Lord of Midnight by Jo Beverley Page B

lord, taking the reins of his horse, “light should prove to be a suitably dark and dismal lady.”
    Claire had planned to face the usurper with courage and defiance, but nerves began to shake her.
    If only she had some idea what to expect!
    .Felice and Amice being carried out, watched as they picked their way toward the tent. One of the cloaked and hooded men had accompanied her aunts there. Presumably Lord Renald.
    She’d peered through the rain, desperate for any hint of the foe she must face. He looked big.
    Of course he’d be big. He was surely one of the men who lived by the sword. Blooded swords, her father had called them. Wolves of war. He’d not welcomed them here. That had been another of Felice’s complaints, for where else was she to find a great man except among the ambitious wolf packs?
    So, if he was that type, he’d appeal to Felice.
    What if he wasn’t? What if he was too big for her taste? Or badly scarred. Or deformed. Or foul-smelling. Or had the manners of a pig.
    Then Claire would have to marry him.
    She tried to persuade herself that it wouldn’t be so terrible. Her grandmother had married in worse circumstances and made a good life out of it.
    She went over her mother’s words to Felice, telling them to herself. If she was meek, he’d not be brutal. He’d rarely be here, so most of the time she’d be left in charge of Summerbourne. She could see her home kept as it had always been, a prosperous place of arts and learning, full of laughter and music.
    But when he was here he’d share her bed and use her body.
    Claire had known some men she would rather die than lie with. Baldwin of Biggin sprang to mind. Sir Baldwin had claimed hospitality here some months back and proved to be a revolting man.
    He had the big, strong body of a fighting man, but padded out with fat. His belly overlapped his belt and his cheeks bulged up, making his eyes like those of a pig. He ate like a pig 5 too, spilling food and drink down himself. His hands were enormous, each finger like a fat red sausage stuck with dark hairs, and he’d liked to use those fingers to pinch bottoms and squeeze breasts.
    Claire had tipped a bowl of soup over him when he’d tried it with her. He’d just laughed and said he liked spirit in a woman, looking at her as if she were another dish at the table. Her father had got rid of him, of course, but she shuddered at the memory. Now, she had no one to protect her from men such as that.
    She started when her mother clasped her hands around a warm goblet of mead. “Drink, dear. It will steady your nerves.”
    The heat was welcome, and the spicy steam soothed, but Claire swallowed tears as she sipped. Her mother couldn’t rescue her, and now she wasn’t even trying. She wanted Claire steady to face the sacrifice. Didn’t they give condemned men a drink before execution?
    She suddenly felt terribly alone, exposed like a felon in the marketplace, every nerve vulnerable to the harsh winds of grief, and the hail of fear, with none daring to protect her from her fate.
    She looked out at the camp again and saw her fate turn from the tent and walk toward the horses. She drained the mead in one gulp.
    Soon four cloaked men approached the gates, but to her surprise, they led their mounts. They waded the muddy pool and crossed the wooden bridge, their horses’ hooves rapping on the wood like ominous hammers.
    Thomas moved up beside her. She couldn’t hug him, nor would he want to be hugged. It would mark him as a child he could no longer be. But she rested her hand upon his shoulder hoping he couldn’t feel her fear. Her mother was right. Right. Thomas was the one most vulnerable here. If marriage was the price of his safety, she’d do it, no matter how revolting the man turned out to be.
    As soon as the men were through the gates, one took all four sets of reins and led the horses to the stables. Claire swung her attention back to the other three. Which was the new lord? They all looked the