back over his shoulder, Raynor studied the castle with appraising eyes. Four massive stone towers ran the length of the immense wall at equal intervals where it rested on the hill behind him. Nothing was visible of the magnificent round tower, begun by Henry II and finished by Edward, save the king’s flag, which fluttered golden in the gentle breeze.
Edward’s Windsor was awe-inspiring.
Raynor would certainly give him that. But it seemed as if a great deal had been spent on the castle to beautify it, as well as add to its strength. To Raynor’s way of thinking, England had already been drained dry by the war in France. There had been no money for the luxuries apparent in the spacious and well-appointed rooms of the round tower.
At least with King John now ransomed, Edward would have a source of income besides the backs of his own subjects. Knowing his opinion of the sovereign was not held by most of his fellow noblemen didn’t change Raynor’s thinking. Necessities came before comforts. It was one of the things Raynor had learned watching his father squander everything he had for his mother’s whims.
Lips tight, Raynor gripped the reins more securely in his hands and turned his thoughts to the present. Thinking of his father always brought on feelings of resentment and anger. But those emotions were also mixed with love and pity. If only Robert Warwicke had not been so weak. He shook his head to clear it. It would be best to center his mind on the coming meal with Stephen Clayburn and his sister.
Raynor didn’t know why he had accepted the invitation to sup. Mayhap because seeing Stephen again had reminded him of what he was like at fourteen. Then it had seemed as if he had any number of bright possibilities before him. On being fostered to the earl of Norwich, he had suddenly discovered that there were men who lived by the rules set out in tales of chivalry. Raynor had believed that he, too, might become one of those men. He might someday meet some fair maiden who would return his love with all faith and honor. But his father’s death had called him home to his mother and her daily attempts to control his every thought or action. He was determined to never put himself in the position of having to battle a woman for autonomy again.
As he rode into the heart of the village, Raynor slowed his mount with a pull on the reins. He studied his route, carefully following the directions Stephen had laid out for him.
The town was much like the village at home in Warwicke, only larger. Narrow daub-and-wattle houses sat at odd angles on irregular-size lots. On these bits of property, tenants kept their animals, which were mostly chickens, pigs and sheep. But there was an occasional cow, expensive to keep but producing a great deal of valuable manure. Plump children played in the doorways, barely glancing up at the passing knight. Living in Windsor, they saw many finer-dressed folk than Raynor, in his serviceable brown tunic, russet cotehardie and dark hose.
Urging his charger around the last turn through the maze of hard-packed dirt tracks, Raynor looked up to see a two-story whitewashed house that stood out among the others because of its size and the cleanliness of its yard. There were no animals roaming about, and no pile of manure graced the small strip of grass in front of the low, narrow door that stood open to admit the last of the sunlight.
Now that he was here, he knew a moment’s hesitation. Mayhap it was a mistake to come. He didn’t know Stephen anymore. He raked the heavy hair back from his forehead as he told himself that neither did Stephen know him. He had treated Raynor with warmth yesterday because he remembered the boy. It wasn’t likely that he would be so forthcoming, did he know the man.
And if that wasn’t enough, there was one other reason he should turn and go back to the castle. Stephen’s sister, Elizabeth. Though Raynor had barely allowed himself to even think of her, he did recall that one moment when he had looked at her with startling clarity.
Elizabeth Clayburn was most certainly the kind of woman he had learned to avoid—young, beautiful, and sure of her female power.
As he approached the structure, his gaze ran over the whitewashed walls as if, did he but look hard enough, he would be able to see inside. In that house, Elizabeth would be in her own element, where she was most comfortable and self-assured. Not that Raynor felt she was any real threat to him. He just preferred to avoid such as her. He knew her kind, wanting everything from a man, his life, his fortune, his heart, but unwilling to give anything of themselves in return.
Most assuredly it would have been wiser to decline this invitation. And he was still free to turn around and go. What matter if he offended folk he was not likely to see again?
But the moment to depart was taken from him. As Raynor came to a halt before the house, an older man in worn but clean and neatly patched clothing scuttled out to meet him. He looked up at the knight with a polite nod of his gray head. “Good day, my lord.”
Raynor nodded in return. “I am seeking Stephen Clayburn.”
“Aye, you have come to the right house. I can take your horse out back to the shed, my lord.”
Dismounting and handing him the reins, Raynor said, “My thanks,” and moved to enter the dwelling. Passing through the door, he had to stoop, but he stood to his full height once inside.
The living chamber was wide and long, with a fireplace in the center along the north wall. A trestle table was set up at one end, ready to receive the meal, but there was no one about. The rushes underfoot gave off the sweet scent of herbs as he took a few hesitant steps inside, wondering if he should call out.
Just then two women entered from the back of the chamber, one bearing a jug, the other a tray with cheese and meat. The older woman with the tray, obviously a servant, judging by her coarse clothing, moved to place her burden upon the trestle table.
The younger of the two women came forward, shifting the heavy jug she carried. “My lord Warwicke,” she said, greeting him with deference. Her dress was of better quality than the other’s, and he wondered who she could be. Her blue eyes smiled in her pretty face as she looked up at him. “I am Lady Elizabeth’s companion, Olwyn. You are expected above. Will you please come with me.”
She turned, and Raynor moved to follow her up a narrow set of stairs.
He took note of the golden hair that fell from her kerchief, and her trim waist and hips. Now here was the type of woman Raynor might be inclined to dally with. She would provide a release for his body and expect no commitment in return. Not that Raynor would force her. In his twenty-seven years, he’d had no need of that.
But the moment he stepped through the door of the solar, all thoughts of the blond woman fled his mind.
Elizabeth Clayburn came forward to great him, her cherry lips turned upward in a smile of welcome. “Lord Warwicke.” When she spoke his name, a chill of awareness ran down his spine. Her eyes were the color of deepest sapphire and fringed with thick black lashes. But the way she looked at him was what gave him pause. The expression in her gaze was one of happiness and barely repressed excitement, and from the way she focused her whole attention upon him, Raynor could only feel that he was the cause of her pleasure. Unaccountably he felt himself basking in the glow, like a lynx soaking up the sun. Not once in the conscious years of his memory could he recall anyone looking at him with such uncomplicated approval. He marveled as the color in her cheeks went from palest cream to dusky rose. She looked down, and the sheer golden veil she wore over her tumbled mass of black curls fluttered forward to hide the delicate flush.
“Lady Elizabeth.” He swallowed, managing to sound almost normal, though he did not know how. Fighting off an urge to wipe his sweaty palm against his tunic like some unschooled lad, Raynor briefly clasped her slender hand in his. Her fingers were smooth and cool, but she drew them back quickly to press her hand against her bosom.
She seemed to have some difficulty communicating herself, for she started, stopped, and began again. “My lord...I... You are most welcome.”
“My thanks,” he replied. He didn’t know what had come over him. Raynor was well accustomed to women, had believed himself long over the nervousness that now assailed him. He could only tell himself that it was slightly unnerving to be greeted with such enthusiasm. Elizabeth Clayburn could not know what she was about. Though he hoped that she did not meet her other male visitors with such warmth. Not all men had learned self-discipline, as Raynor had. They might take her obvious pleasure in a way it was not meant.
For, judging by the innocence in her eyes, it was clear she had no idea of her effect on him.
Unaccountably he felt a moment’s worry for her. But he quickly told himself not to be ridiculous. Stephen was her brother, and thus her rightful protector, not Raynor.
As Elizabeth turned to tell her woman to place the pitcher upon the table, he allowed his eyes to study her as he had not the day before. She wore a cotehardie of scarlet that was slashed wide at the sides to show off a gold velvet tunic that caressed the sweetly swelling curves of her breasts and hips. He felt a tightening in his loins and envied the fragile fabric its contact with her flesh.
Whatever had he been thinking yesterday, when he met this woman, not to notice how truly lovely she was? He knew he had been nervous about his coming audience with the king, but could any man worthy of the title have seen Elizabeth Clayburn and failed to take note of her uncommon beauty?
Thank God Stephen would be present this eve. The last thing Raynor needed was to be alone with this siren. Elizabeth was enough woman to give rise to the name.
Raking a hand through his hair, he forced his gaze away. Not in years had Raynor reacted to any woman this way. Gladly would he see the end of this visit.
He looked about the solar, saw the table, with its two chairs, set up as if for a meal. He took note of the warmth of the fire and the pillows that were piled on the carpet before it. He admired the rich tapestry that hung upon the outside wall, with its rich colors and fine detail. There were two doors besides the one through which he had entered. They must lead to sleeping chambers.
It was an appealing scene. But something appeared to be missing. Frowning, Raynor rubbed the side of his head as he glanced about, his gaze going back to the two chairs at either side of the table. Two chairs.
Stephen!
He cleared his throat as he turned to Elizabeth. The servant named Olwyn paused in the act of leaving and faced him. “Lady Elizabeth?” he asked.
She didn’t look at him as she moved forward to pour a cup of wine. And if he wasn’t seeing things, her hands were shaking. “Yes, my lord Warwicke?” she said.
Raynor frowned, surprised that she seemed as unsettled as he.
He reached out to take the cup from her, willing her to look at him. But she didn’t. “Where is Stephen?” he asked bluntly.
She did glance up at him then, but only for a moment. With a bright smile, she waved a hand airily. “Oh, my brother. He was called away most unexpectedly, but he shall be returning ere long.”
Raynor knew a prickling of unease. Stephen had told him that he and Elizabeth lived alone here, with only Elizabeth’s companion and their servants. It seemed unlikely that Clayburn would want Raynor to be alone here with his beautiful sister. “He knows I am come in his absence?”
“Of a surety.” Finally she looked at him, those bottomless sapphire eyes ingenuously wide. “Stephen felt so badly about having to go. You see—” she spread her hands “—he has his duty to the king. But he had no wish to appear rude, and thus asked me to attend you until his arrival. He felt it would be wrong to call off the meal, when he will not be so very long.” She gave a nervous laugh as she moved to stand before the fire, her slender body bathed in its warm light. “Stephen mentioned that you were returning to Warwicke on the morrow and said he would not miss this chance to see you before you go. My brother is ever like this. His friends have always been of great importance to him. Is that not so, Olwyn?” Elizabeth looked to her companion.
The other woman cleared her throat, her gaze fixed on her mistress’s face. “Oh, aye, my lord Warwicke. Sir Stephen spoke exactly thus.” With that, she swung around and left the room.
Elizabeth turned back to him with another one of those sweet smiles. “You see. All is well.”
Raynor watched her, mesmerized by the strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder to end in a curl on her right breast. He tried to think clearly. Certainly Stephen had set great store in his friendships as boy. It could be so now. Mayhap Stephen did trust him to be alone with his sister.
Dragging his wayward gaze from that gently rounded breast, Raynor determined to be worthy of that trust.
Elizabeth Clayburn was trouble. More lovely and compelling than any woman he had ever met.
There was no way around the matter though. Raynor must fight this strange attraction. He could not, would not, become involved with her, or any other woman who would expect more than he was willing to give.
It was this that helped Raynor to come to his senses. He could eat this meal with her and go on his way, for her good, as well as his.
He turned to her then, his eyes refusing to see the lovely vision of her. With silent precision, he raised a wall between himself and the golden glow of her warmth. She was a woman, nothing more, nothing less.
Elizabeth felt the change in him immediately. It wasn’t that he said or did anything that let her know, it was simply that he turned to stone. One moment his eyes were alive on her, the next there was nothing.
Confusion made her hesitate as she looked up at him, the words she had been going to say gone from her mind.
When Raynor first arrived, she hadn’t been able to contain her happiness at seeing him again. It was just as before, that same crazed rush of awareness that made her blood sing and her heart pound. She’d been so afraid that she had imagined the way she felt when she looked at him.
And for a few moments, Raynor had seemed different, more open than the previous day. He’d looked at her as if seeing her for the very first time, and he hadn’t seemed displeased.
Rot, but she couldn’t think of what she might have said or done to make him change.
She was saved from having to say anything when the door opened to admit Olwyn carrying a heavily laden tray. With shaky legs, Elizabeth moved to the table as Olwyn set the tray down. “Thank you, Olwyn.”
As the other woman left, Elizabeth realized that she could not allow Raynor to see that he had upset her. Obviously she was not to his liking. The best she could do now was to get through the evening without making a complete fool of herself. Keeping her voice and manner carefully polite, Elizabeth turned to Stephen. “We can begin now, if you like.”
The first part of the meal passed in a blur as Elizabeth served them both, then used her eating knife to toy with her food. She barely tasted the bites of roast pork, eels and assorted pastries that she did take, though they had been painstakingly and well prepared.
But as the moments stretched onward, Elizabeth began to grow angry with herself. Whatever Lord Warwicke’s annoyance might be, this silence was fair driving her mad. She would stand no more of it. She was a Clayburn, daughter of a proud and noble line. No man could be allowed to render her so self-conscious.
Elizabeth met his gaze directly as she lifted the pitcher from the table between them. “Would you care for more wine, my lord?”
He looked down at his plate, then nodded, passing her his cup. “My thanks, Lady Clayburn. It is the best I've tasted in some time. It is warm in here, and the wine is refreshing.”
As she filled the vessel, Elizabeth thought about what he had said. The room seemed a trifle cool to her, rather than warm. March’s recent arrival had brought no rise in temperatures. They had kept the window open most of the day to catch the light as they readied the room for the evening, and along with it the cold. Just before Raynor arrived, she’d had Albert light a fire in the hearth to take the chill from the room.
Feeling Raynor’s gaze upon her, she looked up at him and paused. The intensity in his dark eyes rocked her. She felt she was being studied with appreciation, yes, but also with doubt. Her tunic suddenly felt too tight across her breasts, and she shifted restlessly on her cushioned chair.
He was right, the room was quite warm. Her tongue came out to lick at the perspiration that beaded on her upper lip, and his gaze followed. He swallowed, taking a ragged breath as he closed his eyes, releasing Elizabeth from their spell.
She turned away, trying to still her beating heart even as she felt a rush of elation. So he was not completely indifferent to her as he pretended.
That left the question, why was he making the pretense?
Elizabeth didn’t know, but she was through with trying to fathom the answer. The anger that had been directed toward herself a few minutes before now shifted to him. If Raynor Warwicke wanted to keep to himself, that was fine with her, or so she told herself. And she was determined for him to see that it didn’t matter. She would go on with the meal as if he were any other guest, then see him on his way.
But there was a nagging awareness in her that told Elizabeth it would not be so easy as she thought. Why, he had only to look at her and she melted like butter in sunshine.
Elizabeth picked up her own cup and took a long drink of the wine. He was right, it was cool to the tongue, even as it trickled a liquid courage into her veins. If need be, she could surely drink enough wine to get her through the hours in his presence. She had heard it could be of help. She poured herself another cup and drained it, as well, before deigning to speak to Raynor again.
Taking a deep breath, she began politely. “My brother tells me you are leaving tomorrow for Warwicke Castle.”
He gave her one of those long, enigmatic looks. “Yes.” Then he turned back to his plate.
Elizabeth took another sip of her wine. She was growing quite relaxed, her arms and legs pleasantly heavy. It was beginning to matter less and less that Raynor was rude and distant. In fact, she was feeling almost amused by the whole situation. What Raynor needed was to allow himself to loosen up just a bit. He might benefit from a few glasses of wine himself.
Arching a fine black brow, she lifted the pitcher in offering. “Would you care for more?”
He barely nodded, handing her the cup. Elizabeth filled it for him.
“My thanks,” he told her, taking a long pull before setting it down next to his dish.
At least he was being polite now, she thought, settling back in her chair, her own cup in her hand. She sipped at the wine, no longer caring to make the pretense of eating.
He glanced over at her, frowning as if she had done something to irritate him in some way. “You aren’t eating.”
“Nay,” she replied languidly. Her own gaze went to his plate, and she saw that for all his studied concentration, Raynor had managed to eat very little of his own dinner. She laughed huskily. “My lord Warwicke, it appears you are not hungry, either.”
With an angry grunt, he pushed the dish aside. “I am not.”
She drained her cup, then watched as Raynor did the same, her eyes never leaving his. This time it was he who leaned forward to refill the vessels, without speaking.
He took another drink of his own wine, his gaze fixing on the tapestry behind her. His lean profile was hard, but undeniably handsome in the glow of the fire, leaving her with a desire to run her hand over the strongly etched jaw. Despite his best efforts, there was an air of loneliness about him that even his confidence and self-possession could not disguise. From somewhere inside her came the thought that this strong man needed someone to share the weight of his troubles. And even though it was obvious that that someone was not her, she couldn’t help wishing he had given her a chance to at least know him better.
Suddenly Elizabeth found herself speaking. It was as if she couldn’t halt her wayward tongue. “You would not have come here tonight, knowing Stephen was gone?”
He turned to her, his brows knit in surprise at her frankness. He took a long pull of his wine before answering. “Nay, I would not have come.”
Even though she had known the answer, Elizabeth felt an unbidden twinge of chagrin. She couldn’t keep herself from replying with the first thing that popped into her mind. “I am really not so very wicked.”
His grimace belied his polite answer. “Of that I am most certain, Lady Elizabeth.”
She laughed. The words were so blatantly at odds with his expression. “Methinks you do not answer truthfully, my lord. What do you hold against me?” She raised her arms wide, then lowered them, feeling recklessly daring for talking so openly. “Am I not pleasing to you? Do I bring to mind some long-despised woman from your past?”
His gaze moved over her with slow deliberation, his eyes dark with some undefined emotion that made her pulse quicken. His voice was husky as he spoke. “You are most pleasing to me, Elizabeth Clayburn. And you remind me of no one I have known in my entire life. In fact, I find you too pleasing.”
Elizabeth knew a moment’s elation before he went on, his tone grown cool.
