Page 30 of Lord of the Forest

More importantly, once he’d taken a wife, would he know what to do with her? Or would he throw her over his shoulder and climb a tree, or throw her in the pond and give her a wash?

“Something amuses you, Mistress Clemence. Not me, I trust. I have remembered to finish my frumenty with my spoon—see? Even if it will be stone cold by the time I’m done.”

Splendid. That hunted look had eased, and he was twinkling at her, a wicked smile playing about his lips.

She pushed the bowl with the floating rose petals toward him. “Remember, this is for cleaning fingers, not faces. And you might want to dip your spoon in to cleanse it before you reattach it to your belt.”

He still wore the splendid doublet he’d rescued from Emborough Hall, only—typically for him—he’d made no attempt to do up the laces. Would her mother take him to task about it, or was she too awed at discovering him to be the likely owner of so grand a manor to criticize?

“You must let me have that doublet off you, and see what I can do to mitigate the moth damage. Nay, not now! Not while we’re at our meat. I have a dried lavender and southernwood mixture to keep the moths from your clothes in the future and, if you wish it, I can embroider over the holes.”

His green eyes bored into her. “You still think I need taking care of, Mistress Clemence? Nay—if my claim is upheld, I shall soon be master of a bevy of servants, and my wife will not be expected to mend my clothes.”

His wife. How thrilling that sounded! To have this delectable, fascinating man for one’s own—he was worth a hundred of Walter de Glanville. Nay, a thousand!

She felt need rise in her belly, responding to the invitation in his eyes—and suddenly wished the table, her family, and the Black Bull Inn to blazes. She wanted to be alone with this man, rolling naked in the grass on a summer’s day, exploring and reveling in his enticing body.

“Hector? Hector de Glanville?”

She glanced up as a woman’s voice intruded on her lascivious thoughts. She stared at the new arrivals, a well-dressed lady with a pageboy tagging along behind her.

Clemence’s father glowered. “This room has been bespoken by our party, Madam.” He was out of his seat, looking as if he meant to shoo the pair from the room.

“My apologies.” The lady curtseyed deeply, then fixed her eyes on Lancelot. “I heard you had been seen, sir, and had to learn the truth for myself straightway. Now I know the rumor is no rumor at all, for you are returned to us.”

A puzzled-looking Lancelot rose to his feet and sketched the young woman a bow. She was a comely-looking girl, probably older than Clemence, and well-dressed, with a courtly air about her.

“Do I know you?” Lancelot attempted to be chivalrous but showed no real interest.

“Do you know me? I cannot believe you have forgotten me, sir!”

The woman rocked backward, and Sir Kester immediately leaped up to steady her. He shot Master Hardy a steely glare. “We were supposed to keep this amongst ourselves.”

The attorney shrugged his shoulders. “I have said nothing. I cannot think how the word has spread. What brought you hither, Madam?”

The woman was teetering in Sir Kester’s arms, her bosom rising and falling rapidly. “Myall, the cotton lavender, if you please.”

As the serving boy hurried forward to crush the pungent leaves beneath his mistress’ nose, Sir Kester gallantly gave up his seat. “Who might you be, my lady?” he inquired.

Recovering herself, she sat, saying curtly, “I might ask you the same thing. I came here to see my Hector and, instead, I’m confronted by a host of disapproving strangers. Tell them to be gone, Hector, that we may talk in private.”

Lancelot raised an eyebrow at Clemence, and she responded in kind. This untoward circumstance made her intensely uneasy.

“That, we may not do.” Sir Kester’s voice was firm. “Say what you must before us all.”

“Hector!” She appealed to Lancelot again. “Why do you let them bully us like this? I take it you’re not under arrest or anything?”

“I’ll not answer until you explain yourself.” His expression was set, his voice firm.

“Well, if I must spell it out—” The woman’s lip curled contemptuously as she looked around the table, ensuring she had the attention of all present. “My name is Julia Wentworth, and I am Hector de Glanville’s betrothed.”

Someone’s spoon hit the table with a clatter. Clemence began to choke on her mouthful of manchet and reached for the pitcher of small beer to refill her cup.

Lancelot stuck his knife, point down, into the table, where it quivered ominously. “What devilry is this? I have never seen you before, nor am I betrothed to you. I wager this is no more than speculation on your part. You’ve heard of a wealthy gentleman who’s lost his memory, and come to see what you can gain from it.”

Mistress Wentworth gaped like a fish. The ornate ruff around her neck trembled with her outrage.

“You wound me, sir. Myall!” She beckoned the pageboy forward. “My handkerchief.” This was produced from the basket, so Mistress Wentworth could dab dramatically at her eyes. “First, you disappear a week before the wedding, and now you claim to know nothing of me. I knew not you’d lost your memory—how should I? I just heard you’d been seen, and came as soon as I could. I’m very angry with you, Hector. Furious, in truth. I hope you have a good explanation for your desertion.”