Elizabeth Elliott (16 page)

If there were any questions that remained about her virtue, this meal put them to rest. Guy displayed her before his
people like a prize, her place in the seat his wife should occupy nothing more than a cruel parody. Everyone within the hall recognized the gibe. It wasn’t how often Guy’s people stared at her that bothered Claudia. It was the way they looked at her. The men stared long and hard, some curious, others lewd and leering. The women pretended to ignore her and looked away whenever she caught them staring at her.

The people of Lonsdale had scorned her when she first arrived in England, treated her to ogling of a different sort, yet in many ways the same. She had learned to ignore them, to retreat inside herself without displaying any outward signs of cowardice. She didn’t belong at Lonsdale, no more than she belonged at Montague. Everything these people took for granted—friends and family, a home and security—were as foreign to Claudia as their language. She could learn to survive among them, but she would never truly fit in. Rather than bow her head to shield herself from the rude stares, she lifted her chin and gazed out over the room.

First she chose the color blue, the color of Montague. She began by counting every occurrence of the color in the great hall, making a mental tally of where she spied the color, in a jewel, gown, cap, pennant, painted arch. Perhaps she should divide her count into—

“Are you listening to me, Claudia?”

She turned in Guy’s direction. “Twenty-three?”

A blush warmed her cheeks and she bit her tongue. No wonder he looked confused. Her count of blue tunics was not the answer he wanted. What had he asked her? “Forgive me, Baron. Did you ask a question?”

“Aye.” He gave an impatient sigh. “You have just answered it. As a rule, I prefer to speak to someone other than myself.”

Her gaze slid back to a tall man with a blue feather in his cap. “I did not mean to ignore you, my lord.”

“You are ignoring me now.” He found her hand beneath the table and gave it a firm squeeze. “What are you doing, Claudia?”

The touch of his hand surprised her and she gave him a startled glance. “I beg your pardon?”

“What are you doing?” he repeated. “You answer my questions with numbers, and I have watched the king look upon swineherds with more warmth than the looks you give my people.”

“I would rather have them think me aloof than know how—” She pressed her lips together.

His scowl deepened. “We could have our meal in the solar or my chamber if you would prefer.”

“And undo your efforts to display me as your mistress?” She smiled and shook her head. “After your many kindnesses, I would not wish to appear so inhospitable.”

“I did not invite you to my table to put you on display. You would sit by my side tonight if you were my betrothed in truth.”

She lifted her wine goblet and took a delicate sip when she would rather consume every drop in one swallow. Numbing herself with wine would accomplish nothing except to make herself look more the fool. Still, that small taste of fine burgundy seemed to loosen her tongue. “I know as well as they do that I am the last woman you would marry. Just as they know that I share your chamber willingly, if Lenore is the gossip I suspect. This morning I put to rest a rather disturbing rumor that you forced me to share your bed as revenge for my part in your betrayal at Lonsdale.” Her smile turned sickly sweet. “I would not want your servants to think badly of you, or see your reputation suffer because of me.”

Guy stood abruptly, an intense blue fire in his eyes as he gazed down at her. The hall grew quiet.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. Instead he looked out over the hall and held up his goblet. “I would have you raise your drinks and your voices in a toast.” He turned to Claudia. “To Lady Claudia, who risked her life at Lonsdale Castle to save mine.”

Her name echoed from the lips of everyone gathered in
the great hall. Claudia couldn’t have been more stunned if Guy had slapped her. “Why did you do that?”

He took a drink of his wine, then lifted her hand to press a chaste kiss against her cold fingers. His eyes didn’t leave her. “I would not have my people think badly of you, or see your reputation suffer because of me.” He sat down again, his expression solemn. “In truth, I simply told them to treat you with respect, or they will answer to me.”

“I did not hear you say that.”

“What is said and what is heard are often two different things.” He watched her closely, as if searching for something in her face. “I would not have you hide in the shadows at Montague as you did at Lonsdale. You will find friends among my people if you give them a chance to know you.”

She turned her attention to her meal and reached for a bowl of mint sauce, then slathered the green goo on a slice of mutton. “I am not very good at making friends. Indeed, I have made no friends since I left Italy. Most English think me odd because I do not speak as they do. They have trouble understanding what I say.”

“I can understand you just fine.” He motioned his squire, Stephen, forward and helped himself to the platter of roast beef the boy carried. “I told you it would help to speak our language more often. And my people are more accustomed to foreigners in their midst than those at Lonsdale. You will not be ostracized because you are not English.”

“Perhaps.” She wondered what it would be like to have friends again. Not that she intended to make any at Montague. That would only make leaving more difficult. Life was much simpler without entanglements. Uncle Laurence had done her a favor by making certain she had no friends at Lonsdale, no one she would miss when she left, no possessions of any account to regret leaving behind, not even a pet. Her departure from Montague would be the same. No friends to miss, and no regrets.

She looked at Guy and knew that was a lie. What had
filled her thoughts before he came into her life? What had she seen when she closed her eyes?

She couldn’t recall. He rode into her life and it would never be the same. Even this night would become a memory, the look in his eyes when he toasted her, the sound of his deep voice, the way he smiled at her. Small memories to tuck away like keepsakes. But would they be memories of a happier time, or reminders she would rather forget?

