‘I suppose you could say that when people are desperate they’re forced to use any means to survive,’ she couldn’t stop herself from saying.
‘Yes, that’s natural—commendable, even—as long as it’s within the confines of the law, Eleanor, otherwise we descend into a breakdown of order altogether.’
She wanted to say more, wanted to argue her point, but she kept her mouth shut. She dared not expose herself and give rise to suspicion.
He threw her a sideways glance. ‘Having said that, I do, however, want you to show me how we can help Tallany’s people as best we can.’
She stared at him before nodding slowly. ‘Very well, my lord. I would be happy to.’
Eleanor did her best to stay detached and distant, but she could feel her resolve slipping. The truth was she couldn’t help but like Hugh, however hard she tried not to. It was all so unsettling—and, frankly, she had other things to be unsettled about. Such as making sure her husband never found out about her involvement with the outlaws as Le Renard. Or the work they did to help Tallany.
She turned to fetch a cloth to dry his skin, wanting to change the topic of conversation. ‘You’re lucky that I don’t need to stitch this up,’ she said wryly. ‘My stitch-work leaves a lot to be desired.’
‘Is that so?’ He quirked one brow. ‘By your own admission, Eleanor, you have no court manners, you cannot dance, and now it seems you’re poorly skilled at that bastion of female proficiency: stitching.’
‘Well,’ she said, smoothing the wrinkles out of her kirtle, ‘it’s true, nevertheless.’
‘I wonder whether you are a little too disparaging of your own talents,’ he said, stretching out his arm.
‘I promise you I am not.’ She turned and picked up a small bowl filled with thick translucent paste. ‘May I apply Brunhilde’s salve? It smells like something a cat might drag into the kitchens, but it has amazing healing properties. Your wound may not be big, but I wouldn’t want it to fester.’
Hugh’s lips curved, revealing his dimple. ‘Go ahead. And nicely diverted, my lady, but I can tell you that I am not persuaded by you in the least.’
Oh, dear, if only he wouldn’t smile at her like that.
‘I am very honoured that you wish to champion my woeful lack of maidenly talents, but I promise you I’m a hopeless case,’ she said with a sigh as she rubbed the salve into his wound, feeling the smooth skin of his arm beneath her fingers. The sensation of touching him made her aware once again of his closeness.
‘Then tell me, what are you good at?’
What was she good at? Not much—only the ability to survive.
As Lady Eleanor she organised the castle and worked efficiently as its chatelaine, but she also mobilised her people at times of crisis. And as Le Renard she fought for her people to have back the basic necessities that were constantly being stripped from them. She had been both master and mistress of Tallany but not any more.
She flicked her eyes upwards and met the gaze of its new master. A master just as capable as she. And Eleanor couldn’t help but begrudgingly respect Hugh, despite his being King John’s man.
What was she good at? Nothing of value for someone like Hugh.
She wished at times that she was able to reveal herself to him. She wished she could show him her dextrous, quick skills as an archer and watch his awed response when she succeeded in hitting her mark with precision again and again. But that was not something he could admire in her. No one except a select few knew of those skills. And even if Hugh were to find out, she was sure it would fill him with nothing but contempt and disgust for her.
She got up to move. ‘Wait a moment whilst I fetch some fresh strips of cloth to bind it.’
Hugh’s hand snaked out and caught her wrist. ‘You didn’t answer my question, Eleanor.’
Heat scorched her skin where his fingers touched her. ‘I would have to say that I am not good at much,’ she said.
‘I rather doubt that,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You’re good at caring for Tallany and its people.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Oh, absolutely. I saw you giving out parcels in the village earlier. I’d wager you were handing out provisions, foods and other such stuff.’
Eleanor tilted her head and regarded him. ‘We look after each other here in Tallany. Without that we have nothing.’
‘True.’ He nodded at his wound. ‘Just as you’re looking after me now, I suppose?’
‘I suppose...’ She shrugged, not meeting his eyes as his thumb traced a line from her wrist to her fingers, stroking each one. Each roughened and callused one...
Oh, God! In her haste to tend his wound she had removed her gloves.
‘May I ask why it’s been necessary to hide your hands, Eleanor?’
She tried to pull away, but he held her hand firmly in his. ‘They’re rough, ugly, and not befitting the Lady of Tallany.’
He frowned. ‘I disagree. They’re hard-working, caring hands—perfectly befitting the Lady of Tallany.’
Eleanor opened her mouth to say something, but couldn’t think of anything. Instead she felt breathless as an undefinable frisson passed through her.
Hugh’s gaze met hers as he continued to gently stroke her hand, then fell briefly to her lips. She felt herself moving closer to him. But just as she was almost in his arms a sudden knock at the door jolted them apart. A servant walked in, bowed, then retrieved the bowl of dirty water and put a fresh one on the small trestle table.
Eleanor exhaled slowly. ‘I think, my lord, that we’re finished here,’ she said, turning sharply on her heel.
This simply would not do. She could not afford to lose sight of her situation and of where her husband’s fealty lay. The stakes were
