"We tell ourselves stories in order to live."

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I N N O C E N C E   U N V E I L E D 

Coming in JUNE 2008

THE BOOK | REVIEWS | AN EXCERPT

Also from Blythe Gifford...

THE HARLOT'S DAUGHTER

THE BOOK |  REVIEWS |  AUTHOR INTERVIEWS | AN EXCERPT

THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN

 

Cover Art used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited.  All rights reserved. ®and ™ are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises Limited and/or its affiliated companies, used under license.	Innocence Unveiled When a mysterious, seductive trader arrives at her door, noblewoman Katrine de Gravere reluctantly agrees to give him shelter. The payment--enough wool to keep her precious looms filled. Sleeping under the same roof, tempted every minute to let his fingers linger on this flame-haired, reserved innocent, Renard wonders if she suspects his real reasons for being there.  In a town where no one feels safe, Katrine makes him yearn for things long forbidden, but can he trust her not to betray him? Harlequin HistoricalsTM June 2008 ISBN 13# 978-0-373-29502-9 ISBN 10# 0-373-29502-2
Read the Reviews   “absolutely fascinating... enchantingly different…prepare to be transported to another time and place.” Debby Guyette CataRomance  4 1/2 Stars
Read an Excerpt From Chapter Four Unwelcome moonlight chased him into the shadows.  The man he’d seen outside the house was missing tonight, but he could not afford to be questioned by the watch.  He had taken the risk of staying out past curfew hoping she would be abed when he returned.  He must avoid her questions.  And her temptation.   Wrinkling his nose at the lingering scent of cabbage soup, he slipped into the kitchen, the familiar weight of his dagger molded to his palm.  The glow of uncovered embers drew him, cautiously, into the front room. Katrine slept over her account books again.  Her wimple askew, a lock of hair, reflecting red from the dying coals, escaped to caress her cheek.  An ink blot stained the middle finger of her right hand, protectively stretched atop the ledger. He sheathed his dagger and stepped into the room quietly so she would not wake.  The fire’s glow left deep shadows in the narrow room’s corners.  The house did not stretch far beyond the firelight.  Such a small place.  King Edward needed more room than this just to pace. Yet this was all she had.  No fields, no serfs, no vast estates toiled for her outside these walls.  Only a cherry tree and a bolt of cloth shielded her from starvation. No wonder she needs the wool.  Couldn't this husband of hers take care of the woman?  He knelt before her, his face dangerously close to hers.  Before he could stop them, his fingers slipped past his self-control to touch the lock of hair on her cheek.  When he tried to tuck it beneath her wimple, the strands slipped through his fingers like silk. At his touch, she woke, brown eyes weighed down by a thicket of lashes and a sleepy smile touching her lips.  A matching smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.  He spoke softly, the Flemish rough in this throat.  “Do you fall asleep over your accounts every night, mistress?” She blinked, suddenly awake, and drew away, leaving his fingers empty.  “The business is all I have.  I will do anything I must to keep it.” He rose, abruptly, wondering what passion she had left for her husband.  If she had one.  Suddenly, it seemed important to know.  He had negotiated with kings.  He could certainly force the truth from a simple weaving woman.  “And your husband, will he, too, do anything he must?” Her dark eyes looked huge in her pale face, framed by the rumpled wimple.  “Of course.”  She hesitated over the words. He was certain in that moment she had no husband. The rush of blood throbbed in his loins before he could summon his control.  No man possesses her.  Denial struggled with hot, sweet desire.  He clenched his jaw and felt his eyelid flinch, but he refused to break his gaze, glad to be safely towering over her again.  He would resist her, but she mustn’t know that.  “If you will do anything you must, mistress, will do anything I ask?”  He must keep her off balance, wondering about his intentions.  A delicate flush--anger or shame?--spread beyond her cheek.  She bit her lower lip with small white teeth, inflicting enough pain to steady her resolve.  He had seen a knight in battle try the same trick, slashing his forearm to create a new, superficial wound to distract him from the mortal blow. Staring back at him, her defiant eyes did not waver, but he heard the whisper of inheld breath, as if she had recognized the fire in his eyes and was burned by it.  “What do you ask?” Longing rushed through his blood like poison. What he would ask had no words, only the vision of wild joining.  He fought the image.  Even if he permitted himself careless pleasures of the flesh, he was hiding in the belly of a country that might soon be at war with his.  One unmeasured word uttered in passion could be his death.  He gritted his teeth against the feeling.  “I ask for the truth.” She rose and slipped into the shadows surrounding the loom.  Hiding.  He would not let her.  “And the truth is, you have no husband.” She whirled to face him, the wool of her skirt crushed in her fist.  “I have no husband.”  Angry words.  “Would you have dealt with me had you known?” Yes, but he would not tell her that.  He shrugged.  “Then why wear the wimple?” Her slender arms crossed her chest like a shield.  “There is little safety on the streets these days.  People are more respectful of a married woman.” “But you are not on the streets now.” “I still need protection.” “I thought I was to protect you.” She smiled.  “Who will protect me from you?” She had turned his words back on him.  He had thought to keep her off balance, yet he was the one who felt dizzy.  He donned a mask of disdain to blot out all traces of attraction.  She must not know his weakness for her.  “What makes you think you need protection from me?”  Her eyes widened and narrowed in an instant, but he saw his insult had hit its mark.  For a moment, was sorry of it. “I am glad to hear I do not.”  She patted the wrinkles from her skirt, now all brisk business.  “When will I see my wool?” Uneasiness rippled through him.  She had recovered faster than he expected.  He had thought her a simple burgher mistress but so far, this woman was nothing that he had expected.  “I cannot order contraband wool at the market.  If it were easy, you would not need me.” “How long must I wait?” “As long as it takes.”  As long would it take to turn the people of Flanders to Edward’s side.  “Weeks, not days, mistress.” “I’ve waited months already.”  Urgency shook her voice. “Patience is a virtue you don’t possess.” “Patience is no virtue when dealing with spinsters and weavers.  I have no patience for sloppy work or I will have nothing fit to sell.” Her words intrigued him.  What would it be like to be so pleased with who you were and what you did?  “You are proud of your work, aren't you?”  The smile that transformed her face would have, for most women, come at the mention of a paramour.  “The mark of the Four-Petaled Daisy is known throughout the Low Countries.” She sounded lovesick, he thought, irritably.  “And what makes your cloth so special?” “I can recognize the best wool by touch.  My spinsters deliver seven skeins a day instead of five.  When my dyers are finished, the color is fast.  My weavers' work is so tight we rarely need the fullers' craft.” “Fullers?”  He followed most Flemish words, but sometimes missed the meaning.  “What do they do?” She cocked a suspicious eyebrow.  “How can you deal in wool and know so little of it?” “Do I need to know how to grow wheat in order to trade it?  Or how to take salt from the mines in order to sell it?”  “Well, if you knew wool, you would recognize our mark.  Even before I was born, we made a special fabric for the Duchess of Brabant.” A burning numbness filled him, like a blow from a broadside sword.  Duchess cloth.  A scrap of indigo dyed wool carefully wrapped around dagger of German silver.  An orphaned bastard's only inheritance from the princess who had married a duke.  What terrible fate had drawn him to the very shop that made the cloth his mother had worn?  Excerpt from INNOCENCE UNVEILIED Copyright © 2008 by Wendy B. Gifford This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. and Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved. ® and ™ are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises Limited and/or its affiliated companies, used under license.

