His Border Bride. Blythe Gifford
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the chest. It had become a daily rite, reminding her of Alain’s expectation that she be a lady, cleaving to the ways his mother had taught her.
Her smile faded as she came closer. Black and grey smudges marred the red-and-gold wool.
She knelt beside the tapestry, anger mixing with a sick feeling in her stomach. What would Alain think when he saw what had happened to his beautiful gift?
She looked around the Hall. None of her men would have dared touch it. It must have been the stranger.
Fury swamped the anguish. First, fury with herself for being so foolish as to let him into her home. Then, fury at him.
She folded the tapestry carefully, exposing a back as neatly finished as the front. He had done it deliberately, she was sure—tried to destroy something precious to her.
She carried the folded fabric as reverently as an altar cloth, the pounding in her ears growing with each step. A lady must never show anger. A lady must be ever temperate. Yet rage pounded against her temples. She struggled to subdue it, blaming him for raising her temper. The strength of it frightened her nearly as much as the other feelings he’d raised.
The ones that had kept her awake last night.
She found him in the stable, kneeling before his horse, testing the animal’s fetlock. At least the man had the wisdom to look after the beast, a possession no doubt more valuable than he deserved.
She wondered whether he had killed the knight who owned it.
Angus sat in the straw at his feet, head bent over the chainmail, patiently polishing an individual iron link.
‘Angus!’ Her voice was sharp. ‘Ask the falconer if he needs help in the mews.’
‘That’s nae work for a squire.’
It was the first time the boy had ever crossed her and she added it to Fitzjohn’s list of sins. ‘And if you do not do as you’re told, you’ll never be a squire.’
Fitzjohn motioned his head towards the door. The boy put down the brush and hurried out.
‘Blame me, if you must,’ he said. ‘Not the boy.’
‘I do.’
The morning sunlight streamed through the stable door and poured over him, picking up streaks of gold in his hair. He did not wear his smile this morning. Instead, the light carved sharp shadows around his nose and mouth. He looked as fierce as a golden eagle. Powerful, graceful, beautiful.
Deadly.
Such a bird could pluck Wee One out of the sky without ruffling his own feathers.
She lifted the cloth in an accusation. ‘This was a beautiful tapestry.’ She swallowed, trying to clear the fury fighting to escape her throat. ‘It came all the way from France.’
She held it out, but he didn’t take it.
His wry look returned, masking the danger. ‘That’s a long trip.’
‘You ruined it. Deliberately.’ Her voice shook and she hated the power he had to upset her.
‘Now that’s a harsh accusation. You sent me to sleep in the hall without so much as a blanket. I wrapped myself up in it and it fell into the ashes during the night.’ He shrugged, his expression holding no remorse. ‘That’s what it’s made for. To ward off the cold.’
‘To ward off the chill when one is sitting on the bench.’
His smile widened, slowly. ‘But your bottom wasn’t on the bench last night, so I didn’t think you’d mind.’
He was savouring her anger. His very smile seemed to say I know what you are. You are not the lady you pretend to be.
She dropped it in the straw at his feet, releasing a puff of dust. ‘You dirtied it. Clean it before you leave.’
He looked down at the banker, then back at her, half-smile still in place. ‘That’s a lot of fuss to be making about a spot of dirt on a piece of cloth.’
‘It’s a tapestry, not just a piece of cloth.’ She bit her cheek to stop the tears. ‘From Arras. It was a gift.’
‘Are you sure that’s really what’s disturbing you?’
‘What else would I be distressed about?’
‘Me.’
‘You?’ The word fell from her lips as quickly as if he had slapped her. How did he know? His very presence violated the natural order. Knights were supposed to be noble, honourable and kind to women. He was the opposite and worse, he delighted in it.
‘That’s right. I think I just roil you inside.’
He did. In places she had never felt before.
‘Yes, Sir Gavin, if you are a “sir.” You do.’ She lifted her chin and lowered her shoulders, trying to regain a lady’s calm. ‘But do not smile with pleasure at the thought. You “roil” me because you deliberately flout the laws of chivalry.’
‘Chivalry?’ His mocking tone had a dark echo.
‘Yes. You must have heard the word.’
Gratified, she saw his easy smile vanish. His blue eyes turned hard and he stepped closer, forcing her to retreat. But she could not move far enough away. He still stole her breath.
‘Oh, I’ve heard of it. But I’ve been fighting in a war, not a tournament to entertain the ladies. You may not believe this, Mistress Clare, but we don’t see much chivalry in war, so forgive me if I’ve forgotten how to bow and scrape and bend my knee. In a real war, we don’t wave a lance and a lady’s scarf in hopes of winning a silk purse. In a real war, when someone loses, they die. And sometimes, the victor even enjoys the killing.’
She shuddered. Had he enjoyed killing?
A momentary vision of Wee One, catching her prey, flashed before her. But that was not the same. Not the same at all. ‘Christian knights do not kill one another. The code of honour requires a fellow knight to be spared, else war would be nothing but brutal murder.’
‘War is nothing but brutal murder.’
What kind of man was this? Whose war had he fought and what demons had he seen there?
‘I do not know where you’ve been, but you’re in a civilised household now, where everything is done to then anes, which means to its proper purpose, though I don’t expect you know that. I suggest you learn.’
The smiling mask returned, wiping the darkness from his face. ‘Mais oui, demoiselle.’
His French stunned her.
It was smoother than hers.
And his half-smile had grown large enough that she noticed, for the first time, a dimple on his right cheek.
Gavin’s smile faded as he wrestled with the tapestry, a small, poor thing compared to those he’d seen in Edward’s palaces. First, he shook it, hoping the ashes would fly free. Then, he tried brushing the smudges away, but that only dirtied the rest of the cloth and his fingers.
He knew nothing of how to put things right, only how to destroy them.
And somehow, Mistress Clare had known. Even without knowing his name, she treated him like the deserter he was. Like a man who had stood outside a church holding a torch.
And carried the blood of a father who would have burned it.
If it showed so clearly in his face, he was right not to lie about his name. People would judge him without caring that the truth wasn’t as bad as they thought.
Nor as good as it should be.
And Mistress Clare, mired in her fantasies, was very, very good at judgements.
Blind to the crude tower and