Page 36 of Lord of the Forest

Offering himself as her devoted slave seemed not unwelcome. “Have I your word on that, sir?” She raised an eyebrow.

“If you think my word worth anything, then, mayhap. Yes.”

“Mayhap yes?” She aimed a mock slap at him. “Enough, you peculiar creature. Let us be gone. We have a house to search—no small house at that.”

“Must I dress, if there are none to see?”

She colored again. Despite the discomfort in his stomach, he was enjoying this. It seemed—among other things—that he’d remembered how to tease.

“You mock me, sir. Aye, put on your doublet at the very least. You’ll show up less in the moonlight.”

“You needn’t tell me how to remain hidden. Remember—I’m a master of the art.”

“Then let us go.”

He felt like a boy again—carefree, wicked—as he and Clemence surreptitiously left the inn and made their way through the quiet of the sleeping village toward Emborough Hall.

Were all women as contradictory as Clemence? On the one hand, she wished to tame him, to teach him to abide by the mores of the world she inhabited. On the other hand, she tempted him to break the rules and join her in defying her parents’ strictures. They would not approve of him being alone with her like this—with good reason.

They had reached the gates. Emborough Hall stood before them, a block of high walls and towers etched in darkness against the night sky. It looked forbidding, unnatural—all those straight lines, those multifaceted windows gazing out at him like a myriad of eyes.

She claimed he’d been poisoned. He’d thought it just rotten meat, and stopped eating it before it had any serious effect. But what if she was correct, and it was poison? They weren’t safe in Milforde. Should he have brought some weapon? If only he knew what had become of his sword. Mayhap he’d find something inside he might use—a man should be able to protect himself and his lady. For now, his speed and his fists would have to serve.

Clemence was trying to be silent, he noticed, though he couldn’t help but be aware of the swish of her skirts as she moved. He didn’t need to tell her to walk on the turf as they approached the house, avoiding the noisy stones and gravel of the avenue.

As it turned in the lock, the key was deafening to his ears, a strident sound in the muffled night, and one he felt sure was audible for miles. As the door opened, he hurried her inside and then bolted it behind them as softly as possible.

As Clemence held her horn lantern aloft, the shadows flew back against the walls like great, dark wings, but he knew no fear. He was used to dealing with the corporeal and had no belief in spirits. The only ghosts he experienced were his dreams, which haunted him even in the light of day.

Was the slaying of his brother the cause of those dreams? Something terrible must have happened if he, Hector de Glanville, had felt the need to kill his own kin.

As if reading his mind, Clemence asked, “Did Paris live here with you, or had he another dwelling?”

“When our parents died, he would have inherited this place, so I must assume he lived here.” It was so frustrating being unable to remember.

“Can you picture your parents?”

He tried. “Nay.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “No matter. There is bound to be a picture of them hereabouts. Shall we search together or separately?”

“Together.” They’d only brought one lantern, and even if another could be found, he’d not let Clemence leave his side if there were murderers about.

They explored all the rooms on the ground floor of the hall, including two parlors, a laundry room, the stillroom, and the kitchen. While searching the great hall, Lancelot found an antiquated sword, mounted high on a wall. On a nail below it, concealed by a dusty hanging, were a sword belt and scabbard. Hoping it would hold his weight, he placed a chair on a chest and climbed up to retrieve them, keen to have a weapon in his hand.

Clemence mocked him. “That sword looks as if it dates back to the Crusades.”

“What know you of the Crusades?” He clambered down and wiped the sword on his hose, then tested its edge.

“I studied my history primer. The queen won’t take an uneducated lady into her retinue, you know, having been so well educated herself. What know you of the Crusades? I thought you’d lost your memory?”

He tried the weight of the sword, then swung it around in an arc. His arm seemed to move of its own accord, blocking imaginary blows to his shoulders and legs.

“Some of my knowledge has been restored by reading your father’s books. Some things I simply remember—or at least the knowledge comes back if I worry at it like a terrier at a rat. And sometimes, skills return to me—like this.” He swung the sword again, stabbing it with pinpoint accuracy at the center of a red poppy on the tapestry. “Hopefully, more abilities will return if I have need of them.”

“You have scars on your back. Someone attacked you with a sword or a knife, and evidently bested you.”

A fact he had to face, though he hated it. “Mayhap I had no weapon with which to defend myself. Or was already incapacitated.”