Page 63 of Lord of the Forest

“At least I told you where I was going, and why. You just vanished. What was I supposed to think?”

“That you could trust me.” She was biting her lip now, determined not to weep.

“I do trust you—I do. Only I care for you too much to let you put yourself in danger.”

“As far as I was concerned, I was in no danger. Where has your fighting spirit gone, Lancelot de Glanville? What happened to the magnificent lord of the forest? Have you become as tame as my father?”

She heard him suck in a breath. A horrid silence fell between them. Eventually, he said, “If I am tame, it is because you have made me so.”

Then, without another word, he strode past her and left the malt house. Moments later, she heard the sound of hooves on the cobbles of the courtyard. He was going. But where? As the fight left her, she sank to her knees on the dusty floor, her breath coming in tight, painful bursts. They’d both been angry. They’d both been foolish. And now he was gone, stung by her ill-chosen taunt.

She must saddle up her horse again and ride after him, ask for forgiveness. She understood the kind of apprehension he must have felt when he discovered her missing, and feared the worst. Because it was precisely what she was feeling now.

Leaping to her feet, she was about to pursue him, when a man’s figure filled the doorway.

“Clemence? Where the devil have you been?”

“Oh, Father! I’ve had the most terrible disagreement with Lancelot. I must go to him.”

“He’s ridden off. And you, Daughter, have no more journeys to make this day.”

“But—”

“But me no buts. I shall not let you out of my sight again until the day you and Lancelot de Glanville are married.”

She bit back a sob. Judging by Lancelot’s reaction, that day might never come.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Lancelot rubbed the whetstone down the length of his new sword in a series of expert strokes. He’d been forced to kick his heels at Emborough while the wheels of the law creaked slowly forward, and sharpening weapons was the only thing that calmed him.

Almost, he would have preferred returning to the holly grove, where survival was a daily challenge. Life at Emborough held difficulties of its own, admittedly, but none were so visceral, so imperative—or so rewarding—as his existence in the forest.

But now, he had duties and responsibilities—and he was doing his utmost to prove himself capable. Yet, the loss of Clemence’s esteem gnawed away at all his certainties and undermined his confidence.

No matter how often he told himself their words had been spoken in the heat of the moment, he felt helpless. He was no courtier, no poet, no peddler of sweet words. He did not know how to mend the rift between them. If she no longer loved him, he must accept that. They would have to marry after what had happened in the forest, whether she was with child or no. He had recklessly ruined her for any other man, believing their love was so strong that nothing would tear them apart.

Yet, it seemed as if something had. What he needed now was courage of a different kind. He could not win Clemence’s love with the strength of his arm, the pleasures of the body, or logical argument—not that he had any great skill at the latter.

He must abase himself, go before her as a penitent, rescind those words spoken in anger born of fear. And if he had to make absolution for the rest of their married life, he would do it. Even if he no longer had her heart, to have her to wife was a prize beyond riches.

One thing he’d learned from their battle was that women were allowed to be contrary. They might say one thing and mean another—a man needed to listen with full concentration if he were to understand. Another thing he’d discovered was that Clemence was struggling to get used to the restored-to-society version of Lancelot de Glanville. Elements of that forest-dwelling outcast had attracted her. His unpredictability had amused her, and some of his primal behavior had enticed her. Though he was obliged to be temperate in public, mayhap in private, he could use such behavior to soften her heart. He was now ready to make his obeisance to his goddess—assuming she was prepared to grant him an audience.

“Sir, the head gardener wishes a word with you.” Emborough’s steward, Master March, stood in the doorway of the parlor.

Perfect. Distraction was precisely what he needed. He had begun some changes to the overgrown formal gardens at Emborough, which he particularly hoped would give Clemence pleasure.

“I shall be there directly.” He glanced down at his shoes, reluctantly put them on, and did up the ties. He’d barely had time to straighten when there was a sudden pounding on the main door.

“Master March? What’s amiss?”

His steward must have already departed, for it was one of Emborough’s new maidservants who appeared at the parlor door, bobbing and pale-faced.

“Sir, there are some gentlemen to see you.”

He rolled his eyes. If another constable had come to arrest him, he’d move back to the forest. And never return to civilization again.

“Did anyone give a name?” He must have looked fearsome, for the maid paled still further.