“But therein lies my problem. You are a noblewoman, and thus can be nothing to me. I want no complication in my life such as you would bring. I have troubles enough to keep me till the end of my days. Why would I willingly bring more upon myself? I know your type. You gently bred damsels think nothing of leading a man a merry chase until he is caught, then you show your true colors by taking all he can give you and more. Don’t try to deny it.” He raised a hand when she opened her mouth to argue. Raynor’s gaze caught Elizabeth’s, and would not let go. “When I take a woman, it is of necessity, a thing of the body, no more no less.” He laughed harshly at her shocked gasp, then released her gaze and paused to fill his cup before draining it.
As if his anger were too much to contain, Raynor pushed back his chair and went to stand before the fire, unmindful of the cushions he scattered in his wake. “No woman will own me.” He hit the wall above the hearth with a white-knuckled fist. Then he took a deep breath, turning back to her.
He came to stand beside the table, his face dark and unreadable with the fire low and behind him.
Elizabeth could only sit there, her wine-fuddled mind trying to make sense of what he had told her. “Obviously someone has betrayed you in some way, my lord Warwicke. But you cannot blame all noblewomen for the actions of one.”
He didn’t even try to answer her, simply shook his head. “You know naught of what you speak. I don’t even know why I am telling you of this. Perhaps I have had too much wine, or mayhap I needed for you to understand that, though I find you more than comely to look upon, I cannot allow myself to see you as anything more than that, a well-favored thing.”
That did not set well with Elizabeth. Obviously Raynor was not the man for her, if he felt thus. She was a woman who needed to be appreciated for all of herself, not just her face and form. Groggily she peered up at him. “I can see that we have completely opposite views on this most important matter,” she told him, as soberly as she could, considering the way her head was swimming. “I need someone who will love me as my father did my mother, with his whole heart and mind. Aye, they fought, but then Father would pick her up and take her up into the tower. They would be gone for hours at times, but when they came back they would be smiling. Mother wasn’t like the women you have known. She was my father’s friend and helpmate. They discussed their problems and took care of each other. My oldest brother, Henry, is married, and he has found the same happiness with his wife Aileen, though they had their problems in the beginning. You are most wise to keep your distance from me, my lord Warwicke. What you are willing to give would not be enough for me. I am no well-favored thing.”
Even though Raynor knew she was simply reacting to what he had said to her, the words stung. Flung back at him that way, the statement sounded worse than he’d thought. But Raynor had no intention of retracting it.
He looked at Elizabeth and saw that her head had tipped forward and her eyes were closed. He looked more closely. The vixen was asleep. Surprise wiped his self-deprecating thoughts from his mind.
In his lifetime many things had happened in the presence of a beautiful woman. But rarely had one fallen asleep with so little warning, and then only after he had thoroughly made love to her.
Raynor looked about the room. First he would move her to the rug before the fire, and then he would be on his way. Enough had been said between them, far more than Raynor had ever told anyone or ever meant to.
He went to her chair and pulled it away from the table, then bent and scooped her up into his arms. Though she was tall, Elizabeth was delicately formed, and her weight was no strain for his hardened muscles.
When he reached the carpet, he used his foot to rearrange the cushions he had scattered about, then went down on one knee to lower her onto them. She stirred in his arms, and he looked down. The heavy fringe of her lashes lifted, and she gazed up at him, the expression in her eyes flirtatious and all woman. “My lord Warwicke, am I to believe you have overcome your scruples concerning young noblewomen?” She giggled, putting her hand over her mouth.
But not before Raynor had caught the heavy scent of wine on her breath. Of course, how could he have been so incredibly stupid? She’d gotten drunk before his very eyes, and he hadn’t even noticed. Now that he thought back, Elizabeth had drunk a fair amount, but not nearly as much as he. Raynor wanted to absolve himself for not stopping her, on the grounds that he had been too occupied at first with his need to keep his distance, and then with his efforts to convince her he was not right for her, but it wouldn’t suffice. Mayhap his lack of perception had partly to do with his having consumed a fair amount of the strong liquid, also. Raynor was feeling more than a little muddled himself.
The firelight was rosy on the delicate plains of her face as she turned toward the flames and began to speak. At first he was confused, but then he began to understand that she was continuing their conversation of a few minutes before. “I love my brothers dearly. All three of them are good, strong, but fair men, even Peter, who is only sixteen.”
She cast a glance toward Raynor, her gaze holding his over the few inches that separated them. “I could only give my heart to one such as they.” She gave a self-derisive laugh, and lifted her hand, only to have it fall back into her lap. “But for reasons I don’t understand, it is you who draws me like a bee to a buttercup. There is something I would ask of you. And please know, if you choose to comply with my request, I will not take this a sign that you are interested in me.” Her lashes fluttered. “You see, I have never been kissed, have not wanted anyone to do so, that is until yesterday, when I saw you.” She looked up at him beseechingly. “I was wondering if you would kiss me just once, before you go. We will never see each other again, and so it seems a little thing to ask.”
For a long time, Raynor just knelt there, looking into her eyes. What she had requested was completely beyond the realm of sanity, wasn’t it? After all, he had already acknowledged, if only to himself, that Elizabeth was the most beautiful and desirable woman he had ever met. He would be stepping beyond the boundary he had set for himself by kissing her. Such an act might just release some of the passion she awakened in him.
But as he looked down at her, at the ingenuous hope in her blue eyes, he knew he could not hurt her by refusing. She seemed so utterly vulnerable at this moment, with her inhibitions stripped away by too much wine. What harm could there be in giving her one chaste kiss? He doubted that Elizabeth would even remember on the morrow.
Slowly, and with a tenderness that surprised even him, Raynor placed his lips on hers. Elizabeth’s mouth was soft and warm, and her skin smelled sweetly of rose petals. Her softly rounded breasts pressed close to him as she opened herself to his embrace. There was not the least bit of resistance in her, only soft, giving female. Raynor felt the hot cramp of desire, there in his gut, threatening to burst free and consume him. But he held it at bay. He drew away from her with infinite care, fearing that if he moved too quickly he would lose control.
She opened her eyes and looked at him, sighing with contentment. “I shall never forget.”
He raised a hand to brush a silken curl from her brow. His voice was softer than a whisper as he answered, “Neither shall I, Elizabeth Clayburn.” And he knew it was true. Raynor didn’t understand what had happened here between them, but he knew she had awakened tender feelings he’d thought long dead.
And that was exactly why he must go from here and never look back. Raynor had no place for such weakness in his life. He had to stay strong and in control of his own destiny. Willow, and many others, depended upon him.
He moved to lay her back.
Her eyes opened, and she looked at him with a drowsy frown. “Nay, my lord, hold me yet a while. It does feel good to be in your arms, and this is all I shall have of you.”
His reply was unexpectedly regretful. “But I must go.”
Her gaze cleared then, for a moment, and her expression was filled with a sympathy so deep it startled him. “Nay, Raynor. Abide here with me for a time. You will come to no harm. I wish you nothing but good. Rest, if only for a while. It will serve you well.”
She reached up to run her soft hand over his cheek, and Raynor was lost. It was as if she gave him a modicum of peace simply by reaching out to him. Never in his life had he been touched with such tenderness.
It almost seemed that Elizabeth was absorbing some of his cares into the softness of her woman’s flesh. She looked up at him, her eyes soft and languid. “Kiss me again, my lord.”
His arms tightened, and he lowered his dark head, one of his hands slipping down to cup the delicate curve of her bottom, unable in that moment to deny her or himself.
* * *
Stephen led the other two men around the back of the house, to the shed where he kept his horse and Elizabeth’s. The animals could feed and drink while the men were having their own meal.
Their mounts had been hard-ridden, but Edward had wanted the archbishop’s reply to his letter without delay. He and the other two knights had made very good time to return so quickly. Once the message was delivered to the king’s chamberlain, Stephen had suggested some refreshment at his home, and they had agreed most readily. His invitation had not been solely out of hospitality. He thought that with these two present there could be no question of Elizabeth being too forward in regard to Raynor and giving him the wrong impression.
Stephen dismounted and led his charger forward into the low building, with its two stalls. He stopped short. Dancer’s stall was not empty as he had expected. A strange chestnut stallion reared and pawed at the air upon seeing Stephen approach. Obviously Raynor had already arrived. Though he could not have been here for long, as Stephen’s note had specified one hour hence.
Stephen backed Dancer from the shed.
He tied the white stallion outside and helped the other two men do the same to their horses. After they were fed and watered, he hurried to the house.
It was only a moment before his pounding at the door was answered. He heard the heavy bolt drawn back, and Olwyn’s pale face appeared in the opening.
But it wasn’t until she opened the door all the way and Stephen saw the very real apprehension on her face that he felt the first twinges of unease. What had Elizabeth done? Drat his impulse in asking the other two men to join him!
He took a step into the room, trying to appear casual. “Lord Warwicke has arrived?”
She nodded, her eyes wide. “Yes, my lord.”
“I see.” He smiled. “We will go up, then.” He refused to even contemplate the question of how long Raynor had been here.
She looked from him to the other two knights, biting her lower lip. Olwyn stared at the brooch on his cloak. “My lord, I think it best if I talk with you in private.”
The other two men looked at each other, then at Stephen. They were members of the king’s personal guard, and trained to be suspicious of anything unusual. Clearly they wondered what must be kept secret from them.
Having no wish to have to explain Olwyn’s bizarre behavior to the king, Stephen gave a groan of impatience and strode across the room. Distantly he heard himself explaining, “She is a shy girl, much given to whispering and such. I find her a trial at times.” He had no choice now but to take them up to the solar. Stephen could hear the men muttering in commiseration as they followed him. They had to hurry to keep up as he took the stairs to the upper floor, but he didn’t care. He hoped to put at least a small distance between them, so that he might arrive first.
On opening the door of the solar, he stopped dead. There on the carpet where Elizabeth usually read before the fire were Raynor of Warwicke and his sister. And they were kissing, one of Raynor’s hands resting possessively on his sister’s backside. They started and looked up at Stephen, then each other, in dazed but abject horror. If it hadn’t been for the fact that a nightmare was unfolding before his very eyes, Stephen would have laughed.
Though he moved to block their way, he heard one of the men behind him take in a sharp breath.
Elizabeth looked toward the door at the sound, her blue eyes going wide with misery when she saw the men with her brother. Her veil had come out of her hair, and the ebony mass tumbled about her in wild disarray. As she moved to her knees, she groaned and put a hand to her head.
Obviously Warwicke fared no better, for he looked as though he were not quite sure what was happening. Stephen watched while realization dawned and Raynor’s lips thinned to a grim line as he rose to his feet facing the door.
Why could Elizabeth not have heeded him? And why had Raynor acted so foolishly himself? Now that the king’s men had seen the two together, Stephen had little choice as to what must be done. Though both were clothed and gave no indication that they had been otherwise, Elizabeth’s reputation was in question. Raynor was already the subject of much talk concerning his illegitimate child.
Damn her, but he’d tried to warn her. But Elizabeth had ever been one to make her own decisions, and usually proved right. The problem was that this one mistake might cost her more dearly than all the others in her life combined.
But there was nothing to be done now. Stephen addressed only Raynor. “I hope you are prepared to right the wrong you have done this night.”
Raynor straightened his shoulders, his eyes direct on Stephen’s, but giving no hint of his feelings. “I am.”
“Nay!” Elizabeth cried, tossing her hair out of her eyes. “I will not.”
Raynor went on as if he hadn’t heard her, the expression on his handsome face cold as frozen marble. “I will marry your sister.”
But even as Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue, one of the king’s guards raised his hand and said, “I will bear witness to his promise.”
She looked to Stephen, but he could offer no assistance. She had brought this upon herself. If the other men had not been here, things might have been different, but not now. Word would spread throughout the court by midday.
Stephen almost reached out to comfort her when Raynor would not even meet her gaze.
Elizabeth cried, “Stephen, surely you must see that a marriage between us is impossible. Nothing happened here. We had too much wine and shared a kiss. That is all.”
Raynor addressed Stephen. “I can delay only one day. I have responsibilities awaiting me at Warwicke. It must be done by tomorrow.”
Stephen nodded. “It will be so.”
Chapter Four
Elizabeth’s black palfrey stamped and snorted, expelling a cloud of breath into the chill morning air. It jerked restively, pulling at the reins she held in her gloved hands.
The weather had turned cold overnight, as cold as Raynor Warwicke’s demeanor since he’d uttered his agreement that he would wed her two day ago. It was as if spring knew its warmth would find no welcome in his eyes.
Elizabeth’s gaze went to her husband, where he sat atop his stallion at the front of the wagons. He never even glanced in her direction, but made his impatience to be gone known in the stiff line of back and shoulders.
The wagons were ready, had been since dawn. All that delayed them was Elizabeth’s goodbye. She turned to Stephen, who stood stony-faced, only his dark green eyes betraying his sadness. That was until she reached up to put her arms around his neck. Then he broke down, holding her close as he said, “I am sorry, Beth. There was no other way.”
She hugged him tightly, comforted by his embrace. Despite wanting desperately to retain this feeling of love and safety, she answered him bravely. “I know, brother. This trouble is of my own making, and I must live with the consequences.”
He held her head close against his shoulder for a long moment before letting her go. There was nothing more to be said. In the hours since he had found her and Raynor together, they had been over it all.
As she swung around to mount her horse, still without a word from her new husband, Elizabeth raised her chin. She would not let him see how his coldness hurt her. If that was what he desired, they would be like two strangers. And that did seem to be the way he wanted things. Looking at the rigid line of his wide back, it was difficult for her to believe they were even wed.
Only the hollow ache in her chest told her the truth of it. This was not some horrible dream from which she would awake to find herself in her own bed.
The marriage had been accomplished without circumstance in the king’s own chapel. Elizabeth had not garbed herself finely, nor had her bridegroom. When word came that the deed was to be done, they’d gone up to Windsor as they stood.
Not since the priest had declared them wed had Raynor so much as spoken to her.
He’d left her at Stephen’s side without even a backward glance. It was only after her brother took her home that Elizabeth had received word to inform her that she and her belongings were to be ready to travel by the next morning.
Which brought her to this moment of leaving her home, with little thought of hope for her future.
Studying her husband’s unyielding posture ahead of her, Elizabeth couldn’t help wondering yet again if Raynor believed she had deliberately trapped him into the marriage. From the cold way he had behaved, she could not but think he did. If only there were some way of making him understand that nothing could be farther from the truth. But he had given her no opportunity to explain, and seemed unlikely to.
If only he could see that the idea of marrying a total stranger was as distasteful to her as it appeared to be to him.
As soon as that thought entered her mind, she tried to ignore the voice of doubt that rose in her heart. The one that reminded her of how often she had relived the hazy memory of Raynor’s lips moving against hers. Even though the image was not clear, the tightening of desire in her lower belly was more than sufficient reminder that she did not find this man completely abhorrent.
Raynor swung around, probably to see if the small entourage was at last ready to leave. His gaze barely grazed Elizabeth, and her cheeks blazed as she stiffened in reaction. Her gaze followed the path of his as he took in the two loaded wagons. His tight lips told of his disapproval.
God’s eyes, she thought angrily, straightening her slender shoulders. If he was going to treat her thus, she refused to let him see that it bothered her.
Elizabeth knew that Raynor was thinking the wagons would slow his progress home, but there was nothing for it. She would not leave her household goods behind. The idea was unthinkable. As her husband, Raynor could fairly demand that she go where he told her, but he could not make her leave her belongings. Two of the four soldiers who had traveled to Windsor with Raynor and Bronic were to act as drivers. Their horses were tied securely to the back of the wagons.
Raising his hand in a farewell to Stephen, Raynor urged his mount forward as a signal to the others.
They started off.
Elizabeth sent a last glance backward, waving to Stephen and the two servants who stood in the tiny yard before the whitewashed house that she would likely never see again. Her heart ached at the realization. For a long moment, Elizabeth did battle with feelings of uncertainty and fear of facing the future with a virtual stranger.
She could feel Olwyn watching her closely from her seat in the lead wagon. She knew her companion was concerned for her. Over the past two days, the woman had tried repeatedly to speak with her mistress about what was happening, but Elizabeth had refused to be drawn out. Raising her chin, she avoided meeting Olwyn’s eyes. She needed all her strength to fight back the sting of tears, like shards of glass behind her eyes.
Even at the early hour, many people came out to watch the passing entourage. The folk of Windsor were more than accustomed to the comings and goings of nobility, but never seemed to lose interest in watching them.
More than once she saw fingers pointed at the rear wagon, where Elizabeth’s great bed rode in splendor. The cloth that had been draped around it to protect the massive piece of furniture from the elements did nothing to disguise it. Such a bed was a symbol of both position and wealth. Many of the nobility took their beds with them as they moved from one holding to another.
As they rode along through the village, the streets grew busier. Their progress was slow, which, judging from the frown on his face each time they halted to let a group of travelers or a loaded wagon pass, clearly irritated Raynor.
It was only as they started down the more open road outside the town itself that Raynor appeared to relax a little. After a time, he began to converse quietly with Bronic, who rode beside him.
Elizabeth didn’t want to admit it, but Raynor’s improved attitude caused her own stiff muscles to release some of their tension. Her buttocks, which had been aching with the tension of her body, relaxed in the saddle. She began to look around with some semblance of interest.
It was a fine, clear April day, despite the unseasonable morning chill. After the first couple of hours, their breath could no longer be seen as they went along. As the sun climbed higher in the blue sky, Elizabeth’s sable-lined cloak began to grow overwarm, and she let it slip down from her shoulders to lie over the horse’s white rump in a splash of scarlet color.
Now they saw few other travelers, only an occasional cart filled with produce. No words were exchanged with the drivers, who moved aside with meekly bowed heads and allowed the nobleman and his party to pass.
The fields beside the road were covered with the short green sprouts of new grain, which strained toward the sun. Oak, alder, ash and birch trees crowded the edges of the fields, offering up their own bright and tender buds in anticipation of the fullness of foliage to come. It was as if God were trying to tell her something with this joyous display of new beginnings. But Elizabeth could not be moved. Her own new life held no such promise of bounty.
The few cottages they saw sat far back from the road; thus, the occasional bark of a dog or the sound of a raised voice seemed distant and disconnected to Elizabeth and her life.
