silent.
Gawain was exasperated. ‘Does your daughter know aught about this person or anything that could help us?’
Master Llewellyn looked shocked. ‘She believes that Jonathan’s death was an accident and I want her to continue to do so. The truth might prove too much for her to bear. The fair sex are not as strong as us men,’ he added, taking a hasty gulp of his wine.
Remembering the firmness of Mistress Llewellyn’s chin, Gawain thought the other man underestimated his daughter’s strength. ‘You should tell someone,’ he said firmly.
‘When the time is ripe I will,’ assured Master Llewellyn, downing the rest of his wine and banging down his goblet. ‘But I would ask of you a boon, Sir Gawain. If I were to die before this matter is cleared up, would you be Beth’s guardian and take on the task of choosing a husband for her? I must have a grandson,’ he added fretfully.
Gawain could understand the old man’s need for a male heir to carry on his line. He thought of his own son, who had died when he was only two years old, and the pain was as fresh to him now as it had been then. Indeed, it had intensified in the weeks since his wife, Mary, had disappeared with their daughters and he had feared the boy’s death had caused her to lose her senses.
‘I do not wish to gainsay you, Master Llewellyn,’ he rasped. ‘But I know more about timber and shipbuilding, and even what is happening at King Henry’s court, than what kind of man would make a suitable and pleasing husband for your daughter.’
‘I think you underestimate your judgement,’ said Master Llewellyn persuasively. ‘I believe you to be sound and I entreat you to grant me this boon. Women so often do not know their own minds and need a man to guide them in the right direction. You will not lose by it, I promise. I will bequeath you shares in my company and I cannot say fairer than that.’
‘That is indeed generous of you,’ said Gawain, taken aback. ‘But surely you have a close friend to whom you can entrust this task?’
Master Llewellyn grimaced. ‘At my age I have few friends left and they are enfeebled. I have appreciated the manner in which you took my suspicions seriously and investigated Jonathan’s so-called boating accident.’ His voice trembled. ‘You have a strength of character I have seen in few men. Please, let me have your hand on it, so I can have my will rewritten before I leave for France next month.’
Gawain experienced a pang of pity for the old man; as he was to return to his home in Kent that afternoon, and had to make all speed to Dover Castle the next morning, he decided that the only way to terminate this conversation swiftly was by agreeing to do his best for Beth Llewellyn, if the need should arise. At least she would not be short of suitors—she would inherit her father’s thriving printing and bookselling business and his aunt could chaperon her if need be. ‘All right, I will do as you ask,’ he said.
He was rewarded by Master Llewellyn’s relieved smile and they shook hands.
Gawain drained his cup. ‘I also am bound for France at King Henry’s bidding. You go there on business?’ he asked politely.
‘Aye, I hope to meet an old friend in my line of business in Calais,’ replied the older man, his rheumy eyes bright. ‘Also, the king, who occasionally patronises my shop, has generously said I may attend some of the festivities on this occasion if I wish, so I have suggested to my daughter that she accompany me.’
‘Then it is possible I might see you there,’ said Gawain, taking his leave.
On the way out of the chamber he collided into Beth Llewellyn. He steadied her and was aware of the softness of her breasts pressed against the wall of his chest and the swell of her hip nestled against his thigh. For a moment her startled, luminous chestnut-brown eyes rested on his face with an expression in them that caused him to remain as if cast in marble whilst his heart thudded against his ribs. Then he snatched his hands away as if she was a hot brand. ‘I beg your pardon, Mistress Llewellyn!’ he said stiffly and hurried away before he gave way to the urge to taste lips the colour of raspberries that were parted as if she were holding her breath—no doubt fearing what he might do next.
Chapter One
France—June 1520
A strong hot wind blew from the south and dust clung to Beth Llewellyn’s perspiring face as she pushed her way through the crowd. She wondered what event it was this time that was being performed for the entertainment of those gathered in the place that some were already naming the Eighth Wonder of the World. Many from the surrounding district and further afield had flooded into the area to witness the glittering splendour of the kings of England and France.
Beth could hear the thud of feet on turf, wheezing of air in chests and whistling between teeth. A sudden roar from the throats of those who could see what was happening caused her to believe she might have missed the finale and she thrust herself forwards into the crowd. But no one was giving way, so she dropped to her knees and managed to worm her way between the forest of hose-clad legs, ignoring the curses and clouts that came her way.
At last she arrived at the front, only to find herself almost eyeball to eyeball with the black-browed, hard-mouthed Sir Gawain Raventon. She could scarcely believe it was him and her pulse raced. She prayed that he was far too occupied to notice her, never mind recognise her in her male attire!
He was obviously having difficulty breathing. Around his throat was a hairy, ham-size arm. His strong-boned, tanned face was tight with determination as his long sinewy fingers forced their way between that arm and his throat. The next moment he heaved up his body and threw off his opponent. She did not know how he managed it because it happened so swiftly: several moments later, he had the other man pinned to the ground. Then Sir Gawain sprang to his feet, eased a shoulder with a grimace before being declared the victor. His opponent stared at him sullenly as the Englishman was handed the winner’s purse, which he tossed to a young man standing a few feet away.
Beth knew at this point that she should retreat or at the very least avert her eyes. It seemed odd that only now did she become fully aware that Sir Gawain was half-naked and, as it was the first time she had seen a man’s unclothed body, she was transfixed. His muscular chest was coated with a sheen of sweat and dark hair curled downwards in a V to the waist of his snug-fitting hose. She remembered colliding into him the first day they had met and felt a similar sensation at the core of her being that sent heat darting through her. Having a need to cool off, Beth reached for the laces at the throat of her tunic. She should never have made that move because it drew Sir Gawain’s attention to her. Hastily, she attempted to back away, but he was too swift for her and dragged her upright.
‘Who have we here?’ he growled, lifting her off her feet.
Beth gripped the opening at the throat of her tunic in an attempt to bring the two edges together, only to get her hand jammed between his chest and her breasts. She gasped with pain.
‘That was a rather foolish move,’ he said, loosening his grip slightly so her hand could slide free, his penetrating blue eyes scanning her face. His orbs turned into dark slits. ‘We’ve met before.’
‘No, we have not,’ lied Beth, shaking her head vigorously.
That was her second mistake for the action dislodged her cap, freeing her bronze-coloured braids. ‘By Saint George,’ he muttered. ‘It can’t be!’
There came a sudden roar from behind him, causing her eyes to widen. ‘Look out!’ she
