Chapter 13 #3
Every sense heightened, Claire delighted even in the slight roughness of his stubble. And by the stars he was solid. She was half over mighty thighs, her hands clutching broad, broad shoulders hard as wood, hot as hearthstones …
And she liked it!
She, who had once thought she could never like a fighting man, was stirred in a secret part of herself by the dark power beneath her small, soft hands.
His mouth eased free of hers at last, but the strength of his body still encompassed her as their breath mingled.
She drifted her hands across the breadth of his shoulders and over the heavy curves to his arms. A startling vision seared her, a vision of him naked to her questing touch, of herself in pale conquest, as beneath, he darkly surrendered.
As if he knew, he pulled her suddenly against him, tight against his chest, cradled her there, his chin nestled in her hair.
She knew his strength, knew she could not escape, and yet she did not feel confined.
She felt, for a brief moment like a child in a safe place—one where death was just a fable, and where the sun shined every day.
His chest rose and fell with his breaths, and she began to breathe in rhythm with him.
Her own spicy aroma blended with his—sweat, wool, horse.
She remembered writing that to Felice. Something about him not smelling foul, but somewhat of horse and sweat.
At the time it had seemed a problem to be explained away. Now, however, it was just him.
She found that she had closed her eyes and was taking deep breaths, savoring him as she might enjoy a flower, a spice, or bread fresh from the oven.
Her mouth was watering slightly as if she were at a table loaded with tasty dishes. But beneath the sweet anticipation, something lurked like a stone in the shoe or a thorn on the chair.
What?
The earl’s last words. I thought you had to know.
Why did they bother her so?
Because they echoed something.
Felice’s words at the convent gate! Wait till you find out …
If Felice could be dismissed, the earl could not. But what could both of them know that was still secret from everyone at Summerbourne?
He shifted to look at her. Too late she knew that doubts could be sensed.
“What troubles you, Claire? Is it something Salisbury said?”
“No. Not really.” But before she slid into complete surrender with this man she had to try to chase away these pricking doubts. “Mother Winifred said you were a murderer. Have you ever killed?”
He moved slightly to look at her. “I am a warrior.”
“I mean, outside of battle.”
“No. Or yes, in tourney.”
“That is wrong, isn’t it?”
“Most people don’t think so. And both deaths were accidents. We try not to kill in friendly fights.” He was still studying her as if she puzzled him. “I’ve killed any number of brigands and rogues in my time.”
But that wasn’t murder. That was righteous execution. So much for Mother Winifred.
The sword. The earl had seemed obsessed by his holy blade. “Why did the king give you that sword?”
“For honorable service. I swear it on my soul.”
It wasn’t a direct answer and she sensed a slight distance over it, but she had to believe such an oath. His slight change in manner, however, made her seek to know more. “It was black. I didn’t think swords were black.
“It’s just dark, Claire. Something to do with the forging. Don’t fret about it.” His big hand rubbed her back down low, soothing her. Stirring her. Distracting her.
“You must excuse my nervousness about such things, Renald. I am unused to violence.”
He kissed her brow. “It is a blessed state, and I will try to preserve your peace. I vow it.”
Only one thorn remained. “The earl …”
“Is a rebel,” he said, sealing her lips with his finger. “Claire, he cannot like this marriage. Don’t let him distress you.”
Her shadowy doubts became mist, and she wafted them away. Enough of it. She knew this man by now. “You will give up killing now?” Looking up, she caught his grimace.
“I’m a warrior,” he said again. “If called upon by the king, I must fight.”
“I understand that. I mean tourneys.”
“I could be called upon to represent the king in a tourney.” His fingers played in her hair. “But tourneys are not held in England. The sensible kings here think they waste too many lives.”
She smiled. “So you will not have to fight like that again. I’m glad.”
His gentle torment across the back of her neck made her smile even more, but then his hand stilled. “I’ll doubtless damn myself with this, Claire, but I do enjoy it.”
She pushed away to stare. “Enjoy killing?”
He held her. “No, never that. But I enjoy fighting. In a tourney, we fight to overcome and win ransoms. Killing is not in the plan.” He shrugged, but with a glint of humor in his eyes. “It tends to put a cloud over the event.”
“How can you joke about such a thing?”
Humor fled, but something in his expression made her feel foolish. Was it foolish not to want people to play at violence? Not to want anyone to risk their life for fun?
“Now that I’m a baron with estates to care for,” he said, “I’ll have less time for games. Unless we’re attacked, I’ll likely do little but mop up brigands. I assume you won’t mind me dispatching a few of them now and then.”
Stung by his wry tone, she muttered, “I suppose not.”
He stroked her lips, coaxing a smile. “I must keep up my training, though, Claire, or what use will I be—to you or to the king?”
“I understand. I’m sorry if I seem foolish. This is all so different …”
“And I seem like a snake within paradise,” he said. “But I’m not, Claire. I want to keep this place whole as much as you do.”
She believed him, and obeyed his teasing by parting her lips for his finger.
She welcomed the rough taste, flicking her tongue around it.
She didn’t resist when he slid it deep into her mouth and out again, again and again, even though she knew what he was doing, and felt the response in another part of her body.
Tomorrow.
At that thought, she tightened her teeth and lips around him, growing almost faint at the look in his eyes.
Then he captured her lips with his mouth and sealed her to him all along his body, pulling her to straddle him. She ached and pressed closer, feeling him hard between her thighs, separated only by layers of clothes. Frustrating layers of clothes.