No one knew or cared that she rode north toward a life she knew nothing about and had not asked for.
But here she stopped herself with a jolt of self-examination. Had she not asked for what had happened? If not for her insistence on dining alone with Raynor, she would not now be married to a man who had no use for her.
No wonder Raynor resented her.
He’d made his attitude toward women abundantly clear at the outset. In no way was he responsible for what had befallen them. But, though honesty forced Elizabeth to admit her own guilt in the matter, there was little else she could do at this juncture.
If only in name, they were well and truly wed.
What she could do was try to heal the breach between them. Raynor was her husband, and she did not wish to spend her future years bemoaning her fate. All her life Elizabeth had been a doer, a fixer. It was not like her to just accept defeat. And she could not do so now.
With the example of her parents' joyous marriage to lead her, Elizabeth knew she did not wish to settle for what existed between her and Raynor now. It was up to her to try and make things better. Mayhap if she tried, Raynor would unbend and see that they must make the best of their lot.
And she knew this was the most she could hope for. Not for a moment did she believe that Raynor would ever love her as her father had her mother, or even as her brother Henry loved his beloved wife, Aileen.
Firmly she stifled any hint of loneliness at the thought.
Such was not for her. The best she could achieve was a truce. Looking to Raynor’s unyieldingly broad back, she had no idea how that was to come about. Yet try she must.
She was a Clayburn, and thus would show no sign of giving up, despite the adversity. Elizabeth straightened her spine, determined to present a brave front, no matter the sadness that tightened her throat.
Looking up to see Olwyn studying her with that worried expression again, Elizabeth moved to the side of the wagon.
She had made the decision to go forward with courage. Now she must begin to act upon it. No more would she avoid conversing with Olwyn, though she would draw the line at anything concerning her relationship with Raynor. What was between them was between them.
But Olwyn was an important part of her life, and Elizabeth would not forgo her friendship with her woman out of her own ridiculous ill humor.
From the front of the little troop, where Raynor rode beside Bronic, he was not able to look back at Elizabeth without being obvious. But he made much of keeping an eye on the wagons. Surreptitiously his gaze sought his wife.
Raynor watched as she moved up beside the first wagon and began talking to her woman. She laughed at something the other said, the sound pleasant and throaty, unwittingly drawing several pairs of male eyes. He frowned, feeling even more irritated with her.
Quickly he turned away.
How could she appear so unconcerned, when his own stomach was a coil of knotted frustration due to the events of the past two days?
He didn’t want to believe she had deliberately set out to force him into a marriage. But the evidence was there. Why else would she have arranged for them to be alone, shown such pleasure in his company, convinced him to stay when he discovered Stephen was not there? Even at the time, he’d wondered about her overt interest in him. He cursed himself for being fool enough to disregard his misgivings, even as he remembered how her regard had warmed him. As Raynor’s mother had been, Elizabeth was adept at getting what she desired without thought of the cost to others.
He’d seen his mother completely destroy his father with her manipulations. When Raynor was only an infant, Robert Warwicke had been called to serve his king in France. He had returned home two years later to discover that his wife had not only betrayed him with another man, but had bore that other a son, as well. Too much in love with her to cast his faithless spouse aside, Robert had forgiven her. Yet his compassion had not moved his wife to display any measure of gratitude or loyalty. She had seemed to see his kindness as a sign of weakness and disdain him for it. Completely in love with her, he had outwardly taken her manipulations with little or no demur. But over the years, Raynor had seen how deep the hurt had cut.
Elizabeth was obviously of the same manipulative bent, and had acted accordingly when she wanted a husband. Though why she had chosen him, Raynor had still to discern. The most logical explanation was that she was too accustomed to having her way, and he had denied her. Thus becoming a challenge. 'Twas the only thing that made any sense.
Yet even as these thoughts ran through his mind, he knew doubt. She had seemed as displeased as he at Stephen’s decision that they must wed, had gone through with the wedding white-faced and silent as snow. And her sorrow at parting with her brother this morning had appeared unfeigned.
An act, he told himself angrily.
Else why was she laughing and smiling unconcernedly with her maid, when he could think of nothing but the quagmire his life had become? The complication of a wife was one he had not needed at this point. Worry over what new devilment Harrington might get up to was already piled atop his usual concerns about the running of his lands and Willow’s. He had enough problems to occupy his every waking hour without Elizabeth to plague him.
And plague him she did.
Every time he was near her, including the few moments they had spent together becoming man and wife, he had relived over and over that kiss. That dratted moment when he had abandoned all rational thought and taken her in his arms. That cursed moment when he felt his gentler feelings stir for the first time in years.
Repeatedly he told himself the event could not have been the way he recalled. No single kiss could be so moving. But every time he looked at her, his heart remembered, and a warm, liquid feeling suffused his chest.
He glanced behind him, his gaze flicking from his wife to the second wagon, where that enormous bed reposed under a protective covering. Elizabeth’s bed. Raynor nearly gasped aloud as an image of Elizabeth naked, her blue eyes heavy with desire, sprang unbidden to his mind.
By the true cross, what was wrong with him?
He became aware of Bronic asking him a question. “What say you, Raynor?”
“Say?” he asked hurriedly, puzzled and trying to cover the fact that he had not been attending.
Bronic’s blue eyes studied him. “As to Harrington? Think you he will leave well enough alone, now that King Edward has upheld your claim to the child?”
Raynor ran a hand through his already tousled dark hair. Guilt stabbed at him for worrying over Elizabeth when he had other, more pressing matters to attend. “Nay.” His voice was hard. “He will not. The man’s greed is too big to let go. He will not stop here. Harrington has already bled his tenants dry to fund his extravagant ways. He can get no more from that quarter. With Willow in his control, he would have access to her fortune.”
A frown crossed Bronic’s strongly handsome face. “You do not think he would try to reach Warwicke and take her before we can return?”
Raynor felt a moment of painful unease, then stifled it. He shook his head. “Nay, methinks not. Harrington is not a man to discommode himself by sleeping in tents, as we will. He will stay at every hostelry and monastery along the route north. Besides,” he added as much to reassure himself as much as Bronic, “you know I have left word that Harrington is to be killed on sight if he tries to so much as approach Warwicke in my absence. And he would not have time to gather an army to lay siege before we can return.”
Raynor turned to survey the two wagons behind them, his gaze going once more to Elizabeth. She laughed again, seemingly oblivious of him, and a black scowl darkened his brow. He turned back to the other man. “I had no concern before of beating Harrington back to Warwicke, but with these wagons, our progress will be slowed greatly. You, myself and the other four men could have been happily returned to Warwicke in half the time it will now take.”
Bronic swung around to look at the two women, Elizabeth on her white palfrey, Olwyn in the wagon. His tone was thoughtful as he answered, “We have made surprisingly good time thus far. The women have been of little trouble. Though we have been traveling for hours, neither has so much as offered a word of complaint.”
“Thus far,” Raynor reminded him.
“Soon we must begin to think about stopping for the meal.” Bronic looked at him with long-suffering patience. “The women are likely tired, despite their lack of complaint.”
Raynor colored. Inexplicably he had the feeling Bronic knew how upset he was about his marriage to Elizabeth. This displeased him not a little. He refused to allow his being wed to alter his life any more than necessary. “We have many leagues to go,” he replied woodenly.
With an expression of surprise and disapproval, Bronic replied, “Raynor, I myself am growing hungry, though I could ride on without stopping, and have done so under more discomfort. But there is no need to go on until the women drop. You said yourself that as long as we make reasonable haste, all should be well. It is only right to treat your lady wife with some deference.”
Raynor sat looking at him, Elizabeth’s husky laughter ringing in his ears. He didn’t care about her, and didn’t want anyone else to mistake that fact. But neither did he want to be deliberately cruel. She probably was exhausted. It was true they had ridden on well past midday, and she’d uttered not a word of complaint.
But even though such stamina was new in his experience with women, Raynor was not yet ready to completely unbend. “Aye,” he replied stiffly. “We will stop.”
As Bronic dropped back to tell the others, Raynor halted him with a raised hand. “But tell my wife that it will only be for a short time. She is not to dawdle. We have far to travel before making camp for the night. I must needs return to Warwicke ere many more days have passed.”
With raised brows, Bronic gave him a long look. “You may deliver that message yourself, Raynor. I will not. After all, you have not even spoken to the woman the whole morning. I know not what happened between you. I only know that Sir Stephen and the king’s men found you together. Surely you cannot hold her solely responsible and absolve yourself, Raynor. 'Tis not like you. Furthermore, if you wish to be unpleasant with your lady after first ignoring her, you may do so with your own tongue.” That said, Bronic moved off without waiting for a reply.
Raynor could think of no suitable answer, anyway. He knew he would have to speak to Elizabeth eventually, but he didn’t know what to say. As to the subject of his own culpability in the marriage, Bronic did not know what Raynor suspected Elizabeth had done. Somehow she must understand that he did not mean for theirs to be a true marriage. Raynor wanted nothing between himself and Elizabeth, not companionship, not friendship, and definitely not love.
Naught good had ever come of closeness between a man and woman, and Elizabeth was not the kind who could easily be used and discarded without thought. Those few moments when he held her in his arms had assured him of that.
He had no intention of allowing himself to care for her, or any other woman. Not now, not ever.
Louisa had been the one exception to that rule, and they had met as children. Early on, she had told him of the cruelty of her stepfather. Though he was nothing but a boy, Raynor had responded with kindness. And even then she had chosen Raynor over the older Nigel, following him about with sisterly devotion. How could he fail to respond in kind?
But there was no connection between that and what had passed between himself and Elizabeth. She was a woman in every sense of the word, clearly willing to use her mind and body as silken threads to bind a man to her.
Staying where he was, ahead of the others, Raynor looked back and saw Bronic speak to the man who drove the lead wagon. He pulled to the side of the road. The other driver followed his lead.
They were right next to a small clearing near the road, where the trees rested back a bit. The short grass grew thick and inviting. It was a suitable spot to rest and eat.
Lips tight, Raynor watched as Bronic helped Elizabeth’s woman from the lead wagon. The serving woman reached into the back and drew out a large woven basket. One of the other four men spread a blanket on the ground as another helped Elizabeth from her white mare. Bronic took the basket and carried it to the blanket where the two women took over and began passing out its contents.
Soon the small group was chatting amiably.
None of them so much as made a pretense of paying attention to Raynor. The five men seemed bent on seeing to the two women’s comforts, to the exclusion of all else.
If he’d thought his stomach was in knots before, he now had to make a conscious effort not to put a hand over the cramp in his guts. He sat up straighter, determined to conquer the feeling.
But the longer Raynor sat there atop his stallion, watching the others eat and talk as if this were some outing planned solely for the entertainment of his wife and her companion, the angrier he became.
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Catherine Archer
Lord Raynor Was No Match for the Lovely WomanHe'd Been Forced to Take to WifeThough Lady Elizabeth Clayburn was no stranger to the flattery of men, the enigmatic Baron of Warwicke wielded a power over her more potent than anything she had ever felt, and she'd tumbled quickly into a marriage bed, unwarmed by trust or love.The grim defenses around Lord Raynor Warwicke's heart had been erected long ago. But now his defiant wife had dared to breach his stronghold, challenging him to lay aside the armor of his suspicions, and surrender to the greater strength of love.
Velvet Bond
Catherine Archer
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to my children, Catherine, Stephen and Rosanna, for all their love and support, with
special thanks to my Kate for all her editorial assistance.
And to my sister, Elizabeth, who cleans when she’s angry and gave me the inspiration for this character.
I must also add a note of thanks to Don D’Auria. Thanks.
Contents
Chapter One (#u5dc60bcb-2434-56d8-af70-88b58ef1736b)
Chapter Two (#udc05aed9-a710-52a3-868f-15f2bc3e9680)
Chapter Three (#uda3a3b45-4be3-59a0-99ef-7ebccd8b92a2)
Chapter Four (#uf0f3d330-3ad2-554a-807b-9604b0287867)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Elizabeth Clayburn sat on the stone window seat, her slender back supported by her brother’s broad one. Despite the velvet cushion beneath her, she was less than comfortable. Sighing, she wished herself in her own comfortable house for the third time in as many minutes. But she had promised to stay at Stephen’s side until Lady Helen turned her attentions elsewhere, and that she would do. No matter how much she disliked coming up to Windsor Castle.
It wasn’t Elizabeth’s usual custom to involve herself in Stephen’s affairs, but Lady Helen was proving especially difficult to discourage, and Stephen had come near to begging for Elizabeth’s help. He hoped that if he was never alone with his former mistress, she would soon give up and move on to greener pastures. Not even Helen was brazen enough to confront him about his obviously cooled interest before his very sister.
Restlessly Elizabeth’s gaze roamed the crowded ante-chamber as she toyed with one of the braided gold tassels that held back the heavy red brocade drapes. The three tall windows let in sufficient light to illuminate the high, wide room, but she saw little that pleased her.
Despite the perpetual chill given off by stone walls, the air was overwarm, due to the presence of so many people. The high-ceilinged chamber bore no furniture or adornments save the rich curtains, and needed none. Men and women alike displayed their best finery in the forms of colorful cotehardies, tunics and hose. Many of the older men wore a long-skirted cote over the body-hugging tunic called a pourpoint, but the younger or more daring favored the shorter version that was much frowned on by the church. The women wore their cotes slashed at the sides to show off tight-fitting tunics of samite, sendal, and damask. Linen wimples fluttered about cheeks that had been delicately tinted with cosmetics. Jewelry and fur trim were seen in abundance as their wearers moved about, seeing and being seen. And they waited, some patiently, some not so patiently, for a moment to present their case to their sovereign.
Elizabeth looked down with a start as the would-be troubadour at her feet struck a chord on the lute that rested across his knee. She had nearly forgotten Percy.
Eyes of the palest blue gazed up at her with abject adoration as he sang,
“Oh lips of deepest scarlet hue
And eyes that sparkle like the dew”
“Sweet Jesu, Beth,” her brother Stephen turned to mutter in her ear. “This one is more dreadful than the last.”
“Shh, brother mine,” she whispered, attempting to prevent him hurting poor Percy’s delicate pride.
This was to no avail, for Sir Percy Hustace had indeed heard Stephen’s comment. He dropped the lute, which broke a string as it struck the floor. Percy groaned, casting a wounded look toward the other knight.
Rot Stephen, Elizabeth thought. She was of no mind to listen to them quarrel.
When Stephen only stared at Percy with amused contempt, the blue-eyed knight turned from him in disdain. Percy moved forward on his knees to take Elizabeth’s slender hand in his. “My lady, do you find my song displeasing?”
As Elizabeth gazed down upon the young man, truth and pity warred inside her. Pity won. “Not at all, Sir Percy. 'Tis most clear you have worked long upon the words and melody. I am flattered by your efforts.”
This time triumph lit Percy’s pale eyes when he looked to Stephen.
Elizabeth heard her brother click his tongue in disgust. She frowned at him, her sapphire eyes flashing. “If you do not behave yourself, I shall go home and leave you to face Lady Helen alone.”
Stephen sat bolt upright. “Now, Beth. I was but jesting with Percy. He should not be so sensitive.” Stephen turned toward the other knight so that Elizabeth could no longer see his face, but she knew her brother well, and the expression he was directing at Percy would be unpleasant, to be sure. But she said nothing. Percy could be quite tiresome, with his whining ways. And he did cut a foolish figure in his mode of dress. Every fashion of the day was ridiculously exaggerated. His pourpoint was short to the point of indecency, the gold cotehardie he wore over it sporting tippets that trailed well past his knees, and the points of his shoes extended at least twice the length of his foot. If it weren’t for the fact that much of his foolishness was by way of trying to impress her, Elizabeth would have been less inclined to be patient with him herself.
She smiled decisively. “We will forget the matter.”
Stephen looked about them to see if anyone else had taken note of Percy’s stupidity. As a trusted messenger to King Edward III, Stephen had a certain dignity to uphold.
Few of the other sumptuously dressed occupants of the antechamber paid them even cursory attention. The antics of Elizabeth’s most recent admirer were of little interest to them. Sir Percy was new to Edward’s court, and like countless others before him had instantly become enamored with Stephen’s sister. And Stephen could hardly fault Percy for that. Elizabeth was indeed beautiful, with her deep blue eyes, creamy skin and luxurious black hair.
She was his only sister, and had been dreadfully spoiled by her three brothers, including Peter, who was four years her junior. But Stephen knew it hadn’t harmed her. She had a kind and generous nature. She was undeniably patient with each new suitor until he finally gave up after realizing he would get no more than kindness from her. Stephen knew she should be married at twenty, but none had ever stirred her heart, and her brothers were loath to force her into an alliance she did not want.
If he felt that Percy was of any real threat to Elizabeth’s happiness or virtue, Stephen would readily take him out and throttle him. But he was not, and Stephen could easily afford to be magnanimous with the lackwit. As long as he didn’t become too irritating. So he would do as his sister asked and say no more.
He allowed his gaze to wander freely about the room, then froze.
Elizabeth felt Stephen stiffen beside her as he drew in a sharp breath. Following the direction of his apprehensive gaze, she spied Lady Helen Denfield.
Lady Helen was an acknowledged beauty, and deservedly so. At thirty-two, she managed to look as though she had not seen a day past seventeen years. There was a fawnlike delicacy about her as she came toward them across the bare stone floor. To heighten the image of youth, she wore her golden-brown hair loose down her back in a shimmering curtain, with only a sheer veil to cover it. Her soft brown eyes viewed the world around her with an expression of wonder, and she smiled timidly at whoever she passed.
Elizabeth studied this performance with amusement, having to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. For the pose of timidity was just that, a pose. Lady Helen could be more truly likened to the fox than to the fawn.
Peeking over at Stephen to gauge his reaction, Elizabeth found her handsome brother tensed as if to do battle. He ran an agitated hand through his dark auburn hair, his forest-green eyes wary. For three days now she had accompanied Stephen when he came to the castle to await a possible summons. It was his duty as one of King Edward’s messengers to make himself available. But that put him into contact with the one he most hoped to avoid, his mistress until very recently, Lady Helen Denfield. The affair had ended the moment he found out that the fair widow had nothing short of marriage on her mind.
