The Devil Claims a Wife. Helen DicksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
so it seemed to Jane, who could hardly judge for certain when she’d never seen him before or heard him utter a word.
As if sensing he was being watched, Guy St Edmond snatched at the reins. Wrenched to standstill, his horse stood up on its hind legs, the following riders wheeling and coming to a jarring stop, metal clanking against metal as they cursed at the sudden halt. They were close to where Jane was hiding. The sun sent shafts of light through the high trees and softly crept through the clearing. At closer range she noted Guy St Edmond’s hair was unruly and very dark, almost black, curling round his neck. His skin on his hawk-like face was bronzed above the black beard.
Displaying a coat of arms on his tabard, he was clad in a leather tunic and leggings. It showed his strong limbs and thick torso. He turned in the saddle to speak to his men. He laughed as they shared a joke. It was a deep rich sound that made Jane think of clotted cream. She shuddered. It would seem the formidable Earl of Sinnington had a sense of humour. As he turned back to the light, she made out the fascinating tone of his eyes—could they really be so blue and so bright?
Suddenly the voices of the children she was hiding from as they played their game of hide-and-seek could be heard in the woodland behind her. Ears attuned, his body alert, Guy St Edmond’s smile turned from open humour to something more guarded. His thick black brows lowered and his eyes narrowed as they searched for the source of the disturbance. Jane could see he was used to weighing up new situations quickly.
Suddenly the unsuspecting children burst into the open, accompanied by Jane’s maid, Kate. Confronted by these awesome, terrifying strangers, the children abandoned their game and clung to Kate, whose protective arms went round them and held them close. Blanche, Jane’s ten-year-old sister, stared in mute terror, while Alfred, Jane’s thirteen-year-old brother, simply stood and looked with wide-eyed awe, craning his neck up the better to see the man on the horse.
Half in fear and half in concern for her siblings, emerging from the shadows, Jane moved to stand a few paces away from the cowering children, tall and graceful with her long-legged stride. Her skirts of myrtle green moulded her fine limbs, flowing out above her brown leather slippers in soft, yielding folds. The waist gathered beneath the rounded young breasts was caught with dark green ribbons emphasising her shape. Then she raised her eyes, indifferent to all, in morbid curiosity desirous only to look at the man bearing the manner of a warrior about him.
As the daughter of Simon Lovet, an English cloth merchant, and younger sister of Andrew Lovet, who had been killed in battle fighting for the Lancastrian cause and the rightful King Henry and his wife, Guy St Edmond would look on her as a traitor. But Jane, having grown heartily tired of strife, was beyond loyalty to anyone but her family and herself. She stood and waited for him to speak, while terror screamed through every pore of her quaking body.
With the clean, heady scent of spring clover and newly budded flowers in the air, and a blackbird happily singing its heart out, Guy watched the girl watching him as he approached and saw her every thought reflected in her eyes—interest, uncertainty, suspicion, dread—but no fear, thank God.
Unbeknown to him, it was not false bravado that made Jane show no fear. She felt it deep in her bones, but she was a Lovet and a Lovet never admitted fear of any man. She had heard that time after time from her father and her dead brother, and she had adopted their creed for her own.
As he halted his horse in front of her, all the breath suddenly seemed to have left him as he was struck by a jolt of unexpected lust. She stood for a moment in silence, contemplating him. The girl was as ravishing a creature as one could imagine—youth and springtime incarnate.
She had affected him, Jane knew that. Her apprehension increased. Here she was, being stared at by a magnetic, thoroughly compelling man, a man whose direct and confident gaze made her heart beat faster—though that, in small part, might have been due to dread.
For a long moment he gazed right into her eyes with a look that blazed, heating them until they glowed like molten coals in his bearded face. They were hard and inscrutable, as if she knew a secret that he had to know, as if they had known each other for ever. She was unsettled by his look, but she could not look away. A modest woman would lower her eyes, but she stood tall, astonished at herself, staring like an ignorant peasant. She found she could not take her eyes from his, eyes which were burning her where she stood.
Guy was not quite sure what to make of it. Either she had not heard, isolated in Cherriot Vale, that he was the Devil incarnate, or was too starved of male company to care. He found himself strangely moved by her candid look. Fancifully, he thought her like a beautiful half-wild creature of this emerald glade—or a wondrous rare forest animal that did not know enough of the world to be afraid.
She was totally innocent.
Though they were at least twelve paces apart, Jane felt his gaze penetrate her heart. Nudging his horse forwards, he circled her, his smile set in a grim line across his darkly handsome face, examining her like a horse at the fair.
Guy’s eyes roved approvingly over her lithe figure, stopping at the swelling breasts and tiny waist, then strayed back to the soft tresses of honey-gold hair that escaped the confines of her green velvet cap. Her nose was upturned, a nose bespeaking curiosity and impishness. Her lips were full, parted and hinted of secret, of a hidden sensuality as her tongue flicked nervously over them. The chin was not weak, not strong, argumentative perhaps, but not intransigent. Her skin was creamy white and glowing. Her eyes green, into which one might wish to dive, to be willingly lost for ever, glowed with an inner light and hinted of the woman hidden beneath the child-like innocence of her face.
She was the loveliest creature his eyes had seen in many a day.
‘Well, well, and what have we here?’ Guy St Edmond murmured in a voice that was deep and rich and full of unexpected beauty, still looking at her. Her eyes flickered over him, clearly interested, but perhaps intimidated by his size and the bruiser’s build that he had inherited from his father. ‘I don’t bite,’ he said with a cynical half-smile.
‘No? I have heard to the contrary.’
He laughed, a deep, booming laugh as his horse did a full circle. When he faced her once more, already regretting her impulsive words, Jane stared up at the stranger and despite her efforts a soft flush crept up her cheeks. Without lowering her gaze, she sank into a curtsy as gracefully as she knew how and her trembling limbs would permit. In an attempt to alleviate her siblings’ fear, she smiled, showing teeth that were white and even and beautifully shaped. ‘I am Jane Lovet,’ she said, ‘daughter of Simon Lovet, who is a trader in fine cloth here in Cherriot.’
‘And the father of a Lancastrian, if I am not mistaken,’ he said in such a way that made Jane’s blood run cold in her veins. ‘And do you and your family follow your brother’s inclinations as loyal Lancastrians, Jane Lovet, though much good it did him? Are you loyal to King Henry?’
Jane stared at him. Every merchant in London was Yorkist to a man, throwing their support behind the young, strong and intelligent King Edward. Being an exacting, ambitious man, her father’s every thought was directed into making money and the elevation of his family, and as such he had no particular leanings for either side. But he had been unable to forgive Andrew his support for Henry, which had turned the majority of merchants against him.
‘My brother’s support of King Henry cannot be denied, but my parents accept the rule of King Edward.’
He nodded. ‘A sensible move, since Henry can no longer raise a decent army to continue the fight.’
‘So we have been told, and since the king himself has recently married an impoverished widow from the enemy camp, a woman whose own father fought against him, we can be assured of his leniency.’
Guy’s eyes narrowed as they focused on her upturned face, caught somewhere between anger, amazement and admiration for her defiant courage. ‘Your words are boldly spoken, Jane Lovet. But I warn you to have a care what you say in the future. Do you live hereabouts?’
She nodded. ‘In the manor house at the end of the village close to the river.’
‘So