Read the Reviews

Romantic Times «««« Four Stars

"...compelling...desperation and hope weave this tale of love and acceptance into a historical romance that will catch readers' hearts. Blythe Gifford knows how to touch that essential something in us all."

WantzUponATime Book Reviews  4 1/2 Books

"A harrowing time in history is authentically brought to life with realistic characters."

Kay Quintin

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Read an Excerpt

FROM Chapter One

The man was all hardness and power.  A perpetual frown furrowed his brow.  “Lady Joan, or shall I say Lady Solay?”

She slapped on a smile to hide the trembling of her lips.  “A turn in the caroling ring?  Of course.”

He did not return her smile.  “No.  A private word.”

His eyes, large, heavy lidded, turned down at the corners, as if weighed with sorrow.

Or distrust.

“If you wish,” she said, uneasy.  As he guided her into the passageway outside the Great Hall, she turned her attention to him, ready to discover who he was, what he wanted, and how she might please him. 

God had blessed her with a pleasing visage.  Most men were content to bask in the glow of her interest, never asking what she might think or feel.

And if they had asked, she would not have known what to say.  She had forgotten.

Yet this man, silent, stared down at her as though he knew her thoughts and despised them.  Behind him, the caroler’s call echoed off the rafters of the Great Hall and the singers responded in kind.  She smiled, trying to lift his scowl.  “It’s a merry group.”

No gentle curve sculpted lips that formed an angry slash in his face.  “They sound as if they had forgotten we might have been singing beside the French today.” 

She shivered.  Only God’s grace had kept the French fleet off their shores this summer.  “Perhaps people want to forget the war for awhile.” 

“They shouldn’t.”  His tone brooked no dissent.  “Now tell me, Lady Solay, why have you come to court?”

She touched a finger to her lips, taking time to think.  She must not speak without knowing whose ear listened.  “Sir, you know who I am, but I do not even know your name.  Pray, tell me.” 