Lady Denfield stopped before them.
As if sensing some threat to his goddess, Percy leapt up to stand at Elizabeth’s shoulder. It was a clear but unnecessary demonstration of his devotion.
“Lady Elizabeth.” Helen nodded, without looking at her. The woman’s attention was completely centered on her prey. Though she tried to hide the feral gleam in her eyes as they rested upon Stephen, it was all too obvious.
“Lord Clayburn.” The greeting sounded like nothing so much as an endearment.
Stephen ran a large hand over his muscular thighs in their dark green hose. “Lady Denfield.”
Helen’s eyes followed the path of his hand hungrily.
Watching the proceedings with interest, Elizabeth was hard-pressed not to laugh aloud.
How amusing that Stephen should be working so desperately to extricate himself from the affair that a fortnight ago had been his greatest pleasure, Elizabeth thought. Widowed for a year, Helen Denfield had been ripe for the picking. But it was Stephen who would end by being the harvest, did she have her way.
Elizabeth could see that Lady Helen had no intention of remaining a widow for long, and Stephen had clearly been chosen as the honored bridegroom. As she had been unable to produce an heir during her fifteen-year marriage to Lord Denfield, Helen’s husband’s lands and money had passed to a distant cousin, and she was nearly destitute, living on her meager dower funds. When Stephen began to pursue her, she had put all her not inconsiderable charms to luring him to the bait.
Not only was Elizabeth’s brother a fine specimen of a man, he also had a large income left to him by their mother. And, to add cream to the strawberries, he had, according to court gossip, brought Helen to fulfillment for the first time.
If truth be told, Elizabeth had no personal experience in carnal matters, but she did know that the court ladies set much store by prowess in the bedchamber. To Elizabeth, it seemed they made a great deal about naught. She had met no man who stirred even the least bit of feeling in her. And from what she had heard, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. It was beyond her how one could allow oneself to be made such a fool of over copulating.
Helen’s gaze took on a desperate expression as she watched Stephen.
Elizabeth could not imagine prostrating herself the way Helen was now, no matter how much pleasure a man could bring. She nearly succumbed to sympathy for the other woman. Stephen was always one to pursue a female with everything in him. Then, once he had succeeded in his quest, he lost interest, especially when the idea of marriage was broached.
If Lady Helen had been wiser, she would have allowed Stephen to go on thinking he was the aggressor.
Elizabeth understood this much about her brother.
But Stephen was of her blood, and she owed her allegiance to him first. So thinking, Elizabeth hardened her heart and reminded herself that Helen had her own agenda as far as Stephen was concerned. The fact that she had fallen in love with him was incidental.
At that moment, Elizabeth noted that a hush had fallen over the room. She looked up, surprised to find everyone watching the entrance to the chamber. It was unusual for anyone to cause a stir among this lot, who had seen some of the most important men in the world come and go on a regular basis, and she wondered idly who had arrived.
At that moment, the crowd parted, and Elizabeth saw him.
The man was tall and wore his acorn-brown tunic, pourpoint and dark hose casually, seeming completely unconcerned with the way the fabrics hugged his wide shoulders and muscular legs. He had made no effort to garb himself impressively, and thus stood apart like a wolf among lapdogs. Dark brown hair brushed his shoulders, and his equally dark eyes surveyed the splendor before him with indifference. Even as he shifted restlessly, first running a darkly tanned hand through his hair, then clenching that same hand at his side, he moved with an animal sort of grace. He made her think of a dark forest in moonlight, and his expression had a strange haunted quality, as if he were used to being alert for hidden danger.
The man seemed unaware of the stir he was causing. It was as though his mind were on other matters of greater importance than what he saw before him. He turned to the equally broad-shouldered blond man at his side, who was also dressed in subtle forest shades.
They seemed of like taste, but Elizabeth hardly noticed the lighter-haired of the two. It was the other one who drew her, though she couldn’t have explained it if given a thousand chances, and so she didn’t try.
There was something wild about him, wild as the wind is during a storm, wild like the beating of her heart. An oddly pleasant shiver ran down her spine.
Who was he, and why had she never seen him before?
Without even thinking, Elizabeth rose and moved toward him. A narrow path parted for her, as if those in her way seemed to sense her need to get closer to this man, to speak with him.
Elizabeth stopped before him, her gaze taking in the strong features of his face, straight nose, hard, chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. In the pit of her stomach, something fluttered, like a butterfly emerging from its protective sheath.
He glanced down at her with eyes as dark as burnt umber, then away, dismissing Elizabeth as he scanned the room behind her.
Piqued, Elizabeth simply stood there, a knot of irritation replacing the excitement in her belly. Never in all her life had any male looked through her that way.
The man smiled as his gaze came to light on someone behind her. “Clayburn,” he said. Elizabeth closed her eyes, unable to halt the tingling along the back of her neck that hearing his voice brought. The sound was rich, like rough fingers in brown velvet. Then she realized that he had spoken her own surname, and she turned to see her brother standing there just as Stephen answered him.
“Warwicke. How do you?” Stephen was nodding, his smile one of welcome.
The man shrugged. “I could be better. You know how I hate coming to court.”
“Aye,” Stephen agreed. “So what could have brought you to Windsor?”
Elizabeth could only stare at her brother. He talked as if he and this incredible man were long acquainted. And never had he so much as mentioned the friendship to her. Of course, she did know that Stephen met many people in his duties as the king’s messenger. But he might have at least thought to speak about this one.
The brown-eyed man looked around them with a frown. “I would rather not speak of the matter in the midst of so many. It is somewhat private.”
“I understand,” Stephen said. “Do you need to get in to see the king?” He nodded toward the closed door at the other end of the chamber. “I may be able to help you there.”
“My thanks,” the other man answered, “but King Edward has arranged this audience himself. Methinks he will see me as soon as he learns I am here.”
Stephen only nodded.
Elizabeth had had quite enough of this. She wanted to be introduced to this man Stephen had called Warwicke, and she meant to see that she was. “Stephen,” she said with a smile for her brother, “you do not behave very well. Where are your manners? You must introduce me.”
Both men looked down at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there.
Stephen hastened to do as she asked. “Lord Raynor Warwicke, let me present my sister, Lady Elizabeth.”
Her heart fluttered in her breast as his deep brown eyes settled upon her. “Lady Elizabeth.” This time there was a faint hint of recognition in them, but his gaze did not linger as most men’s were wont to do.
“My lord Warwicke,” she replied.
But he had already turned back to Stephen. “Mayhap you could help me by finding a cleric who could tell the king I am here?”
“Of a surety,” Stephen replied, and they moved off through the throng.
Elizabeth stood there in surprise. Then she looked down at herself, wondering if she might find the answer to Lord Warwicke’s rudeness in her mode of dress. But she could find no fault with the scarlet gown. The sides were slashed wide to show off the black tunic beneath, which fitted her narrow waist and gently curving breast and hips most becomingly. The sleeves of the tunic were fashionably wide and embroidered with a pattern of musical instruments in gold and scarlet threads. She ran her hand over her gold veil and found it to be securely in place.
No, it was not her attire that had caused Warwicke to look through her as if she had no more substance than the contents of an empty cup.
In her twenty years upon this earth, never had she been so summarily dismissed. He had completely failed to acknowledge her. Even her brother seemed to have forgotten her presence. And after she had come to the castle to help him.
But what made the insult doubly hard to take was the fact that never had she reacted to any man the way she had to Warwicke.
A deep flush stained her cheeks as she recalled her actions. Elizabeth had felt drawn to the man by some force outside herself, going to him without even pausing for thought. And had, in doing so, made a complete and utter fool of herself.
Surreptitiously she looked around the room, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Now that Warwicke had left with her brother, they seemed to have gone back to their own interests. Even Percy was busily fixing the string on his lute.
Then her gaze came to rest on Lady Helen, who was standing close by, with cruel amusement in her eyes.
Elizabeth flushed, but forced herself to raise her head high. She would not allow the other woman to think she had been bested.
Lady Helen smiled thinly. “He cuts quite a figure, does he not?”
Raising finely arched brows high, Elizabeth asked, “Who?”
But the other woman was clearly not fooled. “Why, my Lord Warwicke. I felt certain that you took particular notice of him, Elizabeth.”
She shrugged with as much indifference as she could summon. “Nay. I took no particular note of the man. He is my brother’s friend, as I'm sure you heard.”
“Oh, methinks there was more to it than that,” Helen countered.
The spite in Helen Denfield’s voice was discomfiting, even though Elizabeth sensed the cause behind it. She was not so simpleminded that she was unaware of the fact that most folk thought her beautiful. It was not her fault that her looks drew so much attention, but they had made her more than a few enemies. There were many who would be happy to hear of her embarrassment. Elizabeth was a very private individual and did not care for the idea that idle court gossip would be turned her way. This was one of the reasons she and Stephen had a house in the village instead of residing at the castle itself. If she did not do something to silence Helen now, her encounter with Lord Warwicke would likely have become an affair by nightfall. Court gossips never hesitated to embellish a story beyond recognition.
But Helen Denfield had her own vulnerability, in the form of Stephen, and Elizabeth wasn’t above reminding her of this.
Helen did not know her well enough, and so could not know Elizabeth would never actually spread tales. But Elizabeth was aware that most people were apt to judge others by themselves, and so Helen would likely believe otherwise. The widow would surely hold her tongue, if she thought Stephen’s sister might talk about her affair with him. Rumor of the liaison would not aid her in her quest for a husband.
Elizabeth said, “My dear Lady Helen, I'm most certain you misunderstood. After all, you seem too much fixed on the things my brother does and says to take note of aught else.”
Lady Denfield gasped, and raised her hand as if to slap Elizabeth. Then, as the younger woman continued to return her stare, the widow seemed to realize that her genteel pose would not be served by such an act. Helen turned and fled the room.
Elizabeth arched a brow, watching as the brown-haired beauty lifted a delicate hand to wipe away nonexistent tears, just in case someone had taken note of their exchange.
But Elizabeth didn’t really care. She had already forgotten Helen as she turned toward the other end of the room, where the door to the king’s audience chamber lay. There was no sign of her brother or the other two men, and she could only assume they had gone into the inner room.
Her mind was ablaze with unanswered questions concerning Raynor Warwicke. He was the most compelling man she had ever seen. Her lips tightened as she recalled the way he had barely acknowledged her presence. It simply would not do. Because of her own interest in him, Elizabeth felt a need for him to show some reaction to her.
Pensively she frowned. Not once in her life had Elizabeth been denied anything she wanted. And she did not mean to set a different precedent now.
She was not finished with Lord Warwicke yet.
* * *
The luxuriously appointed audience chamber left little impression on Lord Raynor Warwicke as he walked down the wide aisle at its center, leaving Stephen and Bronic waiting just inside the oaken door. He forced himself onward on legs that felt as stiff as tilting posts as he passed by the somberly dressed clergy and sumptuously dressed courtiers who stood at either side of him. All his attention was focused on his king, where he sat on a raised dais at the end of the audience chamber. Edward III was flanked by two of his knights, both members of the Order of the Garter. Roger Mortise and the earl of Caliber were men of exemplary character, and battle-hardened warriors loyal to the throne. Edward was a king who set such store by honor and chivalry that he had established the Order of the Garter in 1348 for the purpose of exalting those qualities.
The baron of Warwicke did his best to relax the rigid muscles in his face and shoulders. The king would not know that Raynor had come here fully prepared to forswear himself, nor that the very future of an innocent three-year-old child hinged upon his doing just that.
Raynor was totally aware of the tall, slim man who stood to the right of the dais. There was nothing in that one’s outward appearance to tell the world that he was the most despicable of men. He was dressed as the other courtiers were, in rich fabrics and colors, and his face was strongly made, his Viking heritage firmly stamped upon it. Harrington’s eyes were blue, the hair a deep golden-brown. Not one hint of the black heart that beat inside his chest was visible. But Raynor knew it was there. Nigel Harrington had caused more misery in twenty-four years than most would bring in several lifetimes. Raynor would not allow him to have custody of little Willow. After what the man had done to his own step-sister, he was not to be trusted with the care of any female.
But Raynor had no more time to think on that now. He came to a halt only a few feet from the seated monarch, squaring his shoulders, deliberately keeping his mind focused on what he had to do. Drawing the hatred down into the deepest part of himself.
King Edward shifted his long legs as he leaned back, studying the men before him, seeming to miss little. The baron of Warwicke forced himself to bear this scrutiny without flinching.
The forty-eight-year-old Edward’s golden hair and beard were liberally streaked with gray, but he was still a vital and vibrant ruler. Over his chair was a shield that bore the arms he had taken for his own. Raynor knew it irritated the French greatly that Edward had chosen to place his own leopards on the first quarter of his shield, rather than the fleur-de-lis. Though of Norman descent, Edward had always been one to think of himself as an Englishman first and foremost.
The king caught and held Raynor’s gaze for a long, tense moment. But Raynor kept himself erect, not giving away any hint of his inner anger.
Edward spoke, saying the words Raynor had feared he would. “And you are ready to swear on a relic of the one true cross, Lord Warwicke, that the child is yours?”
His back became arrow-straight. Even though he’d known all along that the situation would come to this, Raynor was surprised at the quick shaft of guilt that pierced him at the idea of forswearing himself. But the feeling was short-lived. He must carry through, for the sake of the little one. Raynor nodded, sharply, then raised his square chin. “I am.”
He heard a quickly indrawn breath from his right, and looked toward Nigel Harrington with a quirked brow. If nothing else, Raynor was pleased at having shocked his adversary. Nigel had made the mistake of believing Raynor too honorable to play by his own tactics.
King Edward nodded to his cleric, then motioned toward Raynor. “Kneel down.”
Raynor fell to his knees, his gaze locked on the front of the monk’s black robe.
The cleric brought forth a small wooden box, which Raynor knew would contain a sliver of the Lord’s cross. He held it toward Raynor. “Do you, on your honor as a knight, swear by this piece of the one true cross, and in the name of Edward III, king of England, that the child called Willow is of your own seed, without doubt?”
Forcing himself to take the box without hesitation, Raynor brought it to his lips. “I do swear this on my honor as a knight.”
Nigel Harrington let out a growl of outrage. “He lies.”
King Edward turned toward Nigel with an expression of forbearance. “My lord Harrington, in the days you have been at court you have shown no evidence that what you say is fact. Do you have some proof to offer us at this time?”
There was a silence as Nigel fumed, his blue eyes locked on Raynor’s with fury. “No, my liege, I do not, but—”
Edward interrupted him. “Then there is nothing more to be said.” He shrugged wide shoulders encased in purple velvet. “Unless you were present at the child’s conception, you have nothing to add.”
As the king spoke, Nigel cringed, but quickly recovered. Raynor felt a burning urge to run him through right there before them all, and his fingers passed fondly over the hilt of his sword. He and Raynor were the only two people on earth who knew the true circumstances of Willow’s conception. The coward would not, could not, tell them that he had raped his own sister-by-marriage. Raynor had counted on this, but seeing the fear on the other man’s face only made him all the more disgusted.
Nigel sputtered out, “But, King Ed—”
Edward looked toward him with a dark scowl. “Lord Harrington. We have listened to you, and done our utmost to bring this matter to a speedy conclusion. We have ordered Warwicke here in haste and put him to the test. In all things we have tried to do our duty by you.” His lips thinned. “Warwicke has given his word, and as you have no proof that the child is not his, you may consider it done. We bear you no malice in this, Lord Harrington, feeling that your sister’s death has clouded your thinking, and in your grief you simply try to retain some piece of her by wanting guardianship of her child. But ’tis most clear that the child is the natural offspring of Warwicke, and he has already assured us of his intent to see the little girl well done by. You may leave Windsor with those comforting thoughts to see you safe home.”
When Nigel opened his mouth as if to protest, the king raised an imperious hand. “The matter is done.”
With that, Edward turned to Raynor. “It is our hope that such a dispute will not again occur concerning you, my lord Warwicke. In future, should you dally, make most certain that the gentlewoman is your wife.”
Raynor lowered his eyes and nodded. “King Edward, you have my assurance that I will do so.” He did not add that he planned to stay as far away from that type of female as possible.
Edward motioned with a beringed hand. “Arise, my lord Warwicke, and consider this dispute settled. I would have no more strife because of it.” He stared at Nigel Harrington for a long moment.
Knowing that he had been chastened by the king, however politely, Nigel Harrington turned and hurried from the chamber.
Raynor felt a sweet relief ease the tight band of tension around his chest. Now Willow would be safe from that bastard who called himself her uncle.
King Edward waved a dismissive hand. “We have many other matters to attend, Lord Warwicke, and thus I must bid you good-day.”
“My thanks to you, my liege.” Raynor bowed himself from the room. He was more than glad to have this interview at an end. He forced himself to walk the length of the room with carefully measured steps.
Bronic and Stephen followed him as the great oaken door was opened, and they passed into the antechamber.
Bronic looked at Raynor, letting out his breath, as if he had been holding it for a very long time. He raked his hand through his shaggy blond hair. “Praise God.”
Stephen was looking from one to the other with curiosity.
Raynor gave a mental shrug. He might as well tell Stephen the story he had decided upon. The day’s events would be all over court in a matter of hours, anyway. And it might as well be Raynor’s version of the tale as anyone else’s.
He smiled at the auburn-haired man. They had fostered together as boys, with the earl of Norwich, but Raynor had left after only one year, when his father died. Though many things had passed in the thirteen years since, Raynor had always remembered Stephen with friendship and a sense of trust. He knew that Stephen would not embellish the story he was about to be told, but would relate it to others just as he had heard it.
Raynor said, “Harrington can go to the very devil, for aught I care. He has tried to make trouble for the last time. Edward has upheld my claim to guardianship of the little one. She will remain at Warwicke.”