The signs did not bode well that these would be happy times at Montague. They would mark a change in her life, of that she had no doubt. Was it too much to hope that a change in her life might just once be for the better? Guy’s offer came to mind once more, and she knew the answer to her question. His money would not buy her happiness, no more than selling herself to him would buy his affections.

She glanced out over the great hall again, taking in all the obvious marks of his wealth and power. For a man of the world, he could be remarkably unenlightened at times. Why couldn’t he understand that her refusal had nothing to do with the gifts he offered or the price he would pay? It was the price he demanded that would always make her turn away when she wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around her, to experience the breathtaking magic of his kisses. She would lose a piece of her heart when he tired of her. She had precious little of it left to lose.

Everyone has a price, Claudia
.

Those words would echo in her mind forever. He was wrong about that. It was the price he demanded that was too high. Guy would pay for his pleasure with gold. She would pay for hers with her soul.

A murmur went through the crowd, and Claudia’s gaze went to the double archway where a richly dressed knight entered the great hall, his black cloak pushed over one of his broad shoulders to reveal a matching black tunic and hose, and a pair of tall boots that ended midthigh. He was armed to the teeth. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword to keep
the sheathed tip from striking the floor as he strode forward. He wore not one but two deadly misericords on the right side of his sword belt, with another, shorter dagger at his waist. His long strides revealed the hilt of a fifth weapon strapped to his thigh, almost hidden by his boots. This was a man who expected to find trouble.

He drew to a halt before Guy and gave his lord a low bow. When he straightened, Claudia glanced at his face, to take in more than the vague impression of brown hair and dark eyes. Her mouth dropped open. “Friar Thomas.”

“Lady Claudia.” Thomas smiled and gave her a look bolder than any she recalled from Lonsdale, the look of a man who might be trying to decide what she wore beneath her gown rather than the darting glances of a pious friar.

She was too startled to take offense. Other than the color of his hair and the shape of his eyes, it was hard to believe that this man and Friar Thomas were one and the same. The robes had made the friar look lanky and awkward. She glanced once more at his build and saw no trace of awkwardness, only the long, lithe body of a man who knew how to use the weapons he wore so casually. Even his face looked different, his plain features made more handsome by an air of self-confidence and a wolfish grin.

She looked at Guy and found him watching her already, a dark look in his eye. “There are things I must discuss with Thomas. I will have Evard escort you to my chamber.”

“But—”

“I will likely retire late tonight,” he interrupted. “Do not wait up for me.”

He turned to Evard, who sat at his left, and gave him instructions to escort Claudia to his chamber, then to post a guard outside his door. Claudia wondered if the guard was to keep others out or to keep her within. None would be foolish enough to enter their lord’s chamber without permission, so that answer seemed obvious. She lifted her chin and bid him good night with a stiff nod.

Guy watched Claudia leave the hall, certain she was offended by his abrupt dismissal. He didn’t care. He wanted to hear Thomas’s report before she did, to decide what he would tell her of the events that had taken place at Lonsdale after their escape. He was annoyed by the appreciative glances she gave his knight. His gaze moved to Thomas, more annoyed to see the knight watching her departure as well.

“Have a seat, Thomas.” He gestured toward Claudia’s empty chair, then took a long drink of wine while he waited for Thomas to make his way around the table.

“ ’Tis good to be home again, my lord.” Thomas sat down and motioned a servant forward to bring him a trencher of food. “I am famished. My squire and I rode hard from Lonsdale and stopped just long enough to water the horses.” He reached across the table to pull several platters of meat closer to his trencher.

“I would hear word of the situation at Lonsdale before you fill your mouth with food.”

The cold tone of Guy’s voice made Thomas set his knife aside. He gave his trencher a wistful glance, then turned his attention to Guy. “You are about to be married, my lord.”

8

C
laudia was asleep when Guy returned to his chamber late that night. He had told her not to wait up for him, but he felt a stab of disappointment anyway. She lay amidst the pillows in front of the fireplace, wearing the same dark blue gown she had slept in the night before. The light from the fire cast a reddish sheen to her unbound hair, a tempting sight that drew him forward. Her skin reflected the golden colors of the flames, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, while the other rested upon a length of emerald-green brocade, a silver needle still held in her outstretched hand.

She had tried to wait up for him. He smiled and unstrapped his sword belt to place it next to the bed, then he knelt beside her.

She was no less beautiful asleep than awake. Last night he had spent hours staring at her, so tired that his eyes were nearly crossed, yet not so tired that he could deny them such a pleasing sight. For some reason he hadn’t noticed until now how long her lashes were, that they nearly grazed her cheeks. His hand hovered next to her face before he realized he had reached out to touch her. He hesitated.

He had the right to touch her. Thomas confirmed that the Church had indeed given its blessings to their union through the dubious actions of Bishop Germaine. They were betrothed, yet that was not enough. Not for Claudia, anyway. Not when she knew he intended to break the betrothal. Rather than brush his fingertips along her cheek, he reached down to take the needle from her limp grasp, smoothing his fingertips along the lines of her hand, then turning it over to trace the small callouses on her palm. It was not the hand of a
helpless lady who expected to be waited upon by others, but one that could scale a castle wall when the occasion warranted. Or wield a quill with more skill than most of the clerks in his hire, or sew a tunic for a man who forced her to sleep before his hearth like a common hound. Little wonder she rarely smiled.