For the first time she understood why some foolish maidens did not wait …
At long, long last, he drew back, sucking in a deep, unsteady breath, rubbing his head against hers. “Spices again. Delicious lady.”
“You can’t still be hungry …”
“Not hungry. Famished.” He bit quite sharply at her neck.
Claire squeaked and scrambled away, but she was laughing. Laughing for the first time in so long.
He lounged there, looking tussled, younger, lighter and unbearably tempting. And he knew it. He grinned.
A watering bucket caught her eye. Without thinking, she grabbed it and tipped it over him.
After an appalled moment, she ran.
He choked on a curse, half blind, but a sweeping hand caught her skirt. Trying to wrench free, she fell against the bench. Her out-thrust hand stopped the fall, but she sprawled half over the stone.
And screamed.
“Claire?”
She surged back up, her head slamming into his chin.
“Lucifer’s horns, Claire—”
But then, sweeping wet hair off his face, he saw what she had seen. In the narrow space behind the bench, carelessly covered by dying weeds, lay a man.
A man who was assuredly dead.
Renald’s arms came around her, drawing her safely back. “Hush, love.”
Claire stopped the noises she’d hardly been aware of making. “He looks … he looks like my … father!”
He held her tighter. “Is it a relative then?”
She shook her head wildly. “He’s dead.”
He turned her against his wet chest. “Hush, love, hush. He can’t hurt you.”
The wave of shuddering passed and Claire swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m not normally such a ninny. I’ve seen death. But—”
“But it was a shock.” He calmly rubbed her back. “It reminded you of the shock of your father’s death. I understand. Let me escort you to the hall.”
She pulled herself together. “No. I’m over my silliness now. I didn’t recognize him. I didn’t try. But he must be one of our people.”
“Or a servant of one of our guests.”
She had completely forgotten the hall full of people. “We still need to see who he is. We can’t just leave him there.”
He studied her a moment, then nodded. “Very well.”
Arm protectively about her, he led her back to the bench where they both peered over. It was dim in the shadows, but the man’s ghastly face glimmered up through limp leaves, slack in death. Gritting her teeth, Claire brushed away some weeds, then gasped. “But … It’s Ulric, my father’s man!”
Renald’s hand tightened on her arm.
“I wondered where he was. Why he didn’t return with … with the body. He never left my father’s side.” She glanced up at Renald’s still face. “Did he die in the same engagement?”
He left her, and squeezed closer to sweep away the rest of the flimsy covering. “He’s fresher dead than that.” Then he slowly raised his hands, hands stained dark.
“Blood?” she whispered.
“Blood.”
Remembering a dark and bloody sword, Claire straightened. Then she started to back away.
“Claire, I had nothing to do with this.”
She froze, staring at him, trying to sort through panic to truth.
“This blood is fresh,” he said steadily, eyes on her. “He must have been killed not long before we came here. Long after you saw the blood on my blade.”
That must be true. She rubbed her hands over her face. “I’m sorry. What reason anyway would you have to kill poor Ulric?”
“What reason could anyone?”
She stepped a little closer. “It couldn’t have been an accident?”
He rose, wiping his hands on his braies. “I don’t see how. Death was fast, I’d judge, and I can find no blade. No, Claire, I’m afraid there is a snake in paradise after all. Murder’s been done here tonight.”
He looked as deeply concerned as she, and with reason. He spoke of a true snake, one that had stolen the fragile paradise they had found.
“We cannot marry tomorrow.” She spoke without thinking, but from a deep, troubled instinct.
He came to her. “Because of the death of a servant? Claire, it is announced.”
“We can change our minds. People will understand.”
“Will they? I don’t. You were happy to marry within days of your father’s death, but balk when a servant dies? What sense in that?”
None, she thought. “But this happened here. Here in Summerbourne!”
“Disturbing, yes.” He gathered her into his arms. “But we will find out who did it and set it right. A quarrel perhaps, among the servants.”
“But Ulric wasn’t even here! I mean, no one knew he was. When did he arrive? Where has he been?”
“Hush.” He stroked her. “We will find all this out, and it will prove to be ordinary enough. It does not affect our wedding.” He tilted her chin. “Pity me, Claire. I do not want to wait.”
And some of the paradise flowed back, along with a lot of the hunger. She didn’t want to wait either. It seemed heartless, with poor Ulric lying only feet away, but she wanted to marry this man tomorrow.
“Very well.”
He kissed her. “Let’s go and put this in the hands of your melancholy sheriff. He’s the one most suited to take charge, and it will suit his temperament better than bridals.”
She even smiled at his words, since they were so apt. It certainly didn’t ease Eudo’s mood to be told of a body, but perhaps he was relieved not to have to look festive anymore. Perhaps the earl decided to join him in his inquiries for the same reason.
Margret came over, shaking her head. “A murder. I don’t suppose I should have expected your betrothal to go off as usual, should I?”
Claire rolled her eyes. “At least it’s hard to imagine anything worse to come.
Renald watched Claire chat with her friend and resisted the urge to move closer, to check what was being said. Lady Margret couldn’t know. As far as he could tell, no one here but the earl knew, and he was too cautious of the king’s wrath to speak out.
It had been a close thing, however, earlier. Renald had reminded the earl that the king would be displeased if anything happened to prevent this marriage, though he sympathized with the man’s dilemma. He couldn’t feel harshly toward anyone who cared about Claire.
She was almost within his grasp, though, and he’d let nothing stop him now.
The wedding and the wedding night, and they’d be bound for all eternity.
Thank God that Ulric had never had a chance to speak to her.