for three.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dismounting, Arthur left Ivo to deal with the horses. As he approached, those mismatched eyes widened.
She jumped to her feet. ‘Sir Arthur!’
‘Good evening, ma demoiselle.’
Pushing her hair over her shoulder, she gave him a troubled look. ‘Why are you here?’
Arthur folded his arms. ‘I am come to find you.’
She shifted back a pace. ‘Why?’
‘Orders from Count Henry.’ He gave her a brief bow and looked deep into those mismatched eyes. ‘I am to escort you to the man we believe to be your father.’
She went white. ‘M-my father?’
Arthur waited. He was interested to hear what she said if he did not prompt her.
‘My father?’ Mouth working, she took that step back towards him. ‘Sir, since I’ve already told you that I don’t know where I was born and that I suspect I am baseborn, you must be making fun of me. I do not know my father. And he does not know me.’
‘I believe I have worked out who he might be—’
‘Sir?’
She seemed to stop breathing. Had this girl been Geoffrey’s lover? Arthur longed to know. Those unusual eyes were very expressive and the hunger with which she was watching him was curiously moving. She looked wary, almost hopeful. It came to him that she was afraid. She wasn’t used to feeling hopeful and it frightened her.
‘It’s my belief your father is a powerful and wealthy Breton nobleman. His name is Count Myrrdin de Fontaine.’
Clare looked blankly at him, as though she had never heard of Count Myrrdin de Fontaine which, given that Count Myrrdin had been one of the leading noblemen in Brittany, was passing strange.
‘You’ve not heard of Count Myrrdin?’
Slowly, she shook her head. ‘No, sir.’ She glanced away. ‘As I mentioned before, I have spent many years abroad. Where is Fontaine again?’
‘It’s many miles to the west of here, in the Duchy of Brittany. Count Myrrdin has largely retired from the world, but in his day he was known as a man of great honour.’ He gentled his tone. ‘I do not think he would reject you.’
‘Sir Arthur, most men would find an illegitimate daughter a great embarrassment, they would be ashamed. What makes you so certain Count Myrrdin will accept me?’
‘He has been a widower for some years. He has a strong sense of right and wrong, and if you are his child, he would want to know of it. Count Henry agrees with me, which is why he has given me this commission. Incidentally, you might like to know that Count Myrrdin has another daughter.’
‘I assume she is legitimate.’
‘Yes, and thanks to her marriage to the Comte des Iles, she is already a countess—the Countess Francesca des Iles.’
‘You are certain Count Myrrdin is my father?’
Reaching out, Arthur took her by the shoulders. Even though his touch was light, she strained away from him. He frowned and gently turned her to face the hissing torches. ‘It’s your eyes,’ he murmured, looking into them. Truly they were fascinating—the green one had grey and silver flecks in it, and the grey one had black speckles near the pupil. ‘You have one green and one grey, exactly like Count Myrrdin. It’s so unusual. You’re his daughter, I know it.’
Long eyelashes lowered, she shifted and Arthur released her. The instant he did, she edged away. It was like a dance. She came near, she edged back, she came near...
She fears men.
Arthur jerked his head towards the inn. ‘What’s the food like in there?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘You haven’t eaten?’
Her eyes wouldn’t meet his. ‘Not yet, sir.’
Arthur found himself scowling at the cloak on the hook behind her. ‘You were planning to eat tonight?’
‘I...I, yes, of course. I shall eat later.’
She was lying. Glad that he’d asked Ivo to order food for three, Arthur’s gaze shifted to the cart and the pile of straw. ‘You were going to sleep out here. Lord, woman, that’s begging for trouble. Come along, I am buying your supper.’
‘Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t.’
He reached past her, ignored the way she shied away from him, and lifted her cloak from the peg. It was pathetically light. It would be useless at keeping out rain and cold. ‘Of course you can.’ With a grin he added, ‘Particularly since Count Henry will be paying for it.’
She hung back. ‘Sir Arthur, I can’t. You don’t understand, I’ve promised to rest here. I’m guarding the cart tonight.’
‘You? Guarding the cart?’
‘The merchant wanted to charge me when I asked for a ride.’ She shrugged. ‘I haven’t 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