Page 51 of Lord of the Forest

She pulled a face. “It does. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’m sure the beast can manage two. Come.”

“Where are we going?”

Somewhere they could be alone. He’d had plenty of time to think while lingering in that cell, and the inability to act had eaten at him like a canker. There were things he needed to say to Clemence. And things he yearned to do.

“To restore you to Clairbourne Manor, of course. Mayhap en route, we might return to my holly glade and collect my shoes. In case they are of use as evidence, or to help restore further memories.”

She gaped up at him. “Does this mean you’re actually going to let me see where your den is hidden?”

He’d like to show her a great deal more than that. But he needed to get her promise first. Taking her hand, he hurried her back to the stable yard, removed the sidesaddle, and hoisted her onto her mare’s back. Jumping up behind her, he pulled her against him and whispered in her ear, “Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne, will you marry me?”

Chapter Twenty

Clemence was given no time to answer. No sooner was she settled across Sorrel’s neck than Lancelot urged the horse to a canter, bouncing her up and down, so she had to cling on to the mare’s mane to steady herself. As soon as they were out of the town, he dug his heels in, urging the horse to a gallop. She twisted, throwing her arms around Lancelot’s sturdy waist and hanging on for dear life as they sped along the highway.

“You’re. Mad,” she managed, digging her fingers into his hard muscles. “You’ll. Kill. Us. Both.”

“Nay. I am just feasting on freedom at the moment. Can you not feel it?”

She felt the laughter build up in his stomach, let it spill over her, ensnaring her in his pleasure. Aye, it did feel like freedom—just the pair of them riding bareback, unconstrained by company, ignoring propriety, and caring nothing for risk. But he’d asked her a question. Did he not require an answer?

“You said something about marriage,” she gasped out, ducking to avoid a protruding tree branch.

“I did. But if I remember aright, a young lady likes to be given time to ponder her answer. I know I need not approach your father, as he virtually thrust you into my arms when he discovered I was heir to Emborough.”

He could trust her not to be influenced by such concerns—she would have taken him were he as poor as a church mouse. But would it signal the end of her hopes to become a courtier? To be a maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth?

It all depended, she supposed, on how much she loved him. And how much freedom he was prepared to give her.

She glanced down. “Lancelot—you’re not wearing your shoes!” Or his stockinged hose.

“What has that to do with anything? I dislike being shod.”

“Not every surface is clean or as soft as grass.” His feet would soon become sore on cobbles and gravel—even wooden floorboards, which were unforgivably cold in winter.

Could she wed a man with so many peculiarities? She’d never be bored, would she? A warm glow began in her stomach and slowly spread to every part of her body.

“I’m quite amenable to marrying you, Hector Lancelot de Glanville, if you don’t rule out the possibility of us going to court.”

He slowed the horse a little, letting Sorrel find her own pace. Clemence loved the flexing of his thigh muscles as he controlled their mount. What would it be like, she wondered, to sit astride a horse, with a man at one’s back, holding one tightly? But she couldn’t ask now—someone might see. Their current position was unseemly enough.

“Conditions? So soon?” He sounded amused. “I daresay, knowing you, there will be more. I hope you prove worth the sacrifices you intend me to make.”

She should slap him, only she’d lose her balance and fall off the horse.

“Your conditions may be met,” he added. “I shan’t rule anything out of our relationship, so long as you don’t either.”

She flushed, not understanding his meaning, but suspecting from the tone of his voice that he was referring to something sinful. An image flashed into her mind—Lancelot shirtless in the rain, lifting his arms to the heavens and relishing the feel of the cool drops on his skin. If only she could make him feel like that.

Before she could frame a reply, she was surrounded by the green darkness of foliage and realized they’d left the road and entered the forest. She sniffed at the familiar smells as Sorrel slowed to a walk; the rank scent of nettles, the earthy aromas of hedge garlic and bellbind, and the cloying sweetness of honeysuckle.

The mare was brought to a halt by a shallow watercourse and left to drink once they’d dismounted. Was this the stream that led to Lancelot’s grove? Picking up her skirts, Clemence followed him, only to discover that the wood consisted of a network of small streams, ancient dykes and ditches, and patches of impenetrable undergrowth. He was doing her the honor of letting her see the way to his hideout, but it was obvious that she’d never be able to find it on her own.

She was breathless, unkempt, and scratched by thorns when he finally halted in front of a dark wall of holly. Placing his hands on his hips, he stared at it awhile.

“It seems—smaller than I recall. Although the holly must have grown. Where is that springy branch? Ah, here.” He held it aside for her, grinning broadly as she shuffled through, trying to protect her gown.