Stephen asked, “What is he about? Some weeks ago he came to court, whining to whoever would listen that his sister’s child was stolen from him. Obviously the tale gained him today’s audience, but nothing more, for Edward has upheld your claim. I had no idea you were the man who was supposed to have done the evil deed until just now. Why would Harrington accuse you of such a ridiculous crime? Who does he name as the father?”
Unable to stifle a rush of anger, Raynor looked at the floor. He didn’t want Stephen to guess at his overwhelming hatred for Nigel Harrington. He must guard Willow’s secret at all costs. He had promised her mother, Louisa. “He names none, because there is none besides myself. Harrington plays a game of greed. Willow is an heiress through her mother. The lands must pass through the female of the line if there are no direct male descendants, and there are none. Nigel is the son of Lord Harrington’s first wife, and has no claim. Without the little one, he has no access to her wealth. That is why he has dragged me here to publicly humiliate both me and my child.” Raynor’s lean jaw flexed, and his lips twisted with derision. “King Edward could only take my word or Harrington’s and he has no proof to discredit me.”
“Well, it’s hardly surprising that King Edward would believe you, when Harrington could not even name any other as the father. The man is hardly rational.”
Even though his stomach was knotted with hatred and tension, Raynor nearly laughed aloud, albeit bitterly. To say Nigel was irrational was most surely a gross understatement. If Stephen only knew the truth of why Harrington kept the child’s parentage to himself. “I fear,” he said, “that there is no mystery here. Louisa’s child is my own. I regret that I was not able to marry her before she died, because our child’s parentage would not have been in question had I done so.” His brown eyes darkened to walnut in sorrow as he remembered how he had tried to convince Louisa to marry him so that her stepbrother would no longer hold sway over her. But she had refused, saying Raynor had a right to some happiness of his own. Just taking Willow in and claiming her as his own had been more than Louisa had the right to ask. Raynor’s voice was barely audible as he finished. “She died before I was able to convince her otherwise, shortly after the child was born.”
Stephen laid a hand on his arm. “I am sorry, my friend. This trouble with Harrington must make it very difficult for you.”
Bronic spoke up, his Nordic features hard, his blue eyes narrowed. “The man is crazed. Would that this were his throat.” He clasped his large warrior’s hands together tightly.
Raynor sent him a warning look. He did not wish anyone to suspect there was more to the story than they told. If they displayed the depth of their hatred too openly, any reasoning person would begin to wonder at its cause.
And no one must ever find out the reason for Raynor’s fear for Willow. Not even Bronic understood the true circumstances of Willow’s parentage. His vehemence stemmed from loyalty to Raynor.
All Raynor said was “Harrington must follow his own course, as I must mine. Mayhap the king’s decision today will set him on a more constructive path. Now he must realize that he cannot take Willow from me.”
“You are a good and true father, to take the child though she be a bastard,” Stephen told him. “Harrington has indeed tried to besmirch you there, as well. He lays it about that you are the one who would have the little girl for her inheritance.”
Raynor stiffened. It was true that once he had been a poor man. His father had mismanaged and overspent in an effort to give his greedy mother all she wanted. After Raynor inherited the lands and title, she had tried to control and manipulate him in the same manner. But even at fourteen he had been too strong-willed for her to control him. No woman would destroy him as Mary Warwicke had his father.
The years since his father’s death had seen him turn the properties around, and while he was not the wealthiest of the king’s barons, neither was he the poorest. He knew that since Harrington had spread the lie, many would continue to believe he had taken on the responsibility of raising Willow because of her lands. But he didn’t really care, not if it kept them from looking further.
Besides, Raynor controlled her lands only as her guardian and overseer. He took no payment of any kind for looking after her interests. Everything would go to her in the event of her marriage or her twenty-first birthday.
Stephen interrupted Raynor’s thoughts with a clap on his back. “Enough of this, my friend. All has gone well for you today. Now you can be about some more pleasant sport. I have not seen you in years, and would hear what you have been about.”
Bronic nodded, looking about the crowded antechamber with ill-concealed discomfort. “But we should find some more comfortable spot for the discussion to take place.”
Raynor eyed his friend in agreement. He had no love of the court and its crowds. In fact, he would not be comfortable until they were well on their way back to Warwicke on the day after tomorrow. “I stand with Bronic. We are sharing a room with several other knights, but me-thinks they would not mind us bringing you along, Stephen. I'm sorry we cannot offer you better hospitality, but Windsor is full to overflowing, even with all the new building the king has had done in the past years.”
Stephen laughed. “Do not apologize. I know the circumstances well. That is part of why I have a house in the village.”
They started from the chamber with Raynor in the lead.
Raynor stopped as a woman moved between him and the entrance. He paused, his head tilted to one side as he looked at her. She was quite beautiful, with her creamy skin, high cheekbones and long-lashed sapphire eyes. And she seemed somehow familiar, though Raynor could not think why.
“Elizabeth,” Stephen called out from behind him. His tone was sheepish. “I had forgotten you were here.”
The woman did not deign even to glance Stephen’s way. “Obviously.”
Then he remembered. It was Clayburn’s sister. He had been introduced on his way in to see the king, but he had been of little mind to take note of anything then. Even a woman as lovely as Elizabeth Clayburn.
His eyes met hers, and for a moment a strange sort of current passed between them, making his belly tighten pleasantly. But Raynor pushed it aside. This was his friend’s sister, a noblewoman. And Raynor had no intention of dallying in that direction.
His lips twisted in a self-derisive grimace. Though he was guilty of nothing where Louisa was concerned, he had just admitted to being so. He had no intention of becoming entangled with Stephen’s sister. Even if he did see a stirring of warm challenge in her lovely eyes when she looked at him. Long ago he’d decided no woman was to be trusted in his life. Raynor’s father had loved his wife blindly, giving up every shred of self-respect to please her. And if that was love, Raynor wanted no part in it.
With that thought firmly in mind, Raynor stepped aside so that Stephen could speak with her.
He pretended not to notice how her gaze lingered on him as Stephen told her where they were going and made arrangements for her to be taken home.
Chapter Two
Late that night, Elizabeth waited in Stephen’s bedchamber for him to come home.
She sat in his chair bedside the fire, a cup of warmed wine in one hand, drumming the fingers of the other in a steady rhythm against the seasoned wooden arm. She was still fuming over the way Stephen had sent her home, as if she were some child to be gotten out of the way. He had no right to treat her thus.
But truth made her admit, at least to herself, that Stephen was only a small part of her irritation. Most of it was directed at herself, because of her own reaction to Raynor Warwicke. Whatever had gotten into her?
Any number of men would fall upon their very knees to have her notice them. But she, fool that she was, looked to a man who acted as though he could not even see her.
But hadn’t there, just for a moment, been a spark in his eyes, when she’d stood before him as the men were leaving the antechamber? Yes, she was sure there had been more than indifference in his gaze as it slid over her. He’d covered it so quickly that another woman might not have noticed. But Elizabeth was not another woman. She responded to even the slightest of reactions in the baron of Warwicke. When he’d looked at her that way, seeing her as a desirable woman, her body had answered in kind. Elizabeth had been left achingly aware of him, the tanned flesh on the wide column of his throat, the very deep rhythm of his breathing. There was something about Lord Warwicke that made her feel alive as never before.
Why, she did not know. But Elizabeth was going to find out. She couldn’t just let this feeling go, this strange singing in her veins that she had heard spoken of but had never thought to experience.
And she meant to enlist her brother’s aid.
She simply had to see the baron again, speak to him, find out whence these stirrings came. What manner of man was he, to engender such feelings inside her? She knew he was handsome, with his dark eyes and unruly hair, but what of the person inside? Surely he must be a knight of great repute to awaken such amorous reactions in her so easily.
Then she forced herself to pause in her headlong thoughts. Mayhap he was not as he appeared. Her own girlish twitterings did not mean that Raynor of Warwicke was of good and noble character.
But Elizabeth could not make herself believe this. How could her own instincts be so badly askew as that? Surely, if she was to judge by her feelings, Raynor was truly a man among men. Else how could she explain how her heretofore-dormant emotions had been so suddenly awakened?
Just then she heard the sound of her brother’s booted feet coming up the narrow wooden stairs that led from the large living chamber below. Olwyn must have let him in. Elizabeth felt a stab of guilt at thinking about the other woman. She’d managed to avoid speaking to her mistress since Elizabeth snapped at her upon coming home from Windsor. But she had given Elizabeth many long, disapproving looks to let her know how badly she had behaved.
Elizabeth knew that as soon as Olwyn was ready to listen, she would need to apologize to the woman who was more friend than aught else. After all, it was Stephen she was unhappy with. Olwyn had been her companion since the day Stephen brought her to court, after their parents died, seven years ago. At seventeen, four years Elizabeth’s senior, Olwyn had just been widowed, and had needed a way to make her living. Her husband had been the youngest of six brothers and thus had left her with little but his horse and sword. Stephen had felt the older girl would be able to teach Elizabeth about the realities of living at court, and hopefully keep her out of trouble.
But Elizabeth didn’t want to think about that now. She and Olwyn had had more serious disagreements over the years, and had settled them quickly enough. At the moment, she wanted to concentrate her attention on Stephen.
Stephen opened the door of his chamber, his face taking on a pained expression as his gaze swept the room. The chamber was not large, and in the cheery glow of the firelight he could see that it was immaculate. The wooden floor had been scrubbed clean, the hangings on the bed had been pulled back, so he could see that the linens were tucked so tightly he could have bounced a sword upon them and not made a wrinkle. Not one single item of a personal nature was visible. The lids of his two chests were shut tight upon their contents, which were usually spilled about in happy disarray. “Ah, Beth, you've been cleaning again.”
She smiled with feigned politeness. “I thought your chambers in need of a good airing, dear brother. You would not have me neglect you.”
He grimaced. Not so much as a speck of dust dared lend a hint of casual livability to the room. The only objects she had let remain unhidden were the pitcher and cup on the table beside his chair. And, judging from the mug she held in her hand, that had not been for his comfort. He shut the door behind him with a sigh. “It will be weeks before I am able to find everything again. What has come over you now, woman? I asked you last time to stay clear of my personal chamber.”
Her chin tilted. “But think, dear brother, and you will have your answer. I was most laboriously occupied in helping you to fend off the attentions of your former mistress when I suddenly found myself banished for home.” She shrugged, her blue eyes wide with feigned innocence. “I but looked about for some way to make myself useful.”
“God’s blood, Beth. Do you mean you hold that against me? I hadn’t seen Warwicke for years.”
She arched delicate black brows. “I do mean just that.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head. “I do suppose I could have been more considerate of your feelings, but I didn’t think you’d mind. After all, you had done nothing but complain about going up to the castle with me, as it was.” He lifted an apologetic hand. “I can but say I am most sorry for having offended you.”
Feeling that she had made him suffer quite enough, Elizabeth grinned. Stephen was really very good to her, and she did believe he had thought she would be happy to be gone from the castle. He could have no idea that she had become so easily enamored with his friend. She inclined her head. “You are forgiven. And if you like, I will go through your chests and throw everything about as it was before.”
He chuckled wryly. “Nay, help me no more. I knew where things were then. You could not put them back where they belong, did you try.”
She rose and poured him a cup of wine, then held it forth as a peace offering.
Stephen took the cup.
It was a long moment before Elizabeth got around to the next order of business. But get around to it she did. “Did you enjoy your evening?”
He grinned. “Aye, that I did.”
“And Lord Warwicke? He enjoyed the evening, as well?”
Stephen frowned. “I suppose. We caught up on many years. I had not seen him since we were both boys of fourteen.”
Ah, she thought. That might explain why Stephen had failed to mention the other man. “And has he changed a great deal from when you were younger? You recognized him readily enough, after so long a time. And he you.”
“You are right. I did recognize him, but as I think on it, it is not really so very surprising. Even though he is a man now, rather than a boy, his eyes are the same. One doesn’t forget those walnut-brown eyes so easily, they are most uncommon. And we were rather close as fosterlings. Both of us trained with the earl of Norwich, and shared a room for the year Raynor was there. He left upon his father’s death, when he was but fourteen.”
“He has been a baron since the age of fourteen. 'Tis a great responsibility,” she remarked thoughtfully.
Stephen cast her an assessing glance before he went on. “What you say is true. But what have you, Beth? What concern is it of yours?”
She looked toward the fire, hardly feeling its heat on her already flaming cheeks. “I am but curious because you never mentioned him before now. Please go on. Tell me all you know of him.”
Stephen’s expression told her that he was not wholly content with her answer, but he did continue. “He spoke little of his family. I do believe that he loved his father, but I felt there was some bad blood between them. Of his mother I know nothing. He seemed reluctant to mention her at all. I do know that she died some few years after Raynor inherited.”
'Tis most odd, Elizabeth thought as he took a sip of his wine. With a pang, she recalled the deaths of her own parents by plague. She and her brothers often spoke of them, even now. They had been a close-knit family. It had been hard to lose them both so quickly, but she felt her father would not have been happy without his beloved wife.
Perhaps Lord Warwicke was one who did not wish to share his personal life with others. That he was something of a mystery simply made him all the more interesting to Elizabeth. He only needed the right person to confide in. Not that Elizabeth would allow herself to think that she could be that someone. She refused to go that far in her imaginings.
“What is he like now?” she queried softly. “Is he noble and kind and true?”
Stephen watched her intently. “We spoke of general matters, Beth. Many years have passed since we knew each other well but if he is anything like he was as a boy, Raynor is a decent sort. Neither saint nor devil, just a man. He was more open as a boy, but then, life has a way of changing people, does it not?” Stephen stopped, obviously tired of pretending he didn’t see her too-avid interest. “Have you taken a fancy to Raynor?” He laughed. “That’s a tangle, when you could have half the men in England, did you but want them. You don’t even know the man, in fact barely spoke to him.”
“I...” She scowled, her delicate brows meeting over her slender nose. Then she shrugged, deciding to just come out with the truth. There was no sense in prevaricating with Stephen, he knew her too well. “He is quite fascinating, don’t you think?”
“Well, I couldn’t really comment from a woman’s point of view, but I'll be content that you might think so. But hear me, Beth, you’d best set your sights elsewhere. From what he said tonight, I got the impression that Raynor is in no hurry to wed. He told me his personal life has been more than complicated of late. Raynor has a bastard child by a noblewoman, though that is a tragic story in itself.” He went on to tell her of why Raynor was at court and what he had told Stephen about his child, Willow. He concluded by saying, “Though I do like him, you will stay clear of Warwicke, Beth. It would not be right for you to set your sights upon him. Though he meant to wed the child’s mother, the fact is, he did not.”
Elizabeth listened to all this with complete fascination. Many men tarried with serving women as a matter of course, but to get a gentle woman with child and then not marry her? That was another matter.
Yet Stephen had said circumstances had kept them from marrying. And hadn’t Lord Warwicke come to court to claim the child? Wasn’t that the act of a truly honorable man?
Far from discouraging her, Stephen’s remarks made her even more determined to know Raynor better. She had thought, simply by looking at him, that he was not a man to live by the rules of others. His long hair, his arrogant walk, the cool indifference in his eyes, set Lord Warwicke apart on first sight.
She smiled at her brother with not-inconsiderable charm. “I want you to invite him here to sup.”
Stephen stared at her. “I have already done so. But had I known then what I do now, I would not have. As I said, you must set your sights elsewhere, Elizabeth. Mayhap I will send a note and cancel.”
Sapphire eyes widened in horror. “You will not! When is he to come?”
Looking as if the reply were being forced from him, Stephen said, “On the morrow.”
“On the morrow!” Elizabeth rose in flurry of velvet skirts. “How could you give me so little time to prepare?”
His expression relaxed in relief. “I will simply go to him and explain that he can’t...”
She appeared not to hear him. “You must excuse me while I go speak with Olwyn. We will need every moment to prepare a proper meal. We will need fresh pastries and bread. And I shall certainly call in the butcher to kill a pig in the morning. We cannot feed Lord Warwicke salted pork.”
She passed through the doorway with a gentle sway of her slender hips, leaving Stephen staring after her. He knew he should be concerned for his sister, but the only sympathy he felt within him was directed toward Raynor Warwicke. Stephen would himself be here to see to Elizabeth’s well-being.
Raynor had no one to protect him from Elizabeth.
Besides Raynor had said he was returning to Warwicke on the day after the morrow. How much trouble could Elizabeth get herself into in one day?
* * *
The next afternoon found Elizabeth and Olwyn standing in Elizabeth’s bedchamber, looking at the array of gowns they had laid out on the high, wide bed.
“I think the red,” Olwyn said at last, tucking a stray lock of streaky blonde hair into her kerchief. Her gray eyes studied the scarlet cotehardie, with its embroidery of gold.
“Aye.” Elizabeth nodded. “It is my favorite, but I just wondered if the blue...or the saffron...” She turned to run her gaze over the nearest of the three trunks that stood open, their colorful contents spilling over the sides. “I did wear the other red yesterday.”
Tilting her head to one side, Olwyn frowned. “Nay, the red will do very nicely. Men never remember what you wore the previous day. Only that you looked well.”
Elizabeth grinned. Red was her favorite color. “Then that’s that. And I think I'll wear the new gold underdress.”
Olwyn eyed her mistress with surprise, then uncertainty. “But, Elizabeth, I thought you were going to have me loosen it. You told me yourself that it was too tight for common decency.” The slender blond woman went to the chest beneath the unshuttered window and took out a tunic of fine black samite. “I had thought you might want this one.”
Elizabeth blushed, but tried to hide it as she picked up and began to fold the blue cotehardie. “I have rethought the matter. 'Tis not so very tight.”
She would not have Olwyn know why she had changed her mind about the gown. The older woman seemed to think she must still look after Elizabeth as closely as when she had first come to them. But she was no longer thirteen, and would not be treated as such. Elizabeth hoped that if she made an attempt to be even slightly alluring, Lord Warwicke might find it harder to ignore her this night.
For the most part, her beauty meant little to her. It was not something she had earned or achieved by her own hand. It was something God had seen fit to gift her with, and until yesterday she accepted it as such.
