My Lady Midnight. Laurie Grant
her own indefinitely. And she believed Hardouin when he had told her he would hunt her down like a wounded doe if she tried to play him false. She took a step upon the drawbridge, then another.
Just as she reached midway over the water-filled chasm, however, the thunder of hoofbeats reached their ears, and she turned around.
“Father!” Peronelle shouted, pointing to a horseman riding a huge red destrier at the head of eight mounted menat-arms. The party was cantering toward the castle from the direction of the woods. It was too late to run.
As they drew closer, Claire saw that two of the horsemen’s hands were bound and that their horses’ reins were held by those riding at either side of them. She suppressed a gasp as she recognized them as Ivo and Jean, two of Hardouin’s men-at-arms. She avoided looking at them as the man at the head of the procession reined in his horse just in front of them.
He wore mail, as did the others, and the flat-topped helm with its jutting nasal shadowed his features just as theirs did. The fineness and shine of his mail and the emblem on his shield proclaimed him the baron of Hawkswell, even if Peronelle had not gone rushing headlong across the drawbridge toward him, calling “Father! Father!”
The child was heedless of the way the destrier laid back his ears at the sight of her running toward him.
“Peronelle!” cried Claire, dashing after the child even as the man on the enormous stallion fought to control the rearing beast. She gave little thought to her own danger, for her mind was full of the horrible image of the child’s lifeless body, crushed by one swipe of a powerful hoof. Reaching the girl, she grabbed her and pulled her out of harm’s way.
Moments later, Hawkswell managed to subdue the stallion. “Peronelle!” he shouted down at the girl. “How many times have I told you my war-horse is not some fat, friendly pony like your Dacy? You must never come near him, and especially not like that! You might have been killed, Peronelle!” He tossed the reins to the nearest manat-arms and dismounted, striding over to where Peronelle was huddled in Claire’s arms, weeping.
Claire bit back a sharp retort. She was supposed to be a mere English serf, therefore she could not give this monster of a father the tongue-lashing he deserved. But as the little girl continued to tremble and hide her face against Claire’s kirtle, she knew she had to say something.
“She be frightened of yer tone, my lord, as much as the horse,” Claire murmured, trying to see the features of the man behind the jutting nasal.
A pair of fierce dark eyes narrowed as they fixed on her. “Who might you be, woman?” he answered her in heavily accented English. “And more to the point, who are you to tell me how to speak to my own child?”
Claire looked down at the bent head of the child clutching her skirts, hoping to appear appropriately humble, when she was actually trying to conceal the seething anger he had provoked in her by his high-handed attitude.
“I be Haesel, my lord,” she said evenly, and added, when a glance from beneath her lashes told her he was continuing to favor her with a piercing regard, “please, my lord, the child…”
Just then she noticed a younger man, on a horse next to Lord Alain, smiling encouragingly at her. He must be a squire, she thought. She liked him instantly, if only for his friendly gaze in the face of Hawkswell’s disapproval.
Hawkswell shifted his eyes to Peronelle, and his gaze softened. Kneeling on one knee, he pulled off his helm and laid it on the ground with a clunk before holding his arms open. “Perry, come here, daughter,” Alain of Hawkswell said, his voice soft and coaxing.
Peronelle raised her head and peered at her father, knuckling her hand over her tear-flooded eyes for a moment before leaving Claire’s side. Then she threw herself into his arms.
In spite of her anger, Claire found herself oddly moved at the sight of the powerful Norman lord, embracing his daughter, his eyes closed as if he breathed a thankful prayer.
“Peronelle, Peronelle, don’t you know you are the most precious thing on earth to me? I would die a thousand deaths, my sweet daughter, if any harm came to you, don’t you know that? That is why I shouted—I was so fearful that you would be hurt before I could turn my stallion away from you.”
His voice, as he soothed his frightened child, was musical, deep and resonant, like a warm embrace. Claire found herself wanting to hear more of it.
“I just wanted to see you, Father! I’m sorry.”
“I know, my girl. I know. It is over now, and you will never, never come so near my destrier again, yes?”
“No, Father, never!”
All this time Guerin had been hovering uncertainly in the background, his face anxious. Remember me, Father, his eyes seemed to plead. What about me, your son?
Claire watched as Hawkswell raised his head and acknowledged Guerin with a nod. “Guerin, you were just going over the drawbridge when we rode up. Where were you going, when I gave strict instructions for both of you to stay behind the castle walls?”
She saw the boy’s shoulders tense. “I…I had gone to fetch my sister, my lord father.”
Alain of Hawkswell’s face darkened again. “Oh? And from whence did you fetch her, Guerin?”
Claire ached for the boy as she saw him clench his hand against a fold of his tunic and look away from his father’s cold gaze.
“From…the wood, my lord father. I found her at the edge of the wood…talking to this woman here,” he said, pointing at Claire.
Hawkswell’s jaw clenched. “Peronelle, I gave you strict instructions not to venture outside the walls, and Guerin, I gave your sister into your care. You know how adept she is at evading your nurse. Why did you—?”
“But Father!” interrupted Peronelle. “I know I was naughty to run away from my nurse just because of a bath, but you see, I met Haesel in the wood! Isn’t she wonderfully pretty, Father? I was taking her to meet Ivy. I want her to be my nurse too, and help Ivy! I would obey her, Father, always! Oh please, Father, say she may come and live with us, and—”
Alain of Hawkswell laid a finger across his daughter’s mouth to gently stem her torrent of words. “Hush, Peronelle, you chatter like a magpie.”
He scowled as his gaze shifted to Claire and swept over her, assessing her from the top of her head to the tips of her rough shoes.
She felt herself flushing while he continued to stare, and forced herself to drop her own eyes to keep portraying the humble serf. It felt as if those dark, narrowed eyes could see through to her very soul and glimpse the deceit that resided there. Claire felt his eyes drop lower, to linger on her breasts and hips before coming back to her face. She felt her cheeks flame.
“Peronelle,” he began, still pinning Claire with his gaze, “you have a trusting heart, daughter, but we do not know this woman—”
“I know her, Father, and so does Guerin! Isn’t she pretty, Papa?”
The lord and his daughter were speaking in French. Hawkswell glanced at her again. “Yes, she has a certain…comeliness, in a common sort of way.”
Was he testing her to see if she spoke the language? She knew she must give no evidence that she had understood their rapid speech, but how dared this man speak so disparagingly of her, as if she were not there, and stare at her as if she were a whore? She longed to slap his arrogant, high-cheekboned face.
“We are not taking her into the castle, Peronelle. She may very well be a runaway serf, and you already have a nurse. Your duty is to obey Ivy, as it is to obey me. I have enough to worry about already, with these prisoners,” he said, jerking his head back to indicate the bound men whom Claire had entirely forgotten ever since Peronelle had rushed at the stallion.
“Who are they, Father?” Guerin asked, still obviously aching for his father’s attention.
“I