My Lady Midnight. Laurie Grant

knowing her uncle liked a meek woman. She’d be meek as milk, if it kept her from a forced marriage.

      “Oh, I have no quarrel with your lack of desire to marry De Trouville,” her uncle said mildly. “He’s a blowhard and would do little to advance the fortunes of the family. In fact, if you do not wish to marry any time in the foreseeable future, I would only support your choice, my niece.”

      Claire’s head shot up, and she stared at her uncle’s florid face with its lips the color of bruised grapes. Had she heard him aright? What game was he playing with her? Was he about to offer her a worse choice, thinking she would run to Fulk’s arms, grateful to be spared worse?

      “Ah, I see you are suspicious,” commented her uncle, transferring his attention to a wheel of cheese upon the small table next to his chair. He cut a wedge and bit down without offering any to his nephew or niece. “Do not be, Claire. I merely meant to offer you a way to serve your family and King Stephen’s cause without marrying—a way, moreover, that will call upon the very talents your brother, here, has been shortsighted enough to complain about.”

      Claire heard her brother’s intake of breath and saw, out of the corner of her eye, Neville’s hand become a fist in his lap.

      Hardouin seemed to sense it too, for he raised his hand before Neville could speak. The gesture required no words; Claire saw her brother close his mouth without saying anything. Then Hardouin trained his gaze upon her once again, and Claire found herself staring into narrowed eyes as reflectionless as slate.

      “You wish me to do something to help King Stephen’s cause?” she asked. “And it does not involve marrying to form an alliance?” She was still looking for the trap she was somehow sure was closing around her.

      Hardouin inclined his head. “Yes, that is what I am saying. And if you will do this thing, niece, I will settle a manor upon you, and a sum that will enable you to live out your days without a husband, if you so desire. Or you may marry, providing, of course, that it is no one inimical to us.”

      She nodded, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Things that sounded too good to be true usually were. She was careful to keep her face blank, and her voice without inflection, as her uncle’s always was. “What did you mean, you would call upon my talents? What talents were those, my lord?”

      Her uncle took a large bite of the cheese and chewed it thoroughly before making his reply.

      “I refer, niece, to your fluency in the English tongue, and your affinity for the English peasantry. And your fair color…” He leaned forward, across Neville, and touched the thick plait that fell over Claire’s breast, stroking the blond braid meaningfully for a second or two, while Claire tried not to shrink from his touch. “Don’t you see? With that yellow hair and those blue eyes you could pass for English, Claire.”

      “And why,” she asked carefully, “would I want to do that?”

      “You’re a clever woman, Claire. You have the ability to appear to be whatever is called for, I have observed—on other occasions, as well as this one.”

      “My lord?” she questioned, mystified.

      “You entered the room unaware of what I wished of you, wanting only one thing—not to be forced into a distasteful marriage. Yet you did not wish to offend me, fearing that would result in the very thing you wished to avoid. And so you assumed a guise of meekness and mildness, which you are continuing even at this moment. ’Tis a good ploy, Claire, and probably Neville was fooled. But I am not. Being the shrewd judge of character that I am, I have discerned your true nature—but it pleases me that you have the ability to pass as what you are not.”

      She darted a glance at her brother, but saw that Neville was as puzzled as she was about what their uncle wanted her to do. And when had Hardouin noticed that she was not the docile woman she had always tried to portray whenever he was around? He could hardly have overheard, from the lord’s chamber over the hall, her spirited defiance of Neville’s wishes while she sat on the greensward with the children, even if the shutters had then been open! But the earl had long enjoyed a reputation for knowing everything about everyone in his life, so perhaps he had a spy or two in this household.

      Evidently Hardouin felt he had played with her long enough, for then he said, “I would have you use your ability to pass as English as a means to get close to the baron of Hawkswell.”

      Her stomach clenched at the name. Hawkswell, who had once married her cousin, Julia. Aloud she said, “Hawkswell? But isn’t he sworn to Matilda?”

      With a snort, the earl threw the rind of the cheese into the rushes at his feet. “Well, I would hardly need anyone’s help to get close to one of Stephen’s supporters, would I? If I am on the same side, I have but to send them a message requesting a meeting, yes?”

      His tone was still mild, but Claire felt the sarcasm strike her like the lash of a whip. She could feel her face flame in response.

      “No, I suppose not…” she began. “My lord, surely you’re not suggesting anything dishonorable…that I…” She made herself say it. “You don’t mean you want me to act the whore, and obtain Hawkswell’s secrets by sharing his bed?”

      Hardouin threw back his massive head and laughed. The sound seemed to echo off the stone walls of the room. “Hardly! From what Neville tells me, you’re a cold fish who has no desire to experience the joys of the marriage bed again, so your trying to become Alain of Hawkswell’s mistress would be an exercise in futility, and ‘twould not achieve our goal, would it?”

      Claire felt as if she had been punched in the belly. With tears stinging her eyes, she turned to glare at Neville, but her brother was suddenly preoccupied with examining his fingernails and would not meet her gaze.

      She would not rise to the bait, Claire resolved, she would not. She blinked back the tears. “But you said you wished me to get close to Hawkswell. How, and to what end?”

      From his startled smile she guessed her uncle was pleased that she was ignoring his jab.

      “The baron of Hawkswell controls the Hawkswell Valley, an important piece of land that guards the southern approach to London. He has been a relentless warrior in Matilda’s service, one of her most trusted vassals. He has not bent, no matter how the winds of change have blown in Stephen’s direction, no matter what favors and promises were used to lure him.”

      “An honorable man,” Claire murmured. “How unusual.”

      Hardouin raised a bushy eyebrow, but he went on. “Stephen wants him.”

      “Then he needs to catch him away from his castle, and to have a large enough force with him to subdue Hawkswell. Why are you speaking to me, a mere woman, about this?”

      Her uncle ignored her sarcasm. “Nay, I didn’t mean Stephen wanted to capture him, Claire. He could do that, easily enough. But Stephen wants him to be his man.”

      Claire shrugged. “And how can I possibly help in that regard? He is a widower, but you said this did not involve marriage for me, is that not so? And since you do not expect me to seduce him and I am not willing to do so anyway, what is it, then, that you wish me to do?”

      Hardouin leaned forward, past Neville, and took her hand in his big fleshy one. She tried not to squirm, though she longed to yank her hand away.

      “Claire, Claire…you give yourself such a limited role as a woman! There are more places than in bed where you can use your womanly wiles! But never mind. I have developed a masterful scheme based on your talents and your English appearance, niece.”

      Claire nodded, unable to guess where this was leading. What he said was true enough. Normans tended to have dark hair and eyes, but she had always been told she resembled her Saxon granddam.

      Willing herself to leave her hand quietly in his, she let him go on speaking.

      “The baron’s wife gave him a child before she died of a fever last year, a daughter. He already had a bastard son who lives