Lord of Midnight (12 page)

“I am upset with myself because I was harsher than I meant to be.”

She half turned to go back, to moderate her words, but he stayed her with a touch. “His work was not shoddy?”

She edged away from his hand, his disturbing hand. “His young daughter drowned in the river last week. It’s not surprising—”

“What if his poor work endangered others?”

“I know. I know. But I spoke so sharply to impress you, my lord. For no other reason.” Oh dear. That wasn’t wise.

The brows rose. “Have you decided you want to be my bride after all?”

“No!” At his look, she confessed. “I just didn’t want you to think of me as a child or a fool. After last night.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “I assure you, my lady, after last night I do not think of you as a child.”

She would have run from him then if dignity had allowed. Instead, she turned away. “Come to the dairy, my lord.”

The cool of the stone building was welcome to her panicked cheeks. She must stop letting him fluster her like this! Soon she’d be free of him. Very soon.

“The milking shed is through there.” She indicated a wooden door. “But the milch cows and goats will be out in the pasture now. Do you understand how a dairy works, my lord?”

He looked around, big and dark in this woman’s place. “I see maids hard at work.” The maids brushed and dimpled at him, and Claire knew some of them would be happy to warm the new lord’s bed. Well, that would be Felice’s problem, not hers.

“The herdsmen milk the animals,” she said, “then bring the milk here for the maids to sieve. Now it’s had time to settle—”

“They are skimming the cream.”

He strolled over to where one maid deftly scooped the cream off the top of the milk then poured it into a stone jug. Joan was one of the best dairymaids, and didn’t spill a drop, but at that moment Claire could have tossed her out to work in the fields for the way she was eyeing Renald de Lisle.

He smiled back at the dairymaid as he slid a fingertip along the top of her milk so it gathered a yellow cap. Then he raised it to his lips, but turned to Claire. “Fine cream.”

Claire knew she had turned bright red— partly with anger, partly with some other emotion. “Fine cream makes fine butter—if it is not guzzled by passing rogues!” Her cursed veil slipped, and she pushed it straight and tugged the circlet fiercely down. Almost immediately it started to ride up again. Oh, if only she had the dignity of her long hair back!

She marched over to the churn, which was operated by sensible, middle-aged Freda, but even Freda grinned at de Lisle as if she’d like a chance in his bed.

Claire directed his attention to a large vat. “Cheese. Not today’s milk. The curds are setting.” She held out a wooden cup to him. “Buttermilk?”

He took it and drank. “Yesterday’s, of course.”

She stared. “How did you know?”

“I know it takes time to make butter, and besides, the contents of that churn are still liquid. The sound says it.”

She drained her cup and put it down with a slap. “I’m not surprised that you’re familiar with dairies, my lord. After all, the maids rarely are.”

“True enough,” he said as he followed her out, and she heard humor. He didn’t even have the shame to deny her implication that dairymaids were often wanton.

“Where next?” he asked.

“The weavers.” Her veil slid backward this time. With a huff, she salvaged dignity by snatching it off and carrying it wadded into a ball. She must look a figure of fun, but at least she wouldn’t be distracted by trying to manage it. She was having a hard enough time managing her wits. She knew she’d never be able to manage this man.

They entered the wooden weaving sheds, promptly surrounded by the clack of shuttles and the thump of weaving bars. Tufts of fibers danced in the air.

Claire led him toward one loom, batting a tuft out of her face. She felt something and whirled. He was rolling some wool fibers between his strong fingers. “Is the local wool good?”

He must have plucked it off her hair. She hadn’t known hair could be so sensitive. “Some of the best, my lord.”

“And is much sold, or is it all kept for Summerbourne use?”

“We sell some as fleece, yes, and some as cloth. It is one of our—” She cut off her words, remembrance of the true situation hitting her. “One of
your
best sources of coin.”

He dropped the lump of wool. “It could be ‘our’ if you wish, Lady Claire.”

It was suddenly tempting. This was, after all, her home and this journey through it only made it the more precious. These were her people, known since birth.

But no, she would be in this man’s power. Completely in his power.

