Page 21 of Lord of the Forest

Though she knew Lancelot was in there, she had no sense of his presence. It was as though he’d snuffed himself out like a candle, so no one would find him.

“You’d better not stay. If they come looking for you, they’ll find me.”

His voice, so close to her ear, almost stopped her heart. “I do wish you wouldn’t creep up on people thus. One day, I shall fall dead at your feet from shock, and you’ll be sorry.”

He chuckled softly, a sound that sent ripples of pleasure through her body.

“You love to chide, but I know you like me, really. For all that I am so coarse, uncouth, and feral.”

It was true, but she’d never admit it. “Your use of language has improved greatly since you’ve been with us.”

“I know it. But what use it will be when I return to the forest, I cannot fathom.”

Her stomach felt hollow. Did he really mean to go away? “Have we not spoiled you for that life now?”

“I don’t know what else there is for me.”

Then let me help you find out! She didn’t voice the words—he always resisted with the stubbornness of an ox whenever she suggested investigating him. And she didn’t want to be at odds with him now.

She turned to face him. He was still half-naked, the water trickling in tempting ripples over his chest and stomach muscles, catching in the dark smattering of hair below his collarbone. If her parents knew she was out with him in this state, he’d be cast into the street without question. Mayhap they both would.

“Best put your shirt on, Lancelot,” she said softly. “You know the rules of this household.”

He shot her a look—half-rueful, half-playful—that sent skitters of anticipation up and down her spine. Then, he wrung out his shirt on the baked clay floor of the barn and wriggled back into it.

“I thank you for taking such good care of me.” He tucked a finger under her chin, then brushed his lips over hers.

It was a gesture of tenderness, a respectful salute—no more. But it awoke a burning desire in her that she was barely able to quell. It would be easy to fling her arms around him, press her body against his, and demand the kind of kiss of which she was certain he was capable.

“No disgust this time?” His mouth twitched, and his eyes danced with laughter.

Before she could marshal her wits to respond, a loud voice from the house called, “Clemence? Are you out here?”

She peeped around the door jamb and saw her father and Walter de Glanville standing outside the door to the walled garden, where she’d left her basket.

Lancelot was so close behind her that she could feel the warmth of his body.

“Who is that man?”

“Have a care—he’ll see you!”

When Lancelot had removed himself to the shadows once more, she whispered, “Walter de Glanville. The man my father wants me to marry. I have to go, and you need to find somewhere else to conceal yourself—somewhere dry, if you can.”

“Is there anywhere in the house I can put my ear to the door or floor, so that I may overhear what Walter de Glanville has to say?”

She turned, surprised, and stared at Lancelot’s form, dimmed by shadows.

“Why ever would you want to do that?”

“Because I think I recognize him.”

Chapter Ten

Lancelot was frustrated in his desire to hear the man called Walter de Glanville speak—there was no manner in which he could approach the house without being seen. The windows were like multifaceted eyes, staring at him, arousing a sense of danger he couldn’t ignore. Instinct and self-preservation were so much part of his nature, he could no more deny them than he could his growing feelings for Clemence.

Eventually, he heard the sound of hoofbeats retreating down the road, but it was several hours before he was able to have private speech with Clemence and find out what had passed between her and her suitor. She told him that the visitor had remained just long enough to dry and refresh himself. She’d not been forced to face de Glanville—she was so wet herself that she was considered unfit to be seen, and had been hustled away to be dried and put to bed for the afternoon, lest she catch a chill.

He thus felt somewhat relieved by the time he sought his bed, but he could not be rid of the uncanny feeling of recognition he’d had on seeing de Glanville. It was not a pleasant feeling, in truth, but one of foreboding. Perchance it was jealousy, pure and simple, that some other should come courting the woman he cared for.