Blythe Gifford - Innocence Unveiled

Katrine’s eyes were brown, he thought, suddenly, wondering what colour hair her wimple hid. Her eyebrows had a reddish cast.

He turned the hardness in his loins into a hardness of soul. This time, no muscle flinched in his face. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

‘You used to enjoy the women as much as I do.’

‘I was younger then.’ And too foolish to truly understand that his lust could get a bastard who would live in the same earthly purgatory his life had been. He would not wish that on any man.

‘It’s a shame you can so easily resist the pleasures of feminine comfort.’

‘Easily?’ he scoffed. ‘You know better. But I did not come to the Low Countries on a mission of pleasure.’

‘Neither did the rest of us, but the Bishop of Clare doesn’t let business, or his vows, interfere with his pleasures.’

‘The Bishop is a hypocrite.’ Renard spat out the words as if he could not bear the taste. He laughed then, so Jack would not think much of it.

‘You need a lady to change your mood. I met a lovely one at the bath house.’ He wiggled his eyebrows with a grin.

Renard laughed again, meaning it this time. ‘If you met her at the bath house, she is no lady.’

Jack pressed a hand to his chest in mock indignation. ‘It’s a very strict establishment. She has such red lips, such smooth skin, such blonde hair, and if you don’t like her,’ he cajoled, ‘I’m sure you could find another who would please. Come with me.’

‘I cannot risk being seen with you.’ He rose. ‘After I leave, forget I was here.’

‘If you change your mind about the bath house, it’s on the fork of the river beyond the Count’s castle.’

After he left Jack, Renard pondered the idea. A bath house was a hotbed of gossip. If he kept his ears open, he would hear the city’s mood and perhaps a name or two that might be sympathetic to Edward’s cause. But instead of Jack’s respectable house, he’d visit one hidden among the taverns near the Square of Forbidden Attractions…

Where no one would ask any questions.

Renard returned to the shop after the compline bell, his jaw aching from a day of framing harsh Flemish syllables. Even a lumpy straw pallet sounded inviting.

In the markets, taverns and public baths, his height and blue eyes were remarkable, but his Flemish, though rusty, was convincing enough for him to pass as a visitor from Brussels.

And fomenting revolt might not be as difficult as he had feared. Angry about the dispute that had snatched the thread from their looms and the bread from their tables, the people were like dry kindling. The right spark might ignite a rebellion favourable to Edward and England.

Unwelcome moonlight chased him into the shadows. The man he’d seen outside the house was missing tonight, but he could not afford to be questioned by the watch. He had taken the risk of staying out past curfew, hoping she would be abed when he returned. He must avoid her questions. And her temptation.

Wrinkling his nose at the lingering scent of cabbage soup, he slipped into the kitchen, the familiar weight of his dagger moulded to his palm. The glow of uncovered embers drew him, cautiously, into the front room.

Katrine slept over her account books again. Her wimple askew, a lock of hair, reflecting red from the dying coals, escaped to caress her cheek. An ink blot stained the middle finger of her right hand, protectively stretched on top of the ledger.

He sheathed his dagger and stepped into the room quietly so she would not wake. The fire’s glow left deep shadows in the narrow room’s corners. The house did not stretch far beyond the firelight. Such a small place. King Edward needed more room than this just to pace.

Yet this was all she had. No fields, no vast estates, no serfs toiling for her outside these walls. Only a cherry tree and a bolt of cloth shielded her from starvation.

No wonder she needs the wool. Couldn’t this husband of hers take care of the woman?

He knelt before her, his face dangerously close to hers. Before he could stop them, his fingers slipped past his self-control to touch the lock of hair on her cheek. When he tried to tuck it beneath her wimple, the strands slipped through his fingers like silk.

At his touch, she woke, brown eyes weighed down by a thicket of lashes and a sleepy smile touching her lips.

A matching smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He spoke softly, the Flemish rough in his throat. ‘Do you fall asleep over your accounts every night, mistress?’

She blinked, suddenly awake, and drew away, leaving his fingers empty. ‘The business is all I have. I will do anything I must to keep it.’

He rose, abruptly, wondering what passion she had left for her husband. If she had one.

Suddenly, it seemed important to know. He had negotiated with kings. He could certainly force the truth from a simple weaving woman. ‘And your husband, will he, too, do anything he must?’

Her dark eyes looked huge in her pale face, framed by the rumpled wimple. ‘Of course.’ She hesitated over the words.

He was certain in that moment she had no husband.

The rush of blood throbbed in his loins before he could summon his control. No man possesses her .

Denial struggled with hot, sweet desire.

He clenched his jaw and felt his eyelid flinch, but he refused to break his gaze, glad to be safely towering over her again. He would resist her, but she mustn’t know that. ‘If you will do anything you must, mistress, will you do anything I ask?’ He must keep her off balance, wondering about his intentions.

A delicate flush—anger or shame?—spread beyond her cheek. She bit her lower lip with small white teeth, inflicting enough pain to steady her resolve. He had seen a knight in battle try the same trick, slashing his forearm to create a new, superficial wound to distract him from the mortal blow.

Staring back at him, her defiant eyes did not waver, but he heard the whisper of inheld breath, as if she had recognised the fire in his eyes and was burned by it. ‘What do you ask?’

Longing rushed through his blood like poison. What he would ask had no words, only the vision of wild joining.

He fought the image. Even if he permitted himself careless pleasures of the flesh, he was hiding in the belly of a country that might soon be at war with his. One unmeasured word uttered in passion could be his death. He gritted his teeth against the feeling. ‘I ask for the truth.’

She rose and slipped into the shadows surrounding the loom. Hiding.

He would not let her. ‘And the truth is, you have no husband.’

She whirled to face him, the wool of her skirt crushed in her fist. ‘I have no husband.’ Angry words. ‘Would you have dealt with me, had you known?’

Yes, but he would not tell her that. He shrugged. ‘Then why wear the wimple?’

Her slender arms crossed her chest like a shield. ‘There is little safety on the streets these days. People are more respectful of a married woman.’

‘But you are not on the streets now.’

‘I still need protection.’

‘I thought I was to protect you.’

She smiled. ‘Who will protect me from you?’

She had turned his words back on him. He had thought to keep her off balance, yet he was the one who felt dizzy. He donned a mask of disdain to blot out all traces of attraction. She must not know his weakness for her. ‘What makes you think you need protection from me?’

Her eyes widened and narrowed in an instant, but he saw his insult had hit its mark. For a moment, he was sorry for it.

‘I am glad to hear I do not.’ She patted the wrinkles from her skirt, now all brisk business. ‘When will I see my wool?’

Uneasiness rippled through him. She had recovered faster than he expected. He had thought her a simple burgher mistress but, so far, this woman was nothing that he had expected. ‘I cannot order contraband wool at the market. If it were easy, you would not need me.’