Free Lord of Midnight by Jo Beverley Page A

judge him, but he was as incomprehensible as a text she’d once seen written in the Arabic script.
    Those dark eyes studied her, shielded and quiet. “A little time, yes., Lady Claire. But do not try to avoid this.”
    She started. It was as
ü he
could read
her
.
    Then let him. She would not pretend. Claire rose and stalked over to thrust the documents back into the clerk’s hands. Only his startled look alerted her to the fact that she’d crushed them in her anger.
    She fought to stay calm, to keep her goal clear. She must, to delay, any vows and get Felice back into Summerbourne. The best route to that goal was to sweeten him.
    Though she hated to do it, she spoke meekly and gave him his correct title. “You must see, Lord Renald, that we are offering no resistance—”
    “Must I?”
    She swallowed. “No
effective
resistance. I pray you, my lord, bring my aunts back into Summerbourne. You have no need of hostages, and they must be in danger of an ague out there.”
    His steady eyes never left hers. “The sooner we’re wed, Lady Claire, the sooner they can sleep in a dry bed. We can have the ceremony now, if you wish.”
    “No!” She found she’d taken a step back.
    “You prefer your aunts to suffer an ague?”
    “I prefer them safe and dry in here.”
    “Then marry me. What point in delay?”
    “I need time to come to terms with—”
    “Claire!” snapped her grandmother. “The man has a point. Get it over with.”
    Claire whirled on her. “He has
stolen
my father’s property—your son’s property!”
    “Whose father stole it from my father. Don’t forget that.”
    “It’s not the same!”
    “Seems the same to me.”
    Then Claire realized she’d not been able to stay meek for a moment.
    Lady Agnes poked her with her stick. “If you’ll take the advice of an old woman whose been through this before, you’ll either marry this instant, or stir people into producing a decent meal. They’re probably all standing around letting the stew burn, and there’s nothing like good food to mellow a man. Or at least”—she winked—“only one thing.”
    Claire knew her cheeks had turned bright red. She wanted to scream that she’d rather poison this invader than feed him. But she’d much rather feed him than bed him. She glared at him, hoping he would read the message.
    He simply stared back with that implacable, unreadable, complex expression. He planned to marry his bride-in-the-hand and secure his claim to Summerbourne. He didn’t care which bride. He didn’t care about the bride’s feelings. He didn’t care about looks or temperament, either. She’d sacrificed her hair for nothing. She and her aunts were pieces in a game, not people at all.
    “Felice,” she said in desperation, “the Lady Felice might be more comfortable with this marriage than I, my lord.”
    “Then she should have stayed behind.”
    “If you would just bring her in—”
    “I have already explained why that is impossible.”
    “The Lady Amice could remain as hostage…” Oh, poor Amice. She’d faint with terror. “Or my mother could perhaps go out—”
    “The choice has been made, Lady Claire.”
    She heard a sob and realized it was her own. She sucked in a deep breath. Time. Perhaps he’d think better of it with time.
    Felice was beautiful. If she could only stand side by side with Felice, he’d surely see reason, especially now Claire was in ash-stained drab and with ruined hair.
    She needed time so she could do something about Felice.
    Time.
    Food!
    Suddenly her grandmother’s words hit her. Food would soothe him and pass time, and arranging it would give her an excuse to leave the hall. To escape.
    “I must go and see to the meal, my lord.”
    She expected objection, but he nodded.
    As she turned to leave the room, Lady Agnes said, “Take the boy with you.”
    Claire saw Thomas standing in a shadowy corner, glaring at the usurper with bitter hate. Sweet Jesu, no. The last thing they needed was her