Page 24 of Lord of the Forest

“Get up. I’ll strike a light. I want to see.”

Right now, his will was so weak, he’d to do anything to please her. He rolled away, drew back the drapes, and stood by the bed while she hunted for a tinderbox and set a candle burning.

For a moment, he wondered why she’d dramatically thrown her hands in front of her eyes. Then he remembered, reached for a sheet, and tied it around his waist.

She circled him with the candle. “Stand up straight.”

He obliged, folding his arms across his chest. Only to be subjected to the delightful torment of Clemence tracing shapes on his back.

“I never noticed these before.” She sounded totally immersed in her examination. “I would say these have been done with a blade. Like the time I sliced my thumb with the ax when chopping kindling. The scars are old, I think, but each shows the same depth of healing as if the injuries were all made at the same time.”

Of course, he could not see what she meant and had no intention of asking her to hunt through the sleeping house for a mirror so he could examine his back.

“I can give you no answers. Now, hadn’t you better return to your bed?”

Suddenly, the door to the chamber was flung open. William Fitzpayne stood there in nightcap and gown, a flickering candle in his hand and a thunderous expression on his face.

“I’m in complete agreement. Get you gone, Clemence. I shall deal with you later. Now, sirrah, what have you to say for yourself?”

Lancelot stood in front of Clemence. He didn’t know how this kind of scene was meant to play out, but his instinct was to shield her from her father’s wrath. Parent or no, if the man harmed her, he’d do whatever he must to protect her.

“Nothing happened, Father.” Clemence stepped out from behind Lancelot, but he waved her back again.

She peeped around the other side of him. “Listen to me, and don’t lose your temper. I think Lancelot has been attacked. In a cruel, cowardly manner, from behind. Come, see these marks on his back.”

“I’ll not be distracted.” Fitzpayne’s voice sounded thick as if he were trying not to choke. “Get dressed Clemence, and you, too, fellow. You have shamed my daughter, and must now make reparation.”

Reparation? Lancelot knew, from what he’d learned about society, what Fitzpayne meant by that. Marriage. But he had no idea how it could be achieved.

Clemence answered for him. “Marriage? You go too far, Father. Nothing untoward has happened, I swear. You know how unconventional Lancelot can be. I heard a noise and came to—”

“Silence.” The single word fell between them like a rock in an echoing chasm. Clemence sucked in a breath but held her tongue.

Lancelot waited, dread mingled with joy. The possibility of uniting himself to Clemence was enormously attractive—but what had he to offer her that would be acceptable?

Fitzpayne finally broke eye contact with him, so he relaxed his shoulders and unclenched his fists. This was a situation that could only be amended with words, not deeds.

“Much as I hate to disappoint de Glanville, I think he will not want you now. And I don’t intend to deceive an honorable man. You must marry the one who has sullied your reputation. And to further that end, we are going to find out who he is, and see him restored to his place in society. If you’re correct about his noble blood, he’ll be well able to maintain a wife.”

Lancelot went rigid. This was the very last thing he wanted.

Panic made him hasty in his answer. “And if you are unlucky, sir, you will have allied your daughter to a murderer, and your family will be ruined.”

He could tell, from the astounded look on Fitzpayne’s face, that he had just revealed far too much.

Chapter Eleven

The following day, Clemence joined her father, mother, and Lancelot in a deputation to Hackpen Court, the home of Sir Kester Bayliss, Justice of the Peace.

Though Lancelot would have preferred to involve no one else in his affairs, she knew he’d sacrifice whatever he must to protect her. The knowledge sent goosebumps skittering across her skin, and tied her stomach up in knots, stoking the embers of affection to a flame of admiration. He couldn’t possibly be a murderer—she could never admire a man who’d done so terrible a deed. And if he were guilty, there must have been extreme provocation.

She glanced across at him, straight-backed and proud as he rode her father’s tallest stallion, Marathon. Lancelot’s features were set, but he held his head high, staring ahead. No one had known, until this moment, if he was able to ride a horse, but when he’d taken the reins, he’d held them correctly—and after a few words in Marathon’s ear, the great beast was more than content to carry him.

Not a word was spoken during the half-hour it took them to reach Sir Kester’s abode, but an air of doom lay about them like a cloud. Clemence did her best to look unashamed, to appear the injured innocent. Yet part of her thrilled at the idea that—after last night’s events—she might no longer be forced to wed Walter de Glanville. And if—as she surmised—Lancelot were a nobleman, mayhap he had connections at court, so she would still be able to attend upon the queen.

But with a husband like Lancelot, would she want to be a maid-of-honor? Wouldn’t she miss those strong arms, that masculine allure, that fascinating, unpredictable character? What she felt for him was so different from what she’d felt for Simeon Bayliss that she hardly knew what to call it.

She’d been obsessed with Simeon, had worshipped the ground upon which he walked, and wanted to be with him each waking hour. She’d hung on his every word, drinking each syllable in like a drop of sacred nectar, revering him almost as a god. But now she knew those to be the fancies of a besotted young maiden, not the needs or desires of a woman. Simeon had been little more than a youth when he died, despite the agility of his mind, and the depth of his learning.