Velvet Bond (2 page)

The man seemed unaware of the stir he was causing. It was as though his mind were on other matters of greater importance than what he saw before him. He turned to the equally broad-shouldered blond man at his side, who was also dressed in subtle forest shades.

They seemed of like taste, but Elizabeth hardly noticed the lighter-haired of the two. It was the other one who drew her, though she couldn’t have explained it if given a thousand chances, and so she didn’t try.

There was something wild about him, wild as the wind is during a storm, wild like the beating of her heart. An oddly pleasant shiver ran down her spine.

Who was he, and why had she never seen him before?

Without even thinking, Elizabeth rose and moved toward him. A narrow path parted for her, as if those in her way seemed to sense her need to get closer to this man, to speak with him.

Elizabeth stopped before him, her gaze taking in the strong features of his face, straight nose, hard, chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. In the pit of her stomach, something fluttered, like a butterfly emerging from its protective sheath.

He glanced down at her with eyes as dark as burnt umber, then away, dismissing Elizabeth as he scanned the room behind her.

Piqued, Elizabeth simply stood there, a knot of irritation replacing the excitement in her belly. Never in all her life had any male looked through her that way.

The man smiled as his gaze came to light on someone behind her. “Clayburn,” he said. Elizabeth closed her eyes, unable to halt the tingling along the back of her neck that hearing his voice brought. The sound was rich, like rough fingers in brown velvet. Then she realized that he had spoken her own surname, and she turned to see her brother standing there just as Stephen answered him.

“Warwicke. How do you?” Stephen was nodding, his smile one of welcome.

The man shrugged. “I could be better. You know how I hate coming to court.”

“Aye,” Stephen agreed. “So what could have brought you to Windsor?”

Elizabeth could only stare at her brother. He talked as if he and this incredible man were long acquainted. And never had he so much as mentioned the friendship to her. Of course, she did know that Stephen met many people in his duties as the king’s messenger. But he might have at least thought to speak about this one.

The brown-eyed man looked around them with a frown. “I would rather not speak of the matter in the midst of so many. It is somewhat private.”

“I understand,” Stephen said. “Do you need to get in to see the king?” He nodded toward the closed door at the other end of the chamber. “I may be able to help you there.”

“My thanks,” the other man answered, “but King Edward has arranged this audience himself. Methinks he will see me as soon as he learns I am here.”

Stephen only nodded.

Elizabeth had had quite enough of this. She wanted to be introduced to this man Stephen had called Warwicke, and she meant to see that she was. “Stephen,” she said with a smile for her brother, “you do not behave very well. Where are your manners? You must introduce me.”

Both men looked down at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there.

Stephen hastened to do as she asked. “Lord Raynor Warwicke, let me present my sister, Lady Elizabeth.”

Her heart fluttered in her breast as his deep brown eyes settled upon her. “Lady Elizabeth.” This time there was a faint hint of recognition in them, but his gaze did not linger as most men’s were wont to do.

“My lord Warwicke,” she replied.

But he had already turned back to Stephen. “Mayhap you could help me by finding a cleric who could tell the king I am here?”

“Of a surety,” Stephen replied, and they moved off through the throng.

Elizabeth stood there in surprise. Then she looked down at herself, wondering if she might find the answer to Lord Warwicke’s rudeness in her mode of dress. But she could find no fault with the scarlet gown. The sides were slashed wide to show off the black tunic beneath, which fitted her narrow waist and gently curving breast and hips most becomingly. The sleeves of the tunic were fashionably wide and embroidered with a pattern of musical instruments in gold and scarlet threads. She ran her hand over her gold veil and found it to be securely in place.

No, it was not her attire that had caused Warwicke to look through her as if she had no more substance than the contents of an empty cup.

In her twenty years upon this earth, never had she been so summarily dismissed. He had completely failed to acknowledge her. Even her brother seemed to have forgotten her presence. And after she had come to the castle to help him.

But what made the insult doubly hard to take was the fact that never had she reacted to any man the way she had to Warwicke.

A deep flush stained her cheeks as she recalled her actions. Elizabeth had felt drawn to the man by some force outside herself, going to him without even pausing for thought. And had, in doing so, made a complete and utter fool of herself.

Surreptitiously she looked around the room, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Now that Warwicke had left with her brother, they seemed to have gone back to their own interests. Even Percy was busily fixing the string on his lute.

Then her gaze came to rest on Lady Helen, who was standing close by, with cruel amusement in her eyes.

Elizabeth flushed, but forced herself to raise her head high. She would not allow the other woman to think she had been bested.

Lady Helen smiled thinly. “He cuts quite a figure, does he not?”

Raising finely arched brows high, Elizabeth asked, “Who?”

But the other woman was clearly not fooled. “Why, my Lord Warwicke. I felt certain that you took particular notice of him, Elizabeth.”

She shrugged with as much indifference as she could summon. “Nay. I took no particular note of the man. He is my brother’s friend, as I'm sure you heard.”

“Oh, methinks there was more to it than that,” Helen countered.

The spite in Helen Denfield’s voice was discomfiting, even though Elizabeth sensed the cause behind it. She was not so simpleminded that she was unaware of the fact that most folk thought her beautiful. It was not her fault that her looks drew so much attention, but they had made her more than a few enemies. There were many who would be happy to hear of her embarrassment. Elizabeth was a very private individual and did not care for the idea that idle court gossip would be turned her way. This was one of the reasons she and Stephen had a house in the village instead of residing at the castle itself. If she did not do something to silence Helen now, her encounter with Lord Warwicke would likely have become an affair by nightfall. Court gossips never hesitated to embellish a story beyond recognition.

But Helen Denfield had her own vulnerability, in the form of Stephen, and Elizabeth wasn’t above reminding her of this.

Helen did not know her well enough, and so could not know Elizabeth would never actually spread tales. But Elizabeth was aware that most people were apt to judge others by themselves, and so Helen would likely believe otherwise. The widow would surely hold her tongue, if she thought Stephen’s sister might talk about her affair with him. Rumor of the liaison would not aid her in her quest for a husband.

Elizabeth said, “My dear Lady Helen, I'm most certain you misunderstood. After all, you seem too much fixed on the things my brother does and says to take note of aught else.”

Lady Denfield gasped, and raised her hand as if to slap Elizabeth. Then, as the younger woman continued to return her stare, the widow seemed to realize that her genteel pose would not be served by such an act. Helen turned and fled the room.

Elizabeth arched a brow, watching as the brown-haired beauty lifted a delicate hand to wipe away nonexistent tears, just in case someone had taken note of their exchange.

But Elizabeth didn’t really care. She had already forgotten Helen as she turned toward the other end of the room, where the door to the king’s audience chamber lay. There was no sign of her brother or the other two men, and she could only assume they had gone into the inner room.

Her mind was ablaze with unanswered questions concerning Raynor Warwicke. He was the most compelling man she had ever seen. Her lips tightened as she recalled the way he had barely acknowledged her presence. It simply would not do. Because of her own interest in him, Elizabeth felt a need for him to show some reaction to her.

Pensively she frowned. Not once in her life had Elizabeth been denied anything she wanted. And she did not mean to set a different precedent now.

She was not finished with Lord Warwicke yet.

* * *

The luxuriously appointed audience chamber left little impression on Lord Raynor Warwicke as he walked down the wide aisle at its center, leaving Stephen and Bronic waiting just inside the oaken door. He forced himself onward on legs that felt as stiff as tilting posts as he passed by the somberly dressed clergy and sumptuously dressed courtiers who stood at either side of him. All his attention was focused on his king, where he sat on a raised dais at the end of the audience chamber. Edward III was flanked by two of his knights, both members of the Order of the Garter. Roger Mortise and the earl of Caliber were men of exemplary character, and battle-hardened warriors loyal to the throne. Edward was a king who set such store by honor and chivalry that he had established the Order of the Garter in 1348 for the purpose of exalting those qualities.

The baron of Warwicke did his best to relax the rigid muscles in his face and shoulders. The king would not know that Raynor had come here fully prepared to forswear himself, nor that the very future of an innocent three-year-old child hinged upon his doing just that.

Raynor was totally aware of the tall, slim man who stood to the right of the dais. There was nothing in that one’s outward appearance to tell the world that he was the most despicable of men. He was dressed as the other courtiers were, in rich fabrics and colors, and his face was strongly made, his Viking heritage firmly stamped upon it. Harrington’s eyes were blue, the hair a deep golden-brown. Not one hint of the black heart that beat inside his chest was visible. But Raynor knew it was there. Nigel Harrington had caused more misery in twenty-four years than most would bring in several lifetimes. Raynor would not allow him to have custody of little Willow. After what the man had done to his own step-sister, he was not to be trusted with the care of any female.

But Raynor had no more time to think on that now. He came to a halt only a few feet from the seated monarch, squaring his shoulders, deliberately keeping his mind focused on what he had to do. Drawing the hatred down into the deepest part of himself.

King Edward shifted his long legs as he leaned back, studying the men before him, seeming to miss little. The baron of Warwicke forced himself to bear this scrutiny without flinching.

The forty-eight-year-old Edward’s golden hair and beard were liberally streaked with gray, but he was still a vital and vibrant ruler. Over his chair was a shield that bore the arms he had taken for his own. Raynor knew it irritated the French greatly that Edward had chosen to place his own leopards on the first quarter of his shield, rather than the fleur-de-lis. Though of Norman descent, Edward had always been one to think of himself as an Englishman first and foremost.

The king caught and held Raynor’s gaze for a long, tense moment. But Raynor kept himself erect, not giving away any hint of his inner anger.

Edward spoke, saying the words Raynor had feared he would. “And you are ready to swear on a relic of the one true cross, Lord Warwicke, that the child is yours?”

His back became arrow-straight. Even though he’d known all along that the situation would come to this, Raynor was surprised at the quick shaft of guilt that pierced him at the idea of forswearing himself. But the feeling was short-lived. He must carry through, for the sake of the little one. Raynor nodded, sharply, then raised his square chin. “I am.”

He heard a quickly indrawn breath from his right, and looked toward Nigel Harrington with a quirked brow. If nothing else, Raynor was pleased at having shocked his adversary. Nigel had made the mistake of believing Raynor too honorable to play by his own tactics.

King Edward nodded to his cleric, then motioned toward Raynor. “Kneel down.”

Raynor fell to his knees, his gaze locked on the front of the monk’s black robe.

The cleric brought forth a small wooden box, which Raynor knew would contain a sliver of the Lord’s cross. He held it toward Raynor. “Do you, on your honor as a knight, swear by this piece of the one true cross, and in the name of Edward III, king of England, that the child called Willow is of your own seed, without doubt?”

Forcing himself to take the box without hesitation, Raynor brought it to his lips. “I do swear this on my honor as a knight.”

Nigel Harrington let out a growl of outrage. “He lies.”

King Edward turned toward Nigel with an expression of forbearance. “My lord Harrington, in the days you have been at court you have shown no evidence that what you say is fact. Do you have some proof to offer us at this time?”

There was a silence as Nigel fumed, his blue eyes locked on Raynor’s with fury. “No, my liege, I do not, but—”

Edward interrupted him. “Then there is nothing more to be said.” He shrugged wide shoulders encased in purple velvet. “Unless you were present at the child’s conception, you have nothing to add.”