His Border Bride. Blythe Gifford

him of King Edward. A few years ago, the King had gathered his friends at a round table and dubbed them Knights of the Garter: the garter of a woman the King had raped, if the rumours were true.

      Mistress Clare wouldn’t like that part of the story. It would violate all her illusions about chivalry, making her angry. Anger would bring colour to her cheeks and warmth to those stony, grey-green eyes. That, he would enjoy seeing. He had the feeling Mistress Clare didn’t let her emotions show if she could help it.

      A woman like that, well, it would be a pleasure to turn her inside out and force her to feel the passion she disdained. He would unravel her braid, so tight it smoothed her brow, and make her whimper with feelings the woman didn’t know she had.

      Or didn’t want to know.

      He looked back at the tapestry. It showed a man, arms outstretched, flying towards a woman and about to embrace her. One hand hovered behind her head. His face was near her breast. The other arm was reached around her hip.

      He wondered whether Mistress Clare knew how sensual a piece it was.

      He stopped his thoughts from going further. He had to keep his feelings in check. He’d heard from the men that her father was fighting with Lord Douglas and would soon be home. Gavin must humour her until Baron Carr returned. That man would know that a knight’s value was in his sword, not his manners. Surely Carr would let him stay on, hidden, in this god-forsaken corner of the Border.

      He looked at the tapestry again and sighed. To clean his body, he dunked it in water. Perhaps he should do the same with this.

      He headed for the spring with a leery feeling neither one of them would like the outcome.

      Fitzjohn, Clare noticed, missed the midday meal. She didn’t observe it because she wanted to see him again, but only because she was eager to have her tapestry back. He needed only to hang it on a line, beat it from the back, then brush the front with a small broom. Simple task.

      But as her fury faded, doubts crept in. Simple for her, but she had foolishly assumed he would know what to do. She should have never let it out of her sight without giving him thorough and precise instructions.

      As the sun reached its zenith, she ignored the rest of her duties to search for him. Finally, outside near the mews, she caught a glimpse of red.

      Draped across a rope was the wet, limp banker, no longer a beautiful depiction of courtly lovers, but a rumpled, sodden wad of cloth.

      She closed her eyes against quick tears. How would she explain this to Alain?

      Fitzjohn, apparently realising his mistake too late, was pulling on one end of the piece. Euphemia held the other as they tried to stretch it back into shape. The sight of Murine’s girl helping him angered her as much as anything he had done.

      ‘Euphemia! Get inside.’

      ‘You’re nae my mither.’

      Did they all think to defy her once tainted by Fitzjohn? ‘No, but I, not your mother, am mistress of this castle.’ And yet she continued to make mistakes. Mistakes she would never have made if her mother had been alive to teach her. ‘Now go!’

      Euphemia did, throwing Fitzjohn a sunny smile as she left.

      Clare stepped closer, torn between wanting to hit him and cry. Two things a lady must never do.

      ‘Are you always so harsh?’ he said.

      ‘Not nearly so harsh as I’m going to be with you. You’ve ruined it!’ The words tumbled out in a rush.

      He shrugged, but said nothing. She had wanted an apology and expected an argument. Her father would have yelled back. But this man absorbed abuse and returned it with a half-smile, as some men would take a blow, roll over and leap to their feet again. He left her with nothing to do but get angrier or to give up.

      She was not ready to give up.

      ‘You’ve destroyed something valuable and precious. I expect payment.’

      ‘Payment?’ He raised his brows. ‘I’ve seen warriors dead on the ground with no payment for their loss. I cannot mourn woven wool.’ His words were mocking, bitter.

       Dead on the ground.

      She choked back her fear. Not Da. The phrase like a prayer. Not Alain.

      Sometimes, the only thing a woman could do to hold back the dangers of the world was to maintain order in the small corner of it that was hers.

      She looked back at the tapestry. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking, to expect a warrior to know how to treat such a treasure.’

      This time, a trace of compassion touched his smile, as if he knew what was happening to her men, things she couldn’t possibly imagine and didn’t want to.

      ‘It’s not something that I was trained to do.’

      For once, he made her smile, a rueful hiccup of laughter clearing the tears from her throat. She must take the first blame. Perhaps if she stretched it on the tapestry frame she might salvage it.

      She stroked the damp cloth with her fingers and ventured a smile. A knight’s lessons would never be so domestic. ‘What are you trained to do?’

      ‘Kill.’

      She snatched back her hand. ‘You have an ignoble view of war. A knight should be thinking of noble quests, of honour.’

      ‘You talk as if King Arthur’s knights still ride. Now we quest for land and ransom, not for the Holy Grail.’

      She had been weak enough to share a momentary smile and in return, he’d thrown his brutal view of the world in her face. But there was something more in his eyes. An unaccustomed challenge. An unwelcome lure.

      ‘If you do not seek the Holy Grail, have you at least had the honour to fulfil a lady’s request?’ It was one of the sacred tenants of chivalry, to honour a lady’s wish.

      The wind swirled around the edge of her skirt, blowing it towards his boot.

      His smile, taunting, returned. ‘Generally, what they’ve desired of me has not included holy objects.’

      She grabbed her skirt back from the breeze. ‘Neither does what I desire. I’d like you to clean the mews. Make it spotless.’

      Here was a man who treated chivalry with disdain. Would he honour her request? Or, better, would he find the task so demeaning that he would, finally, ride away?

      The harsh lines of his face eased, his smile suddenly genuine. ‘I’ve spent more time with falcons than with fabric. I will certainly do my best to fulfil your wish, no matter how hard the work.’

      ‘Good.’

      The vision of him on hands and knees scrubbing gave her some satisfaction.

      ‘And no matter how long it takes.’ His smile took on a wicked edge. ‘Even if it takes all night and all day tomorrow.’

      She gritted her teeth, realising he had turned her demeaning request into his victory.

      ‘One more night then. But no longer.’

      She had judged him unworthy as a fighting man, but she must not underestimate his prowess in verbal battle again.

       Chapter Three

      The next morning, Neil accosted her, brows creased, complaining that she’d sent a stranger to meddle in his mews.

      Clare sighed and went to face Fitzjohn, wary of the next trick he might try in order to extend his stay. As she opened the door to the mews, a shaft of light cleaved the dimness and found his bare back. He turned from his raking and she swallowed. His chest, broad, seemed strong enough to need no armour.

      ‘Mistress