‘In fact, we don’t yet have a bargain.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘We do not yet have a bargain.’
He reached for her chin with cool, firm fingers, turning her face towards the window, as if to read her by the sun’s light. She struggled for a breath.
‘Did your other source make you a better offer?’
She blinked, betraying herself.
A lazy wink disguised his emotions. ‘Then I take it we are agreed.’
‘Yes.’ She jerked her chin from his hand and started to put the room to rights.
He knelt beside her and shoved a handful of straw into the first pallet. Astounded that he would humble himself to help, she picked up another pallet and scooped the straw inside.
They worked in silence. She tried to study him, but his face was impassive. What manner of man would help clean up the mess she had created? He deserved some appreciation for that.
‘You have my thanks,’ she said, when they were done at last. ‘Why did you help?’
‘If I am to sleep here, I must keep it in order.’
She swallowed. Sleep. Suddenly it seemed much too intimate a word. ‘I have changed my mind. It is not safe to harbour you here. You must find other lodging.’
He shook his head. His eyes were implacable. ‘You cannot change the contract now. You want your wool, don’t you?’
The air around her seemed to crackle like lightning. She was beginning to fear that this wool was going to cost much more than she had bargained for.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then let’s break bread together to seal our agreement,’ he said.
‘I told you. I offer no board.’ The cupboards were bare.
A smile flickered across his face. ‘I bought my own. It seems only right to share.’ He paused, holding her eyes with his. ‘Please.’
Suspicious, her tongue curved around ‘no’, but her stomach growled. She had eaten nothing of the main meal. Maybe the tickle she felt was neither fear nor ex citement, but hunger.
She nodded.
Finished with the pallets, she led the way downstairs. He settled in front of the fireplace, leaning on one elbow, long legs stretched across the floor, and set out a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and some beer as if the hearth were his own. ‘Join me.’
She sank to the floor, skirt flaring around her. She must put this man on the defensive or he would take over. ‘Have you any oranges?’ She smiled, waiting for his answer. Oranges were dear in good times. In bad, they would be precious as wool.
His lips twitched. ‘There is an embargo, you know.’
Pulling out his eating knife, he cut a slice of the cheese and placed it carefully on the crust of bread. Not even that was done by chance.
‘You disappoint me. I would expect an expert smuggler to supply whatever I want, no matter how costly.’
‘Bread and cheese will have to serve.’
She reached for the bread and touched his fingers instead.
Her glance tangled in his. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Warmth from his fingers crept up her arm, weaving them together. Something sweet and weak happened inside her.
Flushed with shame, she snatched her hand back and popped the bread and cheese in her mouth. He took a swig of the beer, then handed it to her. She sipped it to wash down the cheese, then tried to hide her surprise. He might be a stranger, but he had found the best brewer in the quarter quickly enough.
What manner of man had she allowed under her roof? If she were not more careful, she might lose her coin and more.
‘Tell me of yourself, Renard. You must share our Count’s allegiance to King Philip to go to such lengths to overcome the English embargo.’
‘Kings are nothing to me,’ he said finally. An upraised eyebrow teased his face. ‘What, mistress, are they to you?’
Her gaze travelled over the familiar room. A lonely grey cloud of coarse Flemish fleece floated on one woven basket handle. Hooks were bare instead of piled with hanks of carded wool ready to sell to the spinsters. Empty shelves should have been stacked with ells of cloth ready for market.
She had a sudden, fierce desire for him to see it as it was supposed to be—busy, bustling, shelves piled high with a rainbow of fine woven woollens.
‘As you can see,’ she said, finally, ‘this shop has been one of their battlegrounds.’
‘A battleground? With whose forces do you fight? Valois or Plantagenet? Philip’s or Edward’s?’
She ignored his question, as he had hers, steeling herself this time not to fear silence. The more she talked, the more lies she had to tell. Nibbling her cheese, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. ‘I cannot fight. I am only a woman, not a chevalier.’
‘There are many ways to fight a war,’ he answered.
His words gave her pause. How did he fight?
And for whom?
‘This husband of yours, for example,’ he continued. ‘Where is he?’
Husband. Where is my husband? She took a bite of cheese, trying to think. Aunt Matilda was right. She should be mindful of her tongue. She was creating too many lies to count. She should never have left the man here alone. If he had prowled the house while she was away, he would know no man lived under this roof.
She took another sip of ale. ‘I told you I am responsible. He is away.’
‘Away.’ He pulled at the word as if it were the thread that could unravel a whole cloth. ‘And what is he doing…away?’
What lie is something like the truth? ‘Buying… selling.’
‘Buying and selling what?’
He leaned towards her. Too close. A shaft of late-afternoon sun sculpted his strong cheekbones, softened by an unruly curl of chestnut hair.
The silence grew so large that she had to fill it.
‘He is trying to find more wool.’ That at least was true. But it was her father, not her husband, who had travelled to England on a wool-buying trip.
‘How pleased he will be when he returns to find you have succeeded.’
‘Certainly he will be pleased when you succeed.’
He gave her a lazy smile. She let go of her breath. He was satisfied. There would be no more questions about her husband.
‘Has he been away long?’
She
