You might be familiar with Blythe Gifford from her last Harlequin Historical, The Harlot’s Daughter. As you can tell from Alicia Thomas’ review she loved it. Blythe followed it up June 1st with Innocence Unveiled. Read on for the summary and an excerpt…
Blythe Gifford’s INNOCENCE UNVEILED
A Man of Secrets.
He shares a king’s blood, but his mother’s shame means he’ll never claim his birthright. Now, disguised as a smuggler, he must know: Will the weavers support his king?A Woman of Lies. She hides her hair under the veil of a married woman to protect her father’s weaving business. Desperate for the banned wool, she opens her home to the alluring smuggler.
Sleeping under the same roof they fight temptation at every turn, but to trust is to risk betrayal—and death.
CHAPTER ONE
Shadows hid the stranger’s face, but over the pounding of her heart, Katrine heard the threat in his voice, as casual as a shrug.
“You decide,” he said. “I can get you the wool you need, but if you let the opportunity pass . . .” The slight lift of his shoulders blocked the morning sun streaming into her weaving room. “There are many other willing buyers.”
“Every weaver in Ghent is willing.” Katrine fought the tremble in her tongue.
It was no secret. Deprived of the wool that was its lifeblood, this city of clothmakers was starving. So when a stranger claimed he could find fleece for her looms, she recklessly agreed to listen. He didn’t need her, but she needed his wool. Desperately.
Arms crossed, the smuggler leaned against the wall, filling the space as if he owned it. “Decide, mistress. Deal with me or go hungry.”
Backed against the loom, she felt the wooden upright press against her spine like a martyr’s stake. She stroked the tautly warped threads for comfort. They quivered beneath her fingers. Looking up, she tried to read his eyes, but the sun cast him in darkness. She must not yield too easily, or she’d not be able to bargain at all.
“Your voice does not carry the accent of Ghent.” She knew nothing about the man. Not even his name. “Where is your home?”
A shaft of sunlight picked up a reddish strand in his chestnut hair. He did not speak at first, and she wondered whether he heard her. “I was born in Brabant,” he said, finally.
His answer seemed safe enough. The neighboring duchy was one of half a dozen fiefdoms clustered near the channel between England and France. She should at least discover what goods he offered.
Fingers hidden in the folds of her skirt, she pinched the fabric, taking comfort in the even weave. