Velvet Bond (6 page)

Elizabeth Clayburn came forward to great him, her cherry lips turned upward in a smile of welcome. “Lord Warwicke.” When she spoke his name, a chill of awareness ran down his spine. Her eyes were the color of deepest sapphire and fringed with thick black lashes. But the way she looked at him was what gave him pause. The expression in her gaze was one of happiness and barely repressed excitement, and from the way she focused her whole attention upon him, Raynor could only feel that he was the cause of her pleasure. Unaccountably he felt himself basking in the glow, like a lynx soaking up the sun. Not once in the conscious years of his memory could he recall anyone looking at him with such uncomplicated approval. He marveled as the color in her cheeks went from palest cream to dusky rose. She looked down, and the sheer golden veil she wore over her tumbled mass of black curls fluttered forward to hide the delicate flush.

“Lady Elizabeth.” He swallowed, managing to sound almost normal, though he did not know how. Fighting off an urge to wipe his sweaty palm against his tunic like some unschooled lad, Raynor briefly clasped her slender hand in his. Her fingers were smooth and cool, but she drew them back quickly to press her hand against her bosom.

She seemed to have some difficulty communicating herself, for she started, stopped, and began again. “My lord...I... You are most welcome.”

“My thanks,” he replied. He didn’t know what had come over him. Raynor was well accustomed to women, had believed himself long over the nervousness that now assailed him. He could only tell himself that it was slightly unnerving to be greeted with such enthusiasm. Elizabeth Clayburn could not know what she was about. Though he hoped that she did not meet her other male visitors with such warmth. Not all men had learned self-discipline, as Raynor had. They might take her obvious pleasure in a way it was not meant.

For, judging by the innocence in her eyes, it was clear she had no idea of her effect on him.

Unaccountably he felt a moment’s worry for her. But he quickly told himself not to be ridiculous. Stephen was her brother, and thus her rightful protector, not Raynor.

As Elizabeth turned to tell her woman to place the pitcher upon the table, he allowed his eyes to study her as he had not the day before. She wore a cotehardie of scarlet that was slashed wide at the sides to show off a gold velvet tunic that caressed the sweetly swelling curves of her breasts and hips. He felt a tightening in his loins and envied the fragile fabric its contact with her flesh.

Whatever had he been thinking yesterday, when he met this woman, not to notice how truly lovely she was? He knew he had been nervous about his coming audience with the king, but could any man worthy of the title have seen Elizabeth Clayburn and failed to take note of her uncommon beauty?

Thank God Stephen would be present this eve. The last thing Raynor needed was to be alone with this siren. Elizabeth was enough woman to give rise to the name.

Raking a hand through his hair, he forced his gaze away. Not in years had Raynor reacted to any woman this way. Gladly would he see the end of this visit.

He looked about the solar, saw the table, with its two chairs, set up as if for a meal. He took note of the warmth of the fire and the pillows that were piled on the carpet before it. He admired the rich tapestry that hung upon the outside wall, with its rich colors and fine detail. There were two doors besides the one through which he had entered. They must lead to sleeping chambers.

It was an appealing scene. But something appeared to be missing. Frowning, Raynor rubbed the side of his head as he glanced about, his gaze going back to the two chairs at either side of the table. Two chairs.

Stephen!

He cleared his throat as he turned to Elizabeth. The servant named Olwyn paused in the act of leaving and faced him. “Lady Elizabeth?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him as she moved forward to pour a cup of wine. And if he wasn’t seeing things, her hands were shaking. “Yes, my lord Warwicke?” she said.

Raynor frowned, surprised that she seemed as unsettled as he.

He reached out to take the cup from her, willing her to look at him. But she didn’t. “Where is Stephen?” he asked bluntly.

She did glance up at him then, but only for a moment. With a bright smile, she waved a hand airily. “Oh, my brother. He was called away most unexpectedly, but he shall be returning ere long.”

Raynor knew a prickling of unease. Stephen had told him that he and Elizabeth lived alone here, with only Elizabeth’s companion and their servants. It seemed unlikely that Clayburn would want Raynor to be alone here with his beautiful sister. “He knows I am come in his absence?”

“Of a surety.” Finally she looked at him, those bottomless sapphire eyes ingenuously wide. “Stephen felt so badly about having to go. You see—” she spread her hands “—he has his duty to the king. But he had no wish to appear rude, and thus asked me to attend you until his arrival. He felt it would be wrong to call off the meal, when he will not be so very long.” She gave a nervous laugh as she moved to stand before the fire, her slender body bathed in its warm light. “Stephen mentioned that you were returning to Warwicke on the morrow and said he would not miss this chance to see you before you go. My brother is ever like this. His friends have always been of great importance to him. Is that not so, Olwyn?” Elizabeth looked to her companion.

The other woman cleared her throat, her gaze fixed on her mistress’s face. “Oh, aye, my lord Warwicke. Sir Stephen spoke exactly thus.” With that, she swung around and left the room.

Elizabeth turned back to him with another one of those sweet smiles. “You see. All is well.”

Raynor watched her, mesmerized by the strand of hair that had fallen over her shoulder to end in a curl on her right breast. He tried to think clearly. Certainly Stephen had set great store in his friendships as boy. It could be so now. Mayhap Stephen did trust him to be alone with his sister.

Dragging his wayward gaze from that gently rounded breast, Raynor determined to be worthy of that trust.

Elizabeth Clayburn was trouble. More lovely and compelling than any woman he had ever met.

There was no way around the matter though. Raynor must fight this strange attraction. He could not, would not, become involved with her, or any other woman who would expect more than he was willing to give.

It was this that helped Raynor to come to his senses. He could eat this meal with her and go on his way, for her good, as well as his.

He turned to her then, his eyes refusing to see the lovely vision of her. With silent precision, he raised a wall between himself and the golden glow of her warmth. She was a woman, nothing more, nothing less.

Elizabeth felt the change in him immediately. It wasn’t that he said or did anything that let her know, it was simply that he turned to stone. One moment his eyes were alive on her, the next there was nothing.

Confusion made her hesitate as she looked up at him, the words she had been going to say gone from her mind.

When Raynor first arrived, she hadn’t been able to contain her happiness at seeing him again. It was just as before, that same crazed rush of awareness that made her blood sing and her heart pound. She’d been so afraid that she had imagined the way she felt when she looked at him.

And for a few moments, Raynor had seemed different, more open than the previous day. He’d looked at her as if seeing her for the very first time, and he hadn’t seemed displeased.

Rot, but she couldn’t think of what she might have said or done to make him change.

She was saved from having to say anything when the door opened to admit Olwyn carrying a heavily laden tray. With shaky legs, Elizabeth moved to the table as Olwyn set the tray down. “Thank you, Olwyn.”

As the other woman left, Elizabeth realized that she could not allow Raynor to see that he had upset her. Obviously she was not to his liking. The best she could do now was to get through the evening without making a complete fool of herself. Keeping her voice and manner carefully polite, Elizabeth turned to Stephen. “We can begin now, if you like.”

The first part of the meal passed in a blur as Elizabeth served them both, then used her eating knife to toy with her food. She barely tasted the bites of roast pork, eels and assorted pastries that she did take, though they had been painstakingly and well prepared.

But as the moments stretched onward, Elizabeth began to grow angry with herself. Whatever Lord Warwicke’s annoyance might be, this silence was fair driving her mad. She would stand no more of it. She was a Clayburn, daughter of a proud and noble line. No man could be allowed to render her so self-conscious.

Elizabeth met his gaze directly as she lifted the pitcher from the table between them. “Would you care for more wine, my lord?”

He looked down at his plate, then nodded, passing her his cup. “My thanks, Lady Clayburn. It is the best I've tasted in some time. It is warm in here, and the wine is refreshing.”

As she filled the vessel, Elizabeth thought about what he had said. The room seemed a trifle cool to her, rather than warm. March’s recent arrival had brought no rise in temperatures. They had kept the window open most of the day to catch the light as they readied the room for the evening, and along with it the cold. Just before Raynor arrived, she’d had Albert light a fire in the hearth to take the chill from the room.

Feeling Raynor’s gaze upon her, she looked up at him and paused. The intensity in his dark eyes rocked her. She felt she was being studied with appreciation, yes, but also with doubt. Her tunic suddenly felt too tight across her breasts, and she shifted restlessly on her cushioned chair.

He was right, the room was quite warm. Her tongue came out to lick at the perspiration that beaded on her upper lip, and his gaze followed. He swallowed, taking a ragged breath as he closed his eyes, releasing Elizabeth from their spell.

She turned away, trying to still her beating heart even as she felt a rush of elation. So he was not completely indifferent to her as he pretended.

That left the question, why was he making the pretense?

Elizabeth didn’t know, but she was through with trying to fathom the answer. The anger that had been directed toward herself a few minutes before now shifted to him. If Raynor Warwicke wanted to keep to himself, that was fine with her, or so she told herself. And she was determined for him to see that it didn’t matter. She would go on with the meal as if he were any other guest, then see him on his way.

But there was a nagging awareness in her that told Elizabeth it would not be so easy as she thought. Why, he had only to look at her and she melted like butter in sunshine.

Elizabeth picked up her own cup and took a long drink of the wine. He was right, it was cool to the tongue, even as it trickled a liquid courage into her veins. If need be, she could surely drink enough wine to get her through the hours in his presence. She had heard it could be of help. She poured herself another cup and drained it, as well, before deigning to speak to Raynor again.

Taking a deep breath, she began politely. “My brother tells me you are leaving tomorrow for Warwicke Castle.”

He gave her one of those long, enigmatic looks. “Yes.” Then he turned back to his plate.

Elizabeth took another sip of her wine. She was growing quite relaxed, her arms and legs pleasantly heavy. It was beginning to matter less and less that Raynor was rude and distant. In fact, she was feeling almost amused by the whole situation. What Raynor needed was to allow himself to loosen up just a bit. He might benefit from a few glasses of wine himself.

Arching a fine black brow, she lifted the pitcher in offering. “Would you care for more?”

He barely nodded, handing her the cup. Elizabeth filled it for him.

“My thanks,” he told her, taking a long pull before setting it down next to his dish.

At least he was being polite now, she thought, settling back in her chair, her own cup in her hand. She sipped at the wine, no longer caring to make the pretense of eating.

He glanced over at her, frowning as if she had done something to irritate him in some way. “You aren’t eating.”

“Nay,” she replied languidly. Her own gaze went to his plate, and she saw that for all his studied concentration, Raynor had managed to eat very little of his own dinner. She laughed huskily. “My lord Warwicke, it appears you are not hungry, either.”

With an angry grunt, he pushed the dish aside. “I am not.”

She drained her cup, then watched as Raynor did the same, her eyes never leaving his. This time it was he who leaned forward to refill the vessels, without speaking.

He took another drink of his own wine, his gaze fixing on the tapestry behind her. His lean profile was hard, but undeniably handsome in the glow of the fire, leaving her with a desire to run her hand over the strongly etched jaw. Despite his best efforts, there was an air of loneliness about him that even his confidence and self-possession could not disguise. From somewhere inside her came the thought that this strong man needed someone to share the weight of his troubles. And even though it was obvious that that someone was not her, she couldn’t help wishing he had given her a chance to at least know him better.

Suddenly Elizabeth found herself speaking. It was as if she couldn’t halt her wayward tongue. “You would not have come here tonight, knowing Stephen was gone?”