“Lord Justin Lamont.”

His simple answer told her nothing she needed to know.  Was he the King’s man or no?  “Are you also a visitor at Court?”

“I serve the Duke of Gloucester.”

She clasped her fingers in front of her so they would not shake.  Gloucester had near the power of a king these days.  Richard could make few moves without his uncle’s approval, a galling situation for a proud and profligate Plantagenet. 

She widened her eyes, tilted her head, and smiled.  “How do you serve the Duke?”

“I was trained at the Inns of Court.”

She struggled to keep her smile from crumbling.  “A man of the law?”  A craven vulture who never kept his word, who would speak for you one day and against you the next, who could take away your possessions, your freedom, your very life.

“You dislike the law, Lady Solay?”  A twist of a smile relaxed the harsh edges of his face.  For the first time, she noticed a cleft in his chin, the only softness she’d seen in him.

“Wouldn’t you, if it had done to you what it did to my mother?”  Shame, shame.  Do not let the anger show.  It was over and done.  She must move on.  She must survive.

“It was your mother who did damage to the law.”

His bluntness shocked her.  True, her mother had shared the judges’ bench on occasion, but only to insure that the King’s will was done.  Most judges could not be trusted to render a verdict without an eye on their pockets.

Solay kept her brow smooth, her eyes wide and her voice low.  “My mother served the Queen and then the King faithfully.  She was ill-served in the end for her faithful care.”

“She used the law to steal untold wealth.  It was the realm that was ill-served.”

Most only whispered their hatred.  This man spoke it aloud.  She gritted her teeth.  “You must have been ill-informed.  All her possessions were freely given by the King or purchased with her own funds.”

“Ah!  So you are here to get them back.”

She cleared her throat, unsettled that he suspected her plan so soon.  “The King honored me with an invitation.  I was pleased to accept.” 

“Why would he invite you?”

Because my mother begged everyone who would still listen to ask him.  “Who can know the mind of a King?”

“Your mother did.”

“A King does as he wills.” 

A spark of understanding lit his eyes.  “Parliament turned down her last petition for redress so she has sent you to beg money directly from the King.”

“We do not beg for what is rightfully ours.”  She lowered her eyes to hide her anger.  Parliament had impeached one of the King’s key advisors last fall, then given the five Lords of the Council unwelcome oversight of the King.  It was an uneasy time to appear at court.  She had no friends and could afford no enemies.  “Please, do not let me detain you.  My affairs need not be your concern.  You must have many friends to see.”

“I’m not sure that anyone has many friends these days, Lady Solay.  You asked about my work.  Among my duties is to see that the King wastes no more money on flatterers.  If you try to entice him into raiding the exchequer on your behalf, your affairs will become my concern.” 

The import of his words sank in.  She risked angering a man who had power over the very purse strings she needed to loosen. 

“I only ask that you deal fairly.”  A vain hope.  She had given up on justice years ago. 

She stepped back, wanting to leave, but he touched her sleeve and moved closer, until she had to tip her head back to see his eyes.  He was tall and lean and in the flickering torch fire, his brown hair, carelessly falling from a center part, glimmered with a hint of gold. 

And above his head hung a kissing bough. 

He looked up and then back at her, his eyes dark.  She couldn’t, didn’t want to look away.  His scent, cedar and ink, tantalized her.

Let them look.  Make them want, her mother had warned her, but never, never want yourself.  Yet this breathless ache, surely this was want. 

He leaned closer, his lips hovering over hers.  All she could think of was his burning eyes and the harsh rise and fall of his chest.  She closed her eyes and her lips parted.

“Do you think to sway me as your mother swayed a King, Lady Solay?”

She pushed him away, relieved the corridor was still empty, and forced her lips into a coy smile.  “You make me forget myself.” 

“Or perhaps I help you remember who you really are.”

Her smile pinched.  “Or who you think I am.”

“I know who you are.  You are an awkward remnant of a great King’s waning years and glory lost because of a deceitful woman.” 

Gall choked her.  “You blame my mother for the King’s decline, not caring how hard she worked to keep order when he could not tell sun from moon.”

When he did not know, or care to know, the daughter he had spawned. 

“I, Lady Solay, can tell day from night.  Your mother’s tricks will not work on me.”

Then I must try some others, she thought, frantic.

What others did she know?

He had made her forget herself.  She had been too blunt.  Next time, she must use only honeyed words.  “I would never try to trick you, Lord Justin.  You are too wise to be fooled.”

Muttering a farewell, she turned her back and walked away from this man who lured her into anger she could ill-afford. 

Excerpt from THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER
Copyright © 2007 by Wendy B. Gifford
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A. and Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved.
® and ™ are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises Limited and/or its affiliated companies, used under license.

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