Unveiling Lady Clare. Carol Townend

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ much money, and when I explained, he said he’d take me if I watched over his merchandise.’

      ‘All night?’

      ‘Yes. He refused to take me otherwise.’

      Arthur swore. ‘We’ll see about that.’ Gripping her firmly by the elbow, he steered her across the wheel-rutted yard and into the inn.

      Inside, Sir Arthur turned to Clare. ‘Where is this merchant? What is his name?’

      The inn was ill lit, smoky and crowded, but the merchant’s son was a lanky youth with a red crest of hair, which made him and his father easy to see. She pointed. ‘He’s at the table by the serving hatch—the one in the russet tunic. He’s called Gilbert de Paris.’

      Arthur strode straight over. ‘Gilbert? Gilbert de Paris?’

      The merchant looked Arthur up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on his sword. ‘Sir?’

      ‘If you want someone to guard your cart overnight, you’d best make new arrangements. This lady is no longer in a position to help you. And even if she were, it’s shameful to take advantage of a woman forced to travel alone.’

      The merchant looked dourly at Clare, grunted and elbowed his son. ‘Renan?’

      The boy grimaced. ‘Father?’

      ‘Take your supper outside, you’re watchman tonight.’

      The red-haired boy pushed to his feet and Clare held back a sigh. It was a relief to be out of the wet. She had been frozen in the barn.

      Sir Arthur gestured her to a table a few feet from the fire and she chose a bench in the shadow of a large oak beam. She preferred not to be in full view of other customers. She preferred not to be noticed. It was an old habit and it was hard to break.

      He was looking at her damp hair. ‘Wouldn’t you rather sit nearer the fire?’

      ‘I am fine here, thank you.’

      She remained in the shadows, grateful simply to be in the warmth. Flames flowered in the fire as Sir Arthur hung up her cloak and joined a boy—presumably his squire—by the serving hatch. She wriggled her fingers. They were beginning to tingle as the heat reached them. Her mind was darting back and forth like a shuttle on a loom.

      Sir Arthur thinks my father is a count! It couldn’t be true. And yet...if it was...

      Was it possible that her eyes, the cursed eyes that brought so much unwanted attention wherever she went, had come down to her through her father?

      My father is a Breton count! It seemed so unlikely. And yet...

      It was possible. For as long as she could remember, Clare had wondered about her parents. In the end, she had come to the view that her parents couldn’t have been married. Years ago, she had concluded that her father must have abandoned her mother, leaving her to give birth alone. It was common enough. And after that, anything might have happened—her mother might have died, or she might have abandoned her baby. And then, by some tortuous means which Clare had never hoped to unravel, she had ended up enslaved. Her memory began in her master’s house in Apulia, a place which by any reckoning was a world away from Brittany. She remembered nothing before then.

      And here was Sir Arthur telling her she might be the daughter of a Breton count...

      Quietly, she hugged herself. For the first time, she was on the brink of learning the truth of her background. She had somewhere to go and reason to hope that she might be able to stop looking over her shoulder. Was she going home at last?

      Of course, there was much to overcome. What would her father think of her? Sir Arthur was clearly so honourable he couldn’t imagine a man refusing to acknowledge his daughter. Clare’s experiences had taught her otherwise—Count Myrrdin de Fontaine could easily reject her. Not to mention that his true-born daughter—this Countess Francesca—might resent the appearance of an illegitimate sister. Countess Francesca might hate her.

      Her path was strewn with obstacles, yet, for the first time in an age, Clare had hope and somewhere to go.

      Sweet Virgin, let Count Myrrdin be my father. Let him acknowledge me.

      Sir Arthur was making his way back through the tables, bearing a jug of wine and some clay cups. As he took a seat on the bench opposite, he nodded briefly at her. Filling a cup, he slid it towards her.

      ‘Thank you, sir.’

      Sir Arthur was good-looking in the rough-hewn way of the warrior. Nell’s knight. His nose had a slight kink in it, likely it had been broken at some joust. His brown eyes were striking, dark and penetrating. Though Clare hardly knew him, she had already seen kindness in those eyes. Kindness was a rare quality, particularly in a knight. He had handled Nell with great tact when she had offered him her favour—a lesser man might have mocked the child.

      This evening, Sir Arthur’s hair was ruffled from his ride, thick glossy strands caught the light. His mouth—Clare’s gaze skated past when she found herself staring at it—was nicely shaped, even if at the moment it was unsmiling. A haze of stubble darkened a square jaw. If she were to choose one word to sum him up, it would be the word strong. Except it didn’t do him justice. He was so tall, so large—the width of his shoulders... Sitting opposite him, Clare felt tiny.

      Sir Arthur was Captain of Count Henry’s Guardian Knights and it was incredible to think that for the next few days he would be her escort. Saints, she had a knight as her escort! How strange life was. For years she had needed help and lately two knights had ridden to her rescue. First her Good Samaritan Geoffrey, and now Arthur. Sir Arthur, she corrected herself. Of course, Geoffrey had turned out to be less than perfect, but Sir Arthur—covertly she studied him—Sir Arthur seemed to be cut from different cloth.

      He tossed back his wine and poured another. Still unsmiling.

      He is displeased. Count Henry has asked him to be my escort and he resents it.

      The thought was upsetting. Did Sir Arthur think it beneath him to have to guard a girl who might be Count Myrrdin’s by-blow? She dreaded to think how he would react should he discover that she was a runaway slave from Apulia. ‘Sir?’

      The dark eyes turned to her, and her stomach swooped. His rough-hewn looks were dangerously appealing and she was reluctant for him to know it.

      ‘How long will it take for us to reach Fontaine, sir?’

      He grimaced. ‘This is the worst time of year for travelling, so it’s hard to be precise, much will depend on the weather. But I would imagine it will take several days.’

      ‘Several days?’

      ‘Three weeks. Maybe even a month.’ An eyebrow lifted. ‘If you can ride, it won’t take as long.’

      Clare bit her lip. ‘I don’t ride, sir.’

      ‘I didn’t think you would, but Count Henry has lent you a Castilian pony from his stables. If you’re willing to learn, you may try her out tomorrow. Otherwise, you’ll have to ride pillion with me.’

      His tone was so brusque it left her in no doubt that if that were to happen, he would be most disgruntled. ‘Very well, СКАЧАТЬ