“I do
not
wish, my lord. Come and meet Elfgyth,
your
head weaver. She can make these patterns, you see, and work in fine thread.” She went on to praise the cloth growing under the woman’s busy hands—a warm blend of dyed yarns in shades of brown and gold.

“It is indeed a lovely cloth, Mistress Elfgyth,” he said.

The older woman didn’t so much as look up. “ ‘Twas to be the lord’s winter tunic.”

Her shuttle flew, her bar banged, and the cloth rippled to the ground, mute accusation.

“What did you expect?” Claire asked, surprised by the expression on his face. “I’m sorry if my father casts a shadow on your triumph, my lord, but his presence here will never fade.”

If there’d been a flicker of sensitivity there, it had gone. “Memories do fade, demoiselle, and sometimes we are grateful for it. That cloth can make a winter tunic for the lady of Summerbourne.”

“Felice does not like those shades,” Claire countered as she led the way into the sunshine.

“They would suit you as well as they would have suited your father.”

Her breath caught at memory and implication, but she plowed on. “Where next, my lord?”

“Perhaps that is enough for now.”

“But this is all yours!” Claire said, facing him, searching for one hint of discomfort, any sense that he knew he was a usurper. “You should know your property, my lord.
Down to the last midden
.”

He merely smiled. “Then later, the Lady Felice can show me around the domain we will share. For now, the bell calls us to breakfast.”

As Claire went with him to the hall, she felt as churned as the cream in the dairy. His words stung, she couldn’t deny it. Felice did her duty, but she was careless about many parts of Summerbourne. What would become of it all in her hands?

And she’d been jealous in the dairy. She was too honest to deny it. She couldn’t understand how she could be jealous over a man she despised, a man she didn’t want.

She was bothered, too, by the way her father was fading from his home. Certainly Elfgyth had recalled Lord Clarence, but none of the other workers had. The dairymaids had been too busy simpering and winking at the new lord!

They entered the hall, and talk and laughter surrounded them. It could be any day, not the day after her father’s burial. And it wasn’t only the servants who were leaving her father behind.

Her mother had come out to breakfast and looked much as she had over the past few weeks. She was not the happy woman she had been months ago, but nor was she deep in grief. The grieving had started the day her husband had ridden away, and now was coming to an end.

Lady Agnes was her grumpy self. It was always hard to tell what she felt.

Thomas was the only one who seemed truly unhappy, but that was probably because he’d been caught and was having to serve at table. She hoped the frequent splashes and dropped food were clumsiness not rebellion.

When Thomas presented a platter of bread to her, his lower lip was definitely rebellious. She smiled at him, trying to lighten his mood. He just scowled more.

Oh, Jesu. De Lisle was right. He was spoiled. He should have been trained to such duties years ago.

She’d loved her father dearly, but he’d liked peace and smiles. He’d not thought of training Thomas to be a warrior, and as for learning, with Lady Murielle wanting Thomas happy, it had been easier for her father not to insist on study. Claire had been the one who’d dragged her brother into reading, or considering customs and talleys.

Now her brother had no estate, but lacked the learning to be a cleric, or the skills to be a fighting man. What would become of him if cast out into the world?

“So”—Lady Agnes poked her head forward—“have you decided which to marry, young man?”

“It is for the ladies to decide.”

Thomas was back, this time with a platter of bacon. De Lisle took some to place on Lady Agnes’s trencher. “Isn’t there a story of three goddesses fighting for the favor of a man?”

“Fighting for favor?” Lady Agnes cackled. “These three are fighting to escape the ogre.”

De Lisle turned to Claire. “Ogre?”

Claire wished her grandmother would suffer a temporary loss of voice. “Her word, my lord, not mine.”

“But you are indeed all fighting not to wed me.”

She picked up the piece of meat he’d served to her, glad of an excuse to look away from his perceptive eyes. “Is it surprising? You come here a stranger…”

She reached to take some meat for de Lisle, but with a smirk Thomas tilted the platter so much of it slid off, to the delight of the drained to mud and she only had to pick her way carefully around the edge.

His camp looked more cheerful, too., in the dry and sunshine. His men were clearing up after their own breakfast, or mending clothing, armor, or harness. They seemed orderly for rough soldiers. A guard stood outside the large tent that held her aunts, but he was relaxed and chatting to friends nearby. He snapped to attention at the sight of his lord.