But for this once she found herself thinking of her attributes in a different way. She would make Lord Warwicke take notice of her. He was a man, after all, and if all Stephen had said was true, Raynor was not completely immune to the fairer sex. Why couldn’t he at least pause long enough to notice that Elizabeth was a woman? She didn’t think that was so very much to ask.
When Olwyn continued to watch her with speculation, Elizabeth could not control the further rush of color in her creamy cheeks.
“What are you about, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth gave up trying to dissemble. Olwyn knew her better than anyone, and there was no use trying to hide anything from her.
She put the blue gown back on the bed and turned to smooth back the heavy amber velvet bed hangings with a sigh. “I do not know. I can’t explain what has come over me. I just saw this man for the first time yesterday, and I can’t stop thinking about him. And the worst part of it is that he barely seemed to notice me.” She dismissed that one moment of awareness, for it could have been nothing so much as wishful thinking on her part.
“Ah, Beth...” Olwyn put her hands to her slender hips as she sank down on the edge of the one chair in the room. “I should have known it would be this way. All these years the men have been after you like hounds after a bitch, and you don’t even look at them. And now one comes along who ignores you, and you lose your foolish head.”
The sound of booted feet on the stairs saved Elizabeth from making a reply. The footsteps came across the solar and halted outside her bedchamber. There was a scratching at the door. “Beth.”
“Come,” Elizabeth called out, recognizing her brother’s voice.
Stephen entered, and she looked at him with curiosity, as he was dressed for traveling, in a dark woolen cloak that was held together at the shoulder by a heavy silver brooch that bore the Clayburn emblem of a griffin rampant. “You are going somewhere?” she asked.
He seemed less than eager to speak. “Yes,” came the reply.
“You must needs hurry, as Warwicke will be here within hours.”
“Well, you see, that is going to be a problem.” Stephen looked at the floor. Then he raised his eyes and shrugged. “I am away to deliver a message for the king.”
Elizabeth knew a growing unease. “How long will you be gone?”
“Several hours.”
Disappointment flooded her. “Several hours. Stephen, how could you? You know how I have been planning this. Everything is in readiness.”
“It cannot be helped. We will simply ask Lord Warwicke to come at some other time.”
“When?”
He hesitated and Elizabeth frowned. “When, brother mine?”
“I know not. Raynor must return to his estates on the morrow.” He wouldn’t look at Elizabeth. Obviously he had hoped to avoid having to tell her they were leaving so soon.
She placed her hands on her hips, glaring her anger. “Do you mean that this is it? I shall not see him again?”
Stephen smiled encouragingly. “Mayhap he will come to London again in the future.”
“You know he will not.” She couldn’t seem to breathe past the unexplainable ache in her chest. It was as if something dear to her had died aborning. “All these years you have not seen him because Warwicke only chose to come to court when he was summoned. What chance is there that he will return before another ten years has come and gone? I shall be an old woman.”
He eyed her sternly. “Now, Beth, don’t carry on so. I told you that Warwicke is not for you. I but live up to my responsibilities in protecting you. Besides, I have no choice in whether I stay or go. The king does require me to see to my duty.”
She subsided then. What Stephen said was true. He must needs fulfill his duty to the crown. But she had wanted so badly to see Warwicke again. Not that she was under any illusions about what would happen between them. Elizabeth had hoped for no more than to make him take note of her as a desirable woman, nothing else. Stephen really had no need to warn her away again.
It seemed particularly unfair that Raynor could not come simply because Stephen would be late.
Then an idea came to her. She looked at her brother with an expression of cool reason. “Why can Warwicke not come here anyway? He has been invited. It would be rude to ask him to stay away now.”
But Stephen began to shake his head before she had even finished. “Nay, Beth, ’twould not serve. The man cannot come here and spend the evening with you unchaperoned.”
She faced him squarely. “It would not be the whole evening. I could simply entertain Lord Warwicke until your return. By your own mouth, he is friend to you. Can you not trust me to spend a few short hours in his presence?”
He scowled, his dark brows meeting over his straight nose. “'Tis not so simple, madame, as well you know. I am not blind. You have an interest in him that goes beyond any I've seen you show before. You as much as admitted it last eve.”
“But, Stephen—” She stamped her foot. “I am not a child to be ordered about. I am a woman full grown, with my own funds to support me. I have no need to be commanded by you.”
He stopped her with a raised hand. “What you say is true.” He looked into her eyes, and when he spoke again, his tone was reasoning. “But, Beth, I am your brother. In all conscience, I must not allow you to do anything that would be of harm to you. Please, I say again, the answer can only be nay. It is for your own good. You cannot be alone with him.” He paused for a long moment, obviously torn. She knew it was very difficult for her brother to deny her anything. Finally he shrugged. “There is one way, and one way only.”
“Yes?” she answered eagerly.
“We will ask Raynor to come at a later time. That way there can be no hint of impropriety. I'll write a note to explain the matter to him.”
Elizabeth rushed to her chest and removed a piece of parchment and a quill, which she handed to her brother. Quickly Stephen scratched out his message. “You will send this around to him at Windsor, please.” He held the missive toward his sister.
Elizabeth took the parchment between two fingers. She gave Stephen a sweet smile. “Thank you, brother.”
“I will see you ere long.” Stephen told her, with obvious relief at having the matter settled to both their benefits. “And now, I must be off. I go with two of the king’s own guard, and they wait for me in the lane outside.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek, then turned and dashed from the house.
When he had gone, Elizabeth stood there, the note to Raynor Warwicke in her hand. This was not what she had hoped for. If Warwicke was leaving in the morning, he would as like not stay for long now. Elizabeth sighed, her gaze lingering on the sheet of parchment. As she looked at it, she began to experience thoughts of mutiny. Why should she do as Stephen told her? He was only her brother, not her master.
What harm would it do for Warwicke to spend an hour or two in her sole company?
He was a knight and a nobleman. Surely there could be no harm in serving him a meal and speaking with him. She looked toward her companion, who had said nothing during her conversation with her brother. Olwyn was watching her with a frown, as if she knew what Elizabeth was thinking and liked it not.
Elizabeth tilted her chin. “You will be close by.”
“Nay,” she answered. “As your brother said, it will not serve.” Olwyn held out her hand. “I shall have that sent around to Lord Warwicke for you.”
Putting the missive behind her back, Elizabeth smiled. “I think not,” she said.
They argued for some time. But in the end, the message did not go out, though Olwyn never stopped frowning and muttering dire utterances about the consequences of behaving foolishly.
Chapter Three
Raynor rode his charger through the narrow tracks that passed for streets just as the sun was beginning to set. Its early-spring light gilded the castle walls above and behind him, as if to give testament to King Edward’s belief that Windsor was somehow special. Having been born there, the king had a deep fondness for his home, and believed that King Arthur of old had once housed his knights of the Round Table on this very site. Looking back over his shoulder, Raynor studied the castle with appraising eyes. Four massive stone towers ran the length of the immense wall at equal intervals where it rested on the hill behind him. Nothing was visible of the magnificent round tower, begun by Henry II and finished by Edward, save the king’s flag, which fluttered golden in the gentle breeze.
Edward’s Windsor was awe-inspiring.
Raynor would certainly give him that. But it seemed as if a great deal had been spent on the castle to beautify it, as well as add to its strength. To Raynor’s way of thinking, England had already been drained dry by the war in France. There had been no money for the luxuries apparent in the spacious and well-appointed rooms of the round tower.
At least with King John now ransomed, Edward would have a source of income besides the backs of his own subjects. Knowing his opinion of the sovereign was not held by most of his fellow noblemen didn’t change Raynor’s thinking. Necessities came before comforts. It was one of the things Raynor had learned watching his father squander everything he had for his mother’s whims.
Lips tight, Raynor gripped the reins more securely in his hands and turned his thoughts to the present. Thinking of his father always brought on feelings of resentment and anger. But those emotions were also mixed with love and pity. If only Robert Warwicke had not been so weak. He shook his head to clear it. It would be best to center his mind on the coming meal with Stephen Clayburn and his sister.
Raynor didn’t know why he had accepted the invitation to sup. Mayhap because seeing Stephen again had reminded him of what he was like at fourteen. Then it had seemed as if he had any number of bright possibilities before him. On being fostered to the earl of Norwich, he had suddenly discovered that there were men who lived by the rules set out in tales of chivalry. Raynor had believed that he, too, might become one of those men. He might someday meet some fair maiden who would return his love with all faith and honor. But his father’s death had called him home to his mother and her daily attempts to control his every thought or action. He was determined to never put himself in the position of having to battle a woman for autonomy again.
As he rode into the heart of the village, Raynor slowed his mount with a pull on the reins. He studied his route, carefully following the directions Stephen had laid out for him.
The town was much like the village at home in Warwicke, only larger. Narrow daub-and-wattle houses sat at odd angles on irregular-size lots. On these bits of property, tenants kept their animals, which were mostly chickens, pigs and sheep. But there was an occasional cow, expensive to keep but producing a great deal of valuable manure. Plump children played in the doorways, barely glancing up at the passing knight. Living in Windsor, they saw many finer-dressed folk than Raynor, in his serviceable brown tunic, russet cotehardie and dark hose.
Urging his charger around the last turn through the maze of hard-packed dirt tracks, Raynor looked up to see a two-story whitewashed house that stood out among the others because of its size and the cleanliness of its yard. There were no animals roaming about, and no pile of manure graced the small strip of grass in front of the low, narrow door that stood open to admit the last of the sunlight.
Now that he was here, he knew a moment’s hesitation. Mayhap it was a mistake to come. He didn’t know Stephen anymore. He raked the heavy hair back from his forehead as he told himself that neither did Stephen know him. He had treated Raynor with warmth yesterday because he remembered the boy. It wasn’t likely that he would be so forthcoming, did he know the man.
And if that wasn’t enough, there was one other reason he should turn and go back to the castle. Stephen’s sister, Elizabeth. Though Raynor had barely allowed himself to even think of her, he did recall that one moment when he had looked at her with startling clarity.
Elizabeth Clayburn was most certainly the kind of woman he had learned to avoid—young, beautiful, and sure of her female power.
As he approached the structure, his gaze ran over the whitewashed walls as if, did he but look hard enough, he would be able to see inside. In that house, Elizabeth would be in her own element, where she was most comfortable and self-assured. Not that Raynor felt she was any real threat to him. He just preferred to avoid such as her. He knew her kind, wanting everything from a man, his life, his fortune, his heart, but unwilling to give anything of themselves in return.
Most assuredly it would have been wiser to decline this invitation. And he was still free to turn around and go. What matter if he offended folk he was not likely to see again?
But the moment to depart was taken from him. As Raynor came to a halt before the house, an older man in worn but clean and neatly patched clothing scuttled out to meet him. He looked up at the knight with a polite nod of his gray head. “Good day, my lord.”
Raynor nodded in return. “I am seeking Stephen Clayburn.”
“Aye, you have come to the right house. I can take your horse out back to the shed, my lord.”
Dismounting and handing him the reins, Raynor said, “My thanks,” and moved to enter the dwelling. Passing through the door, he had to stoop, but he stood to his full height once inside.
The living chamber was wide and long, with a fireplace in the center along the north wall. A trestle table was set up at one end, ready to receive the meal, but there was no one about. The rushes underfoot gave off the sweet scent of herbs as he took a few hesitant steps inside, wondering if he should call out.
Just then two women entered from the back of the chamber, one bearing a jug, the other a tray with cheese and meat. The older woman with the tray, obviously a servant, judging by her coarse clothing, moved to place her burden upon the trestle table.
The younger of the two women came forward, shifting the heavy jug she carried. “My lord Warwicke,” she said, greeting him with deference. Her dress was of better quality than the other’s, and he wondered who she could be. Her blue eyes smiled in her pretty face as she looked up at him. “I am Lady Elizabeth’s companion, Olwyn. You are expected above. Will you please come with me.”
She turned, and Raynor moved to follow her up a narrow set of stairs.
He took note of the golden hair that fell from her kerchief, and her trim waist and hips. Now here was the type of woman Raynor might be inclined to dally with. She would provide a release for his body and expect no commitment in return. Not that Raynor would force her. In his twenty-seven years, he’d had no need of that.
But the moment he stepped through the door of the solar, all thoughts of the blond woman fled his mind.
Elizabeth Clayburn came forward to great him, her cherry lips turned upward in a smile of welcome. “Lord Warwicke.” When she spoke his name, a chill of awareness ran down his spine. Her eyes were the color of deepest sapphire and fringed with thick black lashes. But the way she looked at him was what gave him pause. The expression in her gaze was one of happiness and barely repressed excitement, and from the way she focused her whole attention upon him, Raynor could only feel that he was the cause of her pleasure. Unaccountably he felt himself basking in the glow, like a lynx soaking up the sun. Not once in the conscious years of his memory could he recall anyone looking at him with such uncomplicated approval. He marveled as the color in her cheeks went from palest cream to dusky rose. She looked down, and the sheer golden veil she wore over her tumbled mass of black curls fluttered forward to hide the delicate flush.
“Lady Elizabeth.” He swallowed, managing to sound almost normal, though he did not know how. Fighting off an urge to wipe his sweaty palm against his tunic like some unschooled lad, Raynor briefly clasped her slender hand in his. Her fingers were smooth and cool, but she drew them back quickly to press her hand against her bosom.
She seemed to have some difficulty communicating herself, for she started, stopped, and began again. “My lord...I... You are most welcome.”
“My thanks,” he replied. He didn’t know what had come over him. Raynor was well accustomed to women, had believed himself long over the nervousness that now assailed him. He could only tell himself that it was slightly unnerving to be greeted with such enthusiasm. Elizabeth Clayburn could not know what she was about. Though he hoped that she did not meet her other male visitors with such warmth. Not all men had learned self-discipline, as Raynor had. They might take her obvious pleasure in a way it was not meant.
For, judging by the innocence in her eyes, it was clear she had no idea of her effect on him.
Unaccountably he felt a moment’s worry for her. But he quickly told himself not to be ridiculous. Stephen was her brother, and thus her rightful protector, not Raynor.
As Elizabeth turned to tell her woman to place the pitcher upon the table, he allowed his eyes to study her as he had not the day before. She wore a cotehardie of scarlet that was slashed wide at the sides to show off a gold velvet tunic that caressed the sweetly swelling curves of her breasts and hips. He felt a tightening in his loins and envied the fragile fabric its contact with her flesh.
Whatever had he been thinking yesterday, when he met this woman, not to notice how truly lovely she was? He knew he had been nervous about his coming audience with the king, but could any man worthy of the title have seen Elizabeth Clayburn and failed to take note of her uncommon beauty?
Thank God Stephen would be present this eve. The last thing Raynor needed was to be alone with this siren. Elizabeth was enough woman to give rise to the name.
Raking a hand through his hair, he forced his gaze away. Not in years had Raynor reacted to any woman this way. Gladly would he see the end of this visit.
He looked about the solar, saw the table, with its two chairs, set up as if for a meal. He took note of the warmth of the fire and the pillows that were piled on the carpet before it. He admired the rich tapestry that hung upon the outside wall, with its rich colors and fine detail. There were two doors besides the one through which he had entered. They must lead to sleeping chambers.
It was an appealing scene. But something appeared to be missing. Frowning, Raynor rubbed the side of his head as he glanced about, his gaze going back to the two chairs at either side of the table. Two chairs.
Stephen!
He cleared his throat as he turned to Elizabeth. The servant named Olwyn paused in the act of leaving and faced him. “Lady Elizabeth?” he asked.
She didn’t look at him as she moved forward to pour a cup of wine. And if he wasn’t seeing things, her hands were shaking. “Yes, my lord Warwicke?” she said.
Raynor frowned, surprised that she seemed as unsettled as he.
He reached out to take the cup from her, willing her to look at him. But she didn’t. “Where is Stephen?” he asked bluntly.
She did glance up at him then, but only for a moment. With a bright smile, she waved a hand airily. “Oh, my brother. He was called away most unexpectedly, but he shall be returning ere long.”
Raynor knew a prickling of unease. Stephen had told him that he and Elizabeth lived alone here, with only Elizabeth’s companion and their servants. It seemed unlikely that Clayburn would want Raynor to be alone here with his beautiful sister. “He knows I am come in his absence?”
“Of a surety.” Finally she looked at him, those bottomless sapphire eyes ingenuously wide. “Stephen felt so badly about having to go. You see—” she spread her hands “—he has his duty to the king. But he had no wish to appear rude, and thus asked me to attend you until his arrival. He felt it would be wrong to call off the meal, when he will not be so very long.” She gave a nervous laugh as she moved to stand before the fire, her slender body bathed in its warm light. “Stephen mentioned that you were returning to Warwicke on the morrow and said he would not miss this chance to see you before you go. My brother is ever like this. His friends have always been of great importance to him. Is that not so, Olwyn?” Elizabeth looked to her companion.
The other woman cleared her throat, her gaze fixed on her mistress’s face. “Oh, aye, my lord Warwicke. Sir Stephen spoke exactly thus.” With that, she swung around and left the room.
Elizabeth turned back to him with another one of those sweet smiles. “You see. All is well.”
Raynor watched her, mesmerized by the strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder to end in a curl on her right breast. He tried to think clearly. Certainly Stephen had set great store in his friendships as boy. It could be so now. Mayhap Stephen did trust him to be alone with his sister.
Dragging his wayward gaze from that gently rounded breast, Raynor determined to be worthy of that trust.
Elizabeth Clayburn was trouble. More lovely and compelling than any woman he had ever met.
There was no way around the matter though. Raynor must fight this strange attraction. He could not, would not, become involved with her, or any other woman who would expect more than he was willing to give.
It was this that helped Raynor to come to his senses. He could eat this meal with her and go on his way, for her good, as well as his.
He turned to her then, his eyes refusing to see the lovely vision of her. With silent precision, he raised a wall between himself and the golden glow of her warmth. She was a woman, nothing more, nothing less.
