he fight?
And for whom?
‘This husband of yours, for example,’ he continued. ‘Where is he?’
Husband. Where is my husband? She took a bite of cheese, trying to think. Aunt Matilda was right. She should be mindful of her tongue. She was creating too many lies to count. She should never have left the man here alone. If he had prowled the house while she was away, he would know no man lived under this roof.
She took another sip of ale. ‘I told you I am responsible. He is away.’
‘Away.’ He pulled at the word as if it were the thread that could unravel a whole cloth. ‘And what is he doing…away?’
What lie is something like the truth? ‘Buying… selling.’
‘Buying and selling what?’
He leaned towards her. Too close. A shaft of late-afternoon sun sculpted his strong cheekbones, softened by an unruly curl of chestnut hair.
The silence grew so large that she had to fill it.
‘He is trying to find more wool.’ That at least was true. But it was her father, not her husband, who had travelled to England on a wool-buying trip.
‘How pleased he will be when he returns to find you have succeeded.’
‘Certainly he will be pleased when you succeed.’
He gave her a lazy smile. She let go of her breath. He was satisfied. There would be no more questions about her husband.
‘Has he been away long?’
She had relaxed too soon. ‘A while.’
‘You must miss him.’
She felt her face melt. Too late, she wondered if her expression was appropriate to a wife. ‘Yes.’
‘And where is your husband looking for this wool?’
She reached for the ale again. Any answer she gave would be wrong.
If she said her husband was in England, Renard would know he was either jailed or a traitor to the Count of Flanders.
If she admitted she had no husband, she would be caught in her lie and exposed as a vulnerable woman at Renard’s mercy.
If she admitted she was under her uncle’s protection, Renard would demand to confer with him.
‘I really don’t know where he is this week, Monsieur Renard,’ she said.
‘You’re unprotected?’
She bit the unguarded tongue that had revealed too much. Once again her impulsive words had led her to the brink of disaster. He must learn no more.
Yet his eyes would not let her turn away. They put her in mind of the things that men and women did. Alone. What would she do if he reached for her?
If he kissed her?
A sinful thought no decent woman would have. ‘No,’ she answered. ‘You will be my protector.’
Did she only imagine his eyes became a darker blue? ‘More demands? You haven’t even paid for the wool.’
‘I said you would have an answer this afternoon, not your pay.’ Her father’s bag of coins lay hidden safe in her chest. ‘I do not keep such sums lying about.’
His smile became a scowl. ‘First you cannot decide, then you cannot pay.’ He sat up, wrapping the last of the bread and cheese as if to leave. ‘I have no more time to waste with you.’
‘No. Please. Wait.’ She grabbed his arm. She must not lose him now.
He paused. ‘For how long?’
How long would it take to get to her uncle’s house and back? ‘’Til curfew.’
The lazy smile was gone and she saw no pity in his eyes. But something shifted inside him.
‘Curfew. No longer.’
She nodded and left the shop, closing the door with shaking fingers. She was still trembling as she crossed the bridge and hurried past the Count’s castle, thrusting out at the junction of river and canal like a mountain looming over the city. But she had no time to think about Renard’s eyes or the uncomfortable feelings he raised.
She must enter and leave the house without being seen or she would not be back before curfew. If her uncle forced her to go with him to Gravere, she would not be back at all.
Chapter Three
Katrine tiptoed up the stairs to her room unseen by her aunt, who was peering carefully at each fork before she wrapped it for travel. But as Katrine opened her trunk to grab the bag of coins hidden under her clothes, she heard the heavy thump of her uncle’s steps.
Wood scraped on wood as he flung open the door. She stuffed the coins back to the bottom of the trunk, then smoothed the folds from her second-best kirtle, re-folding the warm gold wool with damp palms.
‘Don’t turn your back on me.’ He grabbed her right arm and swung her around him. The kirtle tumbled into a golden puddle.
A sour taste cut her tongue. ‘I am facing you now,’ she said, chin up, looking squarely into his eyes. There was a strangeness there that made her shiver. ‘What do you want?’
‘Hurry your packing. We must be well along before dark.’
Think before you speak. But there was only the truth. ‘I am not going. I must tend my father’s work.’
He tightened his grip and shook her. ‘Your place is where I say it is.’ He closed the open lid. ‘With us. Your father indulged you too long. The shop is closed. Now. Today.’
‘No.’ She wrenched her arm away from his grip, rubbing the spot his fingers had bruised. It was too late to placate him and she had never been good at it.
‘Wilful wench. You’re a curse on the name of Gravere.’
Over and over, he had said so, until all she wanted to do was hide from a shame she didn’t even understand. ‘If you think so, then I’ll free you from concern about me. I’ll move to the shop.’
The thought alone brought blessed relief. How wonderful to be away from the reach of his fist.
‘You think to live alone and play the whore?’ His eyes turned hot, wild. She no longer tried to meet them. He looked frantically at her wimple, then at her surcoat, then at her skirts, as if searching for a way inside the layers of clothes concealing everything but her face and hands. ‘You are an evil, red-haired daughter of Eve and the Devil,’ he snarled, at last. ‘A temptation to man.’
By the blessed saint, what have I done that leads him to these thoughts?
‘I am the daughter of Lady Mary and Sir Denys de Gravere,’ she said, wishing again she had told her father what went on when he was away from the house. It had not seemed important when he was gone only a few days. ‘Your brother is no devil.’
His breath came faster. He flexed his fingers as if they itched to move over her body and glared directly at her mouth. ‘You are your mother’s daughter. You have her face. Her body. Her sins.’
‘There was no sin in her.’ She barely remembered her mother, but she knew that.
‘Enough.’ He laid his hands on her and pushed. Unprepared, her knees buckled, hitting the plank floor with bruising force. ‘You will obey me.’
Saint Catherine, give me courage. She swallowed her fear, then stared back, pinching the wool of her skirt so tightly the weave carved its pattern on her thumb. ‘No.’
His fingers hovered close to her throat. Then, his thumbs choked