Claire let de Lisle lead her toward the tent, handsome in its bright colors, but she wavered as if suddenly at the brink of something perilous, as if she should stop and beg for time to think.

The guard stepped aside, and de Lisle looked at her as if he could read her mind. “Are you sure?”

For answer, she pulled back the flap of the tent and walked into the dimness. “Felice? Amice… ?”

It was a large tent, luxuriously appointed, but it wasn’t large enough to hide two people. “Felice… ?”

After a frozen moment he stalked by her to the back wall of the tent. He wrenched wide a cut right down it and stepped through.

Claire hurried after, numb with astonishment. “They’ve
gone
? Where? How?”

“The how is clear enough.
To me
!” His bellow brought men running and he glared at them. “Just because we’re in peaceful countryside, you didn’t think to keep watch all around?” Two-handed, he seized the heavy cloth and tore it yet more. “You thought this was a stone wall, perhaps?
Where are the women
?”

His seething rage made Claire’s heart race with panic. She wasn’t surprised to see the hardened soldiers backing away.

Sweet Jesu, the man must be a terror when roused!

“My lord!” She made herself step between. “Have pity! I’m sure my aunts seemed docile enough. I can’t imagine why they felt driven to flee. They must not have received my letter.”

He put her out of his way. “You!” He pointed to one man. “Was the letter delivered?”

“Aye, my lord. Exactly as ordered, my lord!”

“And when were the ladies last seen?”

The man swallowed as if he was about to confess to a mortal sin. “Last night, my lord, when the letter was given to them, my lord! They said they didn’t want to be disturbed until they called. They had their own servants there with them…”

Claire waited, trembling, for repercussions—for floggings, perhaps even slaughter— wondering what she could do to prevent it. But suddenly de Lisle grimaced with exasperation. “Fooled by pretty faces, were you?”

Claire blew out a breath. For a while there, she’d been truly frightened.

Then she became aware of the men eyeing her. She touched her hair, thinking that must be causing them to stare, but they weren’t those kind of stares. A glance showed her clothes were all in order.

Then she realized. They must know that one of the maids of Summerbourne had to marry their lord, and now she was the only one left. They thought they were looking at the bride!

She seized his sleeve. “My lord! We must go after them. They cannot have thought…”

He turned on her. “Your letter doesn’t seem to have been very persuasive, Lady Claire. I wonder what you wrote.”

She snatched her hand back. “You can’t think… I assure you, I do
not
want to marry you! I wrote only good things.”

One brow rose. “I should warn you, my lady, that I consider lying a very serious offense.”

Neatly caught, Claire felt her cheeks turn red. “I didn’t exactly lie.”

“So you think me a paragon, but choose not to marry me. ‘Tis almost a riddle, my lady, but we can unravel it another time. For now, let’s find the other candidates. Where will they have gone?”

Claire considered the matter seriously. Sweet Jesu, they had to get Felice back! “St. Frideswide’s. It’s the only place.”

“How far?”

“No more than a league.”

“And they are on foot. Or at least”—he spoke caustically to his men—“I assume you didn’t let them steal horses as well.”

“No, my lord!” It was almost a chorus of terror.

“Then saddle four.”

Claire teetered on a dilemma. If he was such a terrifying master, could she push Felice into the marriage? She told herself that he was only harsh with his men. After all, despite his veiled threats, he’d not raised hand or voice with her.

Yes, that must be it. He was gentle with women. Some men were like that. But she dared not let him ride out after her aunts in this mood, or not without her.

“My lord Renald, I beg you. Let me come with you.”

His look could raise blisters. “I think not. Your interference seems to have a contrary effect.”

“Me? Probably your men did something to frighten them.”

“And why would they do that?”

At the end of her nerves, Claire put her hands on her hips and glared. “Because they’re rough and uncouth, just like their master!”

He raised his brows. “Lady Claire, am I paragon or ogre?” Without waiting for an answer, he shook his head and stalked off to interrogate his poor men. She noted that he commanded them over to the far side of the camp where she couldn’t hear or see what took place.