Elizabeth felt the change in him immediately. It wasn’t that he said or did anything that let her know, it was simply that he turned to stone. One moment his eyes were alive on her, the next there was nothing.
Confusion made her hesitate as she looked up at him, the words she had been going to say gone from her mind.
When Raynor first arrived, she hadn’t been able to contain her happiness at seeing him again. It was just as before, that same crazed rush of awareness that made her blood sing and her heart pound. She’d been so afraid that she had imagined the way she felt when she looked at him.
And for a few moments, Raynor had seemed different, more open than the previous day. He’d looked at her as if seeing her for the very first time, and he hadn’t seemed displeased.
Rot, but she couldn’t think of what she might have said or done to make him change.
She was saved from having to say anything when the door opened to admit Olwyn carrying a heavily laden tray. With shaky legs, Elizabeth moved to the table as Olwyn set the tray down. “Thank you, Olwyn.”
As the other woman left, Elizabeth realized that she could not allow Raynor to see that he had upset her. Obviously she was not to his liking. The best she could do now was to get through the evening without making a complete fool of herself. Keeping her voice and manner carefully polite, Elizabeth turned to Stephen. “We can begin now, if you like.”
The first part of the meal passed in a blur as Elizabeth served them both, then used her eating knife to toy with her food. She barely tasted the bites of roast pork, eels and assorted pastries that she did take, though they had been painstakingly and well prepared.
But as the moments stretched onward, Elizabeth began to grow angry with herself. Whatever Lord Warwicke’s annoyance might be, this silence was fair driving her mad. She would stand no more of it. She was a Clayburn, daughter of a proud and noble line. No man could be allowed to render her so self-conscious.
Elizabeth met his gaze directly as she lifted the pitcher from the table between them. “Would you care for more wine, my lord?”
He looked down at his plate, then nodded, passing her his cup. “My thanks, Lady Clayburn. It is the best I've tasted in some time. It is warm in here, and the wine is refreshing.”
As she filled the vessel, Elizabeth thought about what he had said. The room seemed a trifle cool to her, rather than warm. March’s recent arrival had brought no rise in temperatures. They had kept the window open most of the day to catch the light as they readied the room for the evening, and along with it the cold. Just before Raynor arrived, she’d had Albert light a fire in the hearth to take the chill from the room.
Feeling Raynor’s gaze upon her, she looked up at him and paused. The intensity in his dark eyes rocked her. She felt she was being studied with appreciation, yes, but also with doubt. Her tunic suddenly felt too tight across her breasts, and she shifted restlessly on her cushioned chair.
He was right, the room was quite warm. Her tongue came out to lick at the perspiration that beaded on her upper lip, and his gaze followed. He swallowed, taking a ragged breath as he closed his eyes, releasing Elizabeth from their spell.
She turned away, trying to still her beating heart even as she felt a rush of elation. So he was not completely indifferent to her as he pretended.
That left the question, why was he making the pretense?
Elizabeth didn’t know, but she was through with trying to fathom the answer. The anger that had been directed toward herself a few minutes before now shifted to him. If Raynor Warwicke wanted to keep to himself, that was fine with her, or so she told herself. And she was determined for him to see that it didn’t matter. She would go on with the meal as if he were any other guest, then see him on his way.
But there was a nagging awareness in her that told Elizabeth it would not be so easy as she thought. Why, he had only to look at her and she melted like butter in sunshine.
Elizabeth picked up her own cup and took a long drink of the wine. He was right, it was cool to the tongue, even as it trickled a liquid courage into her veins. If need be, she could surely drink enough wine to get her through the hours in his presence. She had heard it could be of help. She poured herself another cup and drained it, as well, before deigning to speak to Raynor again.
Taking a deep breath, she began politely. “My brother tells me you are leaving tomorrow for Warwicke Castle.”
He gave her one of those long, enigmatic looks. “Yes.” Then he turned back to his plate.
Elizabeth took another sip of her wine. She was growing quite relaxed, her arms and legs pleasantly heavy. It was beginning to matter less and less that Raynor was rude and distant. In fact, she was feeling almost amused by the whole situation. What Raynor needed was to allow himself to loosen up just a bit. He might benefit from a few glasses of wine himself.
Arching a fine black brow, she lifted the pitcher in offering. “Would you care for more?”
He barely nodded, handing her the cup. Elizabeth filled it for him.
“My thanks,” he told her, taking a long pull before setting it down next to his dish.
At least he was being polite now, she thought, settling back in her chair, her own cup in her hand. She sipped at the wine, no longer caring to make the pretense of eating.
He glanced over at her, frowning as if she had done something to irritate him in some way. “You aren’t eating.”
“Nay,” she replied languidly. Her own gaze went to his plate, and she saw that for all his studied concentration, Raynor had managed to eat very little of his own dinner. She laughed huskily. “My lord Warwicke, it appears you are not hungry, either.”
With an angry grunt, he pushed the dish aside. “I am not.”
She drained her cup, then watched as Raynor did the same, her eyes never leaving his. This time it was he who leaned forward to refill the vessels, without speaking.
He took another drink of his own wine, his gaze fixing on the tapestry behind her. His lean profile was hard, but undeniably handsome in the glow of the fire, leaving her with a desire to run her hand over the strongly etched jaw. Despite his best efforts, there was an air of loneliness about him that even his confidence and self-possession could not disguise. From somewhere inside her came the thought that this strong man needed someone to share the weight of his troubles. And even though it was obvious that that someone was not her, she couldn’t help wishing he had given her a chance to at least know him better.
Suddenly Elizabeth found herself speaking. It was as if she couldn’t halt her wayward tongue. “You would not have come here tonight, knowing Stephen was gone?”
He turned to her, his brows knit in surprise at her frankness. He took a long pull of his wine before answering. “Nay, I would not have come.”
Even though she had known the answer, Elizabeth felt an unbidden twinge of chagrin. She couldn’t keep herself from replying with the first thing that popped into her mind. “I am really not so very wicked.”
His grimace belied his polite answer. “Of that I am most certain, Lady Elizabeth.”
She laughed. The words were so blatantly at odds with his expression. “Methinks you do not answer truthfully, my lord. What do you hold against me?” She raised her arms wide, then lowered them, feeling recklessly daring for talking so openly. “Am I not pleasing to you? Do I bring to mind some long-despised woman from your past?”
His gaze moved over her with slow deliberation, his eyes dark with some undefined emotion that made her pulse quicken. His voice was husky as he spoke. “You are most pleasing to me, Elizabeth Clayburn. And you remind me of no one I have known in my entire life. In fact, I find you too pleasing.”
Elizabeth knew a moment’s elation before he went on, his tone grown cool.
“But therein lies my problem. You are a noblewoman, and thus can be nothing to me. I want no complication in my life such as you would bring. I have troubles enough to keep me till the end of my days. Why would I willingly bring more upon myself? I know your type. You gently bred damsels think nothing of leading a man a merry chase until he is caught, then you show your true colors by taking all he can give you and more. Don’t try to deny it.” He raised a hand when she opened her mouth to argue. Raynor’s gaze caught Elizabeth’s, and would not let go. “When I take a woman, it is of necessity, a thing of the body, no more no less.” He laughed harshly at her shocked gasp, then released her gaze and paused to fill his cup before draining it.
As if his anger were too much to contain, Raynor pushed back his chair and went to stand before the fire, unmindful of the cushions he scattered in his wake. “No woman will own me.” He hit the wall above the hearth with a white-knuckled fist. Then he took a deep breath, turning back to her.
He came to stand beside the table, his face dark and unreadable with the fire low and behind him.
Elizabeth could only sit there, her wine-fuddled mind trying to make sense of what he had told her. “Obviously someone has betrayed you in some way, my lord Warwicke. But you cannot blame all noblewomen for the actions of one.”
He didn’t even try to answer her, simply shook his head. “You know naught of what you speak. I don’t even know why I am telling you of this. Perhaps I have had too much wine, or mayhap I needed for you to understand that, though I find you more than comely to look upon, I cannot allow myself to see you as anything more than that, a well-favored thing.”
That did not set well with Elizabeth. Obviously Raynor was not the man for her, if he felt thus. She was a woman who needed to be appreciated for all of herself, not just her face and form. Groggily she peered up at him. “I can see that we have completely opposite views on this most important matter,” she told him, as soberly as she could, considering the way her head was swimming. “I need someone who will love me as my father did my mother, with his whole heart and mind. Aye, they fought, but then Father would pick her up and take her up into the tower. They would be gone for hours at times, but when they came back they would be smiling. Mother wasn’t like the women you have known. She was my father’s friend and helpmate. They discussed their problems and took care of each other. My oldest brother, Henry, is married, and he has found the same happiness with his wife Aileen, though they had their problems in the beginning. You are most wise to keep your distance from me, my lord Warwicke. What you are willing to give would not be enough for me. I am no well-favored thing.”
Even though Raynor knew she was simply reacting to what he had said to her, the words stung. Flung back at him that way, the statement sounded worse than he’d thought. But Raynor had no intention of retracting it.
He looked at Elizabeth and saw that her head had tipped forward and her eyes were closed. He looked more closely. The vixen was asleep. Surprise wiped his self-deprecating thoughts from his mind.
In his lifetime many things had happened in the presence of a beautiful woman. But rarely had one fallen asleep with so little warning, and then only after he had thoroughly made love to her.
Raynor looked about the room. First he would move her to the rug before the fire, and then he would be on his way. Enough had been said between them, far more than Raynor had ever told anyone or ever meant to.
He went to her chair and pulled it away from the table, then bent and scooped her up into his arms. Though she was tall, Elizabeth was delicately formed, and her weight was no strain for his hardened muscles.
When he reached the carpet, he used his foot to rearrange the cushions he had scattered about, then went down on one knee to lower her onto them. She stirred in his arms, and he looked down. The heavy fringe of her lashes lifted, and she gazed up at him, the expression in her eyes flirtatious and all woman. “My lord Warwicke, am I to believe you have overcome your scruples concerning young noblewomen?” She giggled, putting her hand over her mouth.
But not before Raynor had caught the heavy scent of wine on her breath. Of course, how could he have been so incredibly stupid? She’d gotten drunk before his very eyes, and he hadn’t even noticed. Now that he thought back, Elizabeth had drunk a fair amount, but not nearly as much as he. Raynor wanted to absolve himself for not stopping her, on the grounds that he had been too occupied at first with his need to keep his distance, and then with his efforts to convince her he was not right for her, but it wouldn’t suffice. Mayhap his lack of perception had partly to do with his having consumed a fair amount of the strong liquid, also. Raynor was feeling more than a little muddled himself.
The firelight was rosy on the delicate plains of her face as she turned toward the flames and began to speak. At first he was confused, but then he began to understand that she was continuing their conversation of a few minutes before. “I love my brothers dearly. All three of them are good, strong, but fair men, even Peter, who is only sixteen.”
She cast a glance toward Raynor, her gaze holding his over the few inches that separated them. “I could only give my heart to one such as they.” She gave a self-derisive laugh, and lifted her hand, only to have it fall back into her lap. “But for reasons I don’t understand, it is you who draws me like a bee to a buttercup. There is something I would ask of you. And please know, if you choose to comply with my request, I will not take this a sign that you are interested in me.” Her lashes fluttered. “You see, I have never been kissed, have not wanted anyone to do so, that is until yesterday, when I saw you.” She looked up at him beseechingly. “I was wondering if you would kiss me just once, before you go. We will never see each other again, and so it seems a little thing to ask.”
For a long time, Raynor just knelt there, looking into her eyes. What she had requested was completely beyond the realm of sanity, wasn’t it? After all, he had already acknowledged, if only to himself, that Elizabeth was the most beautiful and desirable woman he had ever met. He would be stepping beyond the boundary he had set for himself by kissing her. Such an act might just release some of the passion she awakened in him.
But as he looked down at her, at the ingenuous hope in her blue eyes, he knew he could not hurt her by refusing. She seemed so utterly vulnerable at this moment, with her inhibitions stripped away by too much wine. What harm could there be in giving her one chaste kiss? He doubted that Elizabeth would even remember on the morrow.
Slowly, and with a tenderness that surprised even him, Raynor placed his lips on hers. Elizabeth’s mouth was soft and warm, and her skin smelled sweetly of rose petals. Her softly rounded breasts pressed close to him as she opened herself to his embrace. There was not the least bit of resistance in her, only soft, giving female. Raynor felt the hot cramp of desire, there in his gut, threatening to burst free and consume him. But he held it at bay. He drew away from her with infinite care, fearing that if he moved too quickly he would lose control.
She opened her eyes and looked at him, sighing with contentment. “I shall never forget.”
He raised a hand to brush a silken curl from her brow. His voice was softer than a whisper as he answered, “Neither shall I, Elizabeth Clayburn.” And he knew it was true. Raynor didn’t understand what had happened here between them, but he knew she had awakened tender feelings he’d thought long dead.
And that was exactly why he must go from here and never look back. Raynor had no place for such weakness in his life. He had to stay strong and in control of his own destiny. Willow, and many others, depended upon him.
He moved to lay her back.
Her eyes opened, and she looked at him with a drowsy frown. “Nay, my lord, hold me yet a while. It does feel good to be in your arms, and this is all I shall have of you.”
His reply was unexpectedly regretful. “But I must go.”
Her gaze cleared then, for a moment, and her expression was filled with a sympathy so deep it startled him. “Nay, Raynor. Abide here with me for a time. You will come to no harm. I wish you nothing but good. Rest, if only for a while. It will serve you well.”
She reached up to run her soft hand over his cheek, and Raynor was lost. It was as if she gave him a modicum of peace simply by reaching out to him. Never in his life had he been touched with such tenderness.
It almost seemed that Elizabeth was absorbing some of his cares into the softness of her woman’s flesh. She looked up at him, her eyes soft and languid. “Kiss me again, my lord.”
His arms tightened, and he lowered his dark head, one of his hands slipping down to cup the delicate curve of her bottom, unable in that moment to deny her or himself.
* * *
Stephen led the other two men around the back of the house, to the shed where he kept his horse and Elizabeth’s. The animals could feed and drink while the men were having their own meal.
Their mounts had been hard-ridden, but Edward had wanted the archbishop’s reply to his letter without delay. He and the other two knights had made very good time to return so quickly. Once the message was delivered to the king’s chamberlain, Stephen had suggested some refreshment at his home, and they had agreed most readily. His invitation had not been solely out of hospitality. He thought that with these two present there could be no question of Elizabeth being too forward in regard to Raynor and giving him the wrong impression.
Stephen dismounted and led his charger forward into the low building, with its two stalls. He stopped short. Dancer’s stall was not empty as he had expected. A strange chestnut stallion reared and pawed at the air upon seeing Stephen approach. Obviously Raynor had already arrived. Though he could not have been here for long, as Stephen’s note had specified one hour hence.
Stephen backed Dancer from the shed.
He tied the white stallion outside and helped the other two men do the same to their horses. After they were fed and watered, he hurried to the house.
It was only a moment before his pounding at the door was answered. He heard the heavy bolt drawn back, and Olwyn’s pale face appeared in the opening.
But it wasn’t until she opened the door all the way and Stephen saw the very real apprehension on her face that he felt the first twinges of unease. What had Elizabeth done? Drat his impulse in asking the other two men to join him!
He took a step into the room, trying to appear casual. “Lord Warwicke has arrived?”
She nodded, her eyes wide. “Yes, my lord.”
“I see.” He smiled. “We will go up, then.” He refused to even contemplate the question of how long Raynor had been here.
She looked from him to the other two knights, biting her lower lip. Olwyn stared at the brooch on his cloak. “My lord, I think it best if I talk with you in private.”
The other two men looked at each other, then at Stephen. They were members of the king’s personal guard, and trained to be suspicious of anything unusual. Clearly they wondered what must be kept secret from them.
Having no wish to have to explain Olwyn’s bizarre behavior to the king, Stephen gave a groan of impatience and strode across the room. Distantly he heard himself explaining, “She is a shy girl, much given to whispering and such. I find her a trial at times.” He had no choice now but to take them up to the solar. Stephen could hear the men muttering in commiseration as they followed him. They had to hurry to keep up as he took the stairs to the upper floor, but he didn’t care. He hoped to put at least a small distance between them, so that he might arrive first.
On opening the door of the solar, he stopped dead. There on the carpet where Elizabeth usually read before the fire were Raynor of Warwicke and his sister. And they were kissing, one of Raynor’s hands resting possessively on his sister’s backside. They started and looked up at Stephen, then each other, in dazed but abject horror. If it hadn’t been for the fact that a nightmare was unfolding before his very eyes, Stephen would have laughed.
Though he moved to block their way, he heard one of the men behind him take in a sharp breath.
Elizabeth looked toward the door at the sound, her blue eyes going wide with misery when she saw the men with her brother. Her veil had come out of her hair, and the ebony mass tumbled about her in wild disarray. As she moved to her knees, she groaned and put a hand to her head.
Obviously Warwicke fared no better, for he looked as though he were not quite sure what was happening. Stephen watched while realization dawned and Raynor’s lips thinned to a grim line as he rose to his feet facing the door.
Why could Elizabeth not have heeded him? And why had Raynor acted so foolishly himself? Now that the king’s men had seen the two together, Stephen had little choice as to what must be done. Though both were clothed and gave no indication that they had been otherwise, Elizabeth’s reputation was in question. Raynor was already the subject of much talk concerning his illegitimate child.
Damn her, but he’d tried to warn her. But Elizabeth had ever been one to make her own decisions, and usually proved right. The problem was that this one mistake might cost her more dearly than all the others in her life combined.
But there was nothing to be done now. Stephen addressed only Raynor. “I hope you are prepared to right the wrong you have done this night.”
Raynor straightened his shoulders, his eyes direct on Stephen’s, but giving no hint of his feelings. “I am.”
“Nay!” Elizabeth cried, tossing her hair out of her eyes. “I will not.”
Raynor went on as if he hadn’t heard her, the expression on his handsome face cold as frozen marble. “I will marry your sister.”
But even as Elizabeth opened her mouth to argue, one of the king’s guards raised his hand and said, “I will bear witness to his promise.”
She looked to Stephen, but he could offer no assistance. She had brought this upon herself. If the other men had not been here, things might have been different, but not now. Word would spread throughout the court by midday.
Stephen almost reached out to comfort her when Raynor would not even meet her gaze.
Elizabeth cried, “Stephen, surely you must see that a marriage between us is impossible. Nothing happened here. We had too much wine and shared a kiss. That is all.”
Raynor addressed Stephen. “I can delay only one day. I have responsibilities awaiting me at Warwicke. It must be done by tomorrow.”
Stephen nodded. “It will be so.”
Chapter Four
Elizabeth’s black palfrey stamped and snorted, expelling a cloud of breath into the chill morning air. It jerked restively, pulling at the reins she held in her gloved hands.
The weather had turned cold overnight, as cold as Raynor Warwicke’s demeanor since he’d uttered his agreement that he would wed her two day ago. It was as if spring knew its warmth would find no welcome in his eyes.
Elizabeth’s gaze went to her husband, where he sat atop his stallion at the front of the wagons. He never even glanced in her direction, but made his impatience to be gone known in the stiff line of back and shoulders.
The wagons were ready, had been since dawn. All that delayed them was Elizabeth’s goodbye. She turned to Stephen, who stood stony-faced, only his dark green eyes betraying his sadness. That was until she reached up to put her arms around his neck. Then he broke down, holding her close as he said, “I am sorry, Beth. There was no other way.”
She hugged him tightly, comforted by his embrace. Despite wanting desperately to retain this feeling of love and safety, she answered him bravely. “I know, brother. This trouble is of my own making, and I must live with the consequences.”
He held her head close against his shoulder for a long moment before letting her go. There was nothing more to be said. In the hours since he had found her and Raynor together, they had been over it all.
As she swung around to mount her horse, still without a word from her new husband, Elizabeth raised her chin. She would not let him see how his coldness hurt her. If that was what he desired, they would be like two strangers. And that did seem to be the way he wanted things. Looking at the rigid line of his wide back, it was difficult for her to believe they were even wed.
Only the hollow ache in her chest told her the truth of it. This was not some horrible dream from which she would awake to find herself in her own bed.
The marriage had been accomplished without circumstance in the king’s own chapel. Elizabeth had not garbed herself finely, nor had her bridegroom. When word came that the deed was to be done, they’d gone up to Windsor as they stood.
Not since the priest had declared them wed had Raynor so much as spoken to her.
He’d left her at Stephen’s side without even a backward glance. It was only after her brother took her home that Elizabeth had received word to inform her that she and her belongings were to be ready to travel by the next morning.
Which brought her to this moment of leaving her home, with little thought of hope for her future.
Studying her husband’s unyielding posture ahead of her, Elizabeth couldn’t help wondering yet again if Raynor believed she had deliberately trapped him into the marriage. From the cold way he had behaved, she could not but think he did. If only there were some way of making him understand that nothing could be farther from the truth. But he had given her no opportunity to explain, and seemed unlikely to.
If only he could see that the idea of marrying a total stranger was as distasteful to her as it appeared to be to him.
As soon as that thought entered her mind, she tried to ignore the voice of doubt that rose in her heart. The one that reminded her of how often she had relived the hazy memory of Raynor’s lips moving against hers. Even though the image was not clear, the tightening of desire in her lower belly was more than sufficient reminder that she did not find this man completely abhorrent.
Raynor swung around, probably to see if the small entourage was at last ready to leave. His gaze barely grazed Elizabeth, and her cheeks blazed as she stiffened in reaction. Her gaze followed the path of his as he took in the two loaded wagons. His tight lips told of his disapproval.
God’s eyes, she thought angrily, straightening her slender shoulders. If he was going to treat her thus, she refused to let him see that it bothered her.
Elizabeth knew that Raynor was thinking the wagons would slow his progress home, but there was nothing for it. She would not leave her household goods behind. The idea was unthinkable. As her husband, Raynor could fairly demand that she go where he told her, but he could not make her leave her belongings. Two of the four soldiers who had traveled to Windsor with Raynor and Bronic were to act as drivers. Their horses were tied securely to the back of the wagons.
Raising his hand in a farewell to Stephen, Raynor urged his mount forward as a signal to the others.
They started off.
Elizabeth sent a last glance backward, waving to Stephen and the two servants who stood in the tiny yard before the whitewashed house that she would likely never see again. Her heart ached at the realization. For a long moment, Elizabeth did battle with feelings of uncertainty and fear of facing the future with a virtual stranger.
She could feel Olwyn watching her closely from her seat in the lead wagon. She knew her companion was concerned for her. Over the past two days, the woman had tried repeatedly to speak with her mistress about what was happening, but Elizabeth had refused to be drawn out. Raising her chin, she avoided meeting Olwyn’s eyes. She needed all her strength to fight back the sting of tears, like shards of glass behind her eyes.
Even at the early hour, many people came out to watch the passing entourage. The folk of Windsor were more than accustomed to the comings and goings of nobility, but never seemed to lose interest in watching them.
More than once she saw fingers pointed at the rear wagon, where Elizabeth’s great bed rode in splendor. The cloth that had been draped around it to protect the massive piece of furniture from the elements did nothing to disguise it. Such a bed was a symbol of both position and wealth. Many of the nobility took their beds with them as they moved from one holding to another.
As they rode along through the village, the streets grew busier. Their progress was slow, which, judging from the frown on his face each time they halted to let a group of travelers or a loaded wagon pass, clearly irritated Raynor.
It was only as they started down the more open road outside the town itself that Raynor appeared to relax a little. After a time, he began to converse quietly with Bronic, who rode beside him.
Elizabeth didn’t want to admit it, but Raynor’s improved attitude caused her own stiff muscles to release some of their tension. Her buttocks, which had been aching with the tension of her body, relaxed in the saddle. She began to look around with some semblance of interest.
It was a fine, clear April day, despite the unseasonable morning chill. After the first couple of hours, their breath could no longer be seen as they went along. As the sun climbed higher in the blue sky, Elizabeth’s sable-lined cloak began to grow overwarm, and she let it slip down from her shoulders to lie over the horse’s white rump in a splash of scarlet color.
Now they saw few other travelers, only an occasional cart filled with produce. No words were exchanged with the drivers, who moved aside with meekly bowed heads and allowed the nobleman and his party to pass.
The fields beside the road were covered with the short green sprouts of new grain, which strained toward the sun. Oak, alder, ash and birch trees crowded the edges of the fields, offering up their own bright and tender buds in anticipation of the fullness of foliage to come. It was as if God were trying to tell her something with this joyous display of new beginnings. But Elizabeth could not be moved. Her own new life held no such promise of bounty.
The few cottages they saw sat far back from the road; thus, the occasional bark of a dog or the sound of a raised voice seemed distant and disconnected to Elizabeth and her life.
No one knew or cared that she rode north toward a life she knew nothing about and had not asked for.
But here she stopped herself with a jolt of self-examination. Had she not asked for what had happened? If not for her insistence on dining alone with Raynor, she would not now be married to a man who had no use for her.
No wonder Raynor resented her.
He’d made his attitude toward women abundantly clear at the outset. In no way was he responsible for what had befallen them. But, though honesty forced Elizabeth to admit her own guilt in the matter, there was little else she could do at this juncture.
If only in name, they were well and truly wed.
What she could do was try to heal the breach between them. Raynor was her husband, and she did not wish to spend her future years bemoaning her fate. All her life Elizabeth had been a doer, a fixer. It was not like her to just accept defeat. And she could not do so now.
With the example of her parents' joyous marriage to lead her, Elizabeth knew she did not wish to settle for what existed between her and Raynor now. It was up to her to try and make things better. Mayhap if she tried, Raynor would unbend and see that they must make the best of their lot.
And she knew this was the most she could hope for. Not for a moment did she believe that Raynor would ever love her as her father had her mother, or even as her brother Henry loved his beloved wife, Aileen.
Firmly she stifled any hint of loneliness at the thought.
Such was not for her. The best she could achieve was a truce. Looking to Raynor’s unyieldingly broad back, she had no idea how that was to come about. Yet try she must.
She was a Clayburn, and thus would show no sign of giving up, despite the adversity. Elizabeth straightened her spine, determined to present a brave front, no matter the sadness that tightened her throat.
Looking up to see Olwyn studying her with that worried expression again, Elizabeth moved to the side of the wagon.
She had made the decision to go forward with courage. Now she must begin to act upon it. No more would she avoid conversing with Olwyn, though she would draw the line at anything concerning her relationship with Raynor. What was between them was between them.
But Olwyn was an important part of her life, and Elizabeth would not forgo her friendship with her woman out of her own ridiculous ill humor.
From the front of the little troop, where Raynor rode beside Bronic, he was not able to look back at Elizabeth without being obvious. But he made much of keeping an eye on the wagons. Surreptitiously his gaze sought his wife.
Raynor watched as she moved up beside the first wagon and began talking to her woman. She laughed at something the other said, the sound pleasant and throaty, unwittingly drawing several pairs of male eyes. He frowned, feeling even more irritated with her.
Quickly he turned away.
How could she appear so unconcerned, when his own stomach was a coil of knotted frustration due to the events of the past two days?
He didn’t want to believe she had deliberately set out to force him into a marriage. But the evidence was there. Why else would she have arranged for them to be alone, shown such pleasure in his company, convinced him to stay when he discovered Stephen was not there? Even at the time, he’d wondered about her overt interest in him. He cursed himself for being fool enough to disregard his misgivings, even as he remembered how her regard had warmed him. As Raynor’s mother had been, Elizabeth was adept at getting what she desired without thought of the cost to others.
He’d seen his mother completely destroy his father with her manipulations. When Raynor was only an infant, Robert Warwicke had been called to serve his king in France. He had returned home two years later to discover that his wife had not only betrayed him with another man, but had bore that other a son, as well. Too much in love with her to cast his faithless spouse aside, Robert had forgiven her. Yet his compassion had not moved his wife to display any measure of gratitude or loyalty. She had seemed to see his kindness as a sign of weakness and disdain him for it. Completely in love with her, he had outwardly taken her manipulations with little or no demur. But over the years, Raynor had seen how deep the hurt had cut.
Elizabeth was obviously of the same manipulative bent, and had acted accordingly when she wanted a husband. Though why she had chosen him, Raynor had still to discern. The most logical explanation was that she was too accustomed to having her way, and he had denied her. Thus becoming a challenge. 'Twas the only thing that made any sense.
Yet even as these thoughts ran through his mind, he knew doubt. She had seemed as displeased as he at Stephen’s decision that they must wed, had gone through with the wedding white-faced and silent as snow. And her sorrow at parting with her brother this morning had appeared unfeigned.
An act, he told himself angrily.
Else why was she laughing and smiling unconcernedly with her maid, when he could think of nothing but the quagmire his life had become? The complication of a wife was one he had not needed at this point. Worry over what new devilment Harrington might get up to was already piled atop his usual concerns about the running of his lands and Willow’s. He had enough problems to occupy his every waking hour without Elizabeth to plague him.
And plague him she did.
Every time he was near her, including the few moments they had spent together becoming man and wife, he had relived over and over that kiss. That dratted moment when he had abandoned all rational thought and taken her in his arms. That cursed moment when he felt his gentler feelings stir for the first time in years.
Repeatedly he told himself the event could not have been the way he recalled. No single kiss could be so moving. But every time he looked at her, his heart remembered, and a warm, liquid feeling suffused his chest.
He glanced behind him, his gaze flicking from his wife to the second wagon, where that enormous bed reposed under a protective covering. Elizabeth’s bed. Raynor nearly gasped aloud as an image of Elizabeth naked, her blue eyes heavy with desire, sprang unbidden to his mind.
By the true cross, what was wrong with him?
He became aware of Bronic asking him a question. “What say you, Raynor?”
“Say?” he asked hurriedly, puzzled and trying to cover the fact that he had not been attending.
Bronic’s blue eyes studied him. “As to Harrington? Think you he will leave well enough alone, now that King Edward has upheld your claim to the child?”
Raynor ran a hand through his already tousled dark hair. Guilt stabbed at him for worrying over Elizabeth when he had other, more pressing matters to attend. “Nay.” His voice was hard. “He will not. The man’s greed is too big to let go. He will not stop here. Harrington has already bled his tenants dry to fund his extravagant ways. He can get no more from that quarter. With Willow in his control, he would have access to her fortune.”
A frown crossed Bronic’s strongly handsome face. “You do not think he would try to reach Warwicke and take her before we can return?”
Raynor felt a moment of painful unease, then stifled it. He shook his head. “Nay, methinks not. Harrington is not a man to discommode himself by sleeping in tents, as we will. He will stay at every hostelry and monastery along the route north. Besides,” he added as much to reassure himself as much as Bronic, “you know I have left word that Harrington is to be killed on sight if he tries to so much as approach Warwicke in my absence. And he would not have time to gather an army to lay siege before we can return.”
Raynor turned to survey the two wagons behind them, his gaze going once more to Elizabeth. She laughed again, seemingly oblivious of him, and a black scowl darkened his brow. He turned back to the other man. “I had no concern before of beating Harrington back to Warwicke, but with these wagons, our progress will be slowed greatly. You, myself and the other four men could have been happily returned to Warwicke in half the time it will now take.”
Bronic swung around to look at the two women, Elizabeth on her white palfrey, Olwyn in the wagon. His tone was thoughtful as he answered, “We have made surprisingly good time thus far. The women have been of little trouble. Though we have been traveling for hours, neither has so much as offered a word of complaint.”
“Thus far,” Raynor reminded him.
“Soon we must begin to think about stopping for the meal.” Bronic looked at him with long-suffering patience. “The women are likely tired, despite their lack of complaint.”
Raynor colored. Inexplicably he had the feeling Bronic knew how upset he was about his marriage to Elizabeth. This displeased him not a little. He refused to allow his being wed to alter his life any more than necessary. “We have many leagues to go,” he replied woodenly.
With an expression of surprise and disapproval, Bronic replied, “Raynor, I myself am growing hungry, though I could ride on without stopping, and have done so under more discomfort. But there is no need to go on until the women drop. You said yourself that as long as we make reasonable haste, all should be well. It is only right to treat your lady wife with some deference.”
Raynor sat looking at him, Elizabeth’s husky laughter ringing in his ears. He didn’t care about her, and didn’t want anyone else to mistake that fact. But neither did he want to be deliberately cruel. She probably was exhausted. It was true they had ridden on well past midday, and she’d uttered not a word of complaint.
But even though such stamina was new in his experience with women, Raynor was not yet ready to completely unbend. “Aye,” he replied stiffly. “We will stop.”
As Bronic dropped back to tell the others, Raynor halted him with a raised hand. “But tell my wife that it will only be for a short time. She is not to dawdle. We have far to travel before making camp for the night. I must needs return to Warwicke ere many more days have passed.”
With raised brows, Bronic gave him a long look. “You may deliver that message yourself, Raynor. I will not. After all, you have not even spoken to the woman the whole morning. I know not what happened between you. I only know that Sir Stephen and the king’s men found you together. Surely you cannot hold her solely responsible and absolve yourself, Raynor. 'Tis not like you. Furthermore, if you wish to be unpleasant with your lady after first ignoring her, you may do so with your own tongue.” That said, Bronic moved off without waiting for a reply.
Raynor could think of no suitable answer, anyway. He knew he would have to speak to Elizabeth eventually, but he didn’t know what to say. As to the subject of his own culpability in the marriage, Bronic did not know what Raynor suspected Elizabeth had done. Somehow she must understand that he did not mean for theirs to be a true marriage. Raynor wanted nothing between himself and Elizabeth, not companionship, not friendship, and definitely not love.
Naught good had ever come of closeness between a man and woman, and Elizabeth was not the kind who could easily be used and discarded without thought. Those few moments when he held her in his arms had assured him of that.
He had no intention of allowing himself to care for her, or any other woman. Not now, not ever.
Louisa had been the one exception to that rule, and they had met as children. Early on, she had told him of the cruelty of her stepfather. Though he was nothing but a boy, Raynor had responded with kindness. And even then she had chosen Raynor over the older Nigel, following him about with sisterly devotion. How could he fail to respond in kind?
But there was no connection between that and what had passed between himself and Elizabeth. She was a woman in every sense of the word, clearly willing to use her mind and body as silken threads to bind a man to her.
Staying where he was, ahead of the others, Raynor looked back and saw Bronic speak to the man who drove the lead wagon. He pulled to the side of the road. The other driver followed his lead.
They were right next to a small clearing near the road, where the trees rested back a bit. The short grass grew thick and inviting. It was a suitable spot to rest and eat.
Lips tight, Raynor watched as Bronic helped Elizabeth’s woman from the lead wagon. The serving woman reached into the back and drew out a large woven basket. One of the other four men spread a blanket on the ground as another helped Elizabeth from her white mare. Bronic took the basket and carried it to the blanket where the two women took over and began passing out its contents.
Soon the small group was chatting amiably.
None of them so much as made a pretense of paying attention to Raynor. The five men seemed bent on seeing to the two women’s comforts, to the exclusion of all else.
If he’d thought his stomach was in knots before, he now had to make a conscious effort not to put a hand over the cramp in his guts. He sat up straighter, determined to conquer the feeling.
But the longer Raynor sat there atop his stallion, watching the others eat and talk as if this were some outing planned solely for the entertainment of his wife and her companion, the angrier he became.
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Catherine Archer
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: Lord Raynor Was No Match for the Lovely WomanHe′d Been Forced to Take to WifeThough Lady Elizabeth Clayburn was no stranger to the flattery of men, the enigmatic Baron of Warwicke wielded a power over her more potent than anything she had ever felt, and she′d tumbled quickly into a marriage bed, unwarmed by trust or love.The grim defenses around Lord Raynor Warwicke′s heart had been erected long ago. But now his defiant wife had dared to breach his stronghold, challenging him to lay aside the armor of his suspicions, and surrender to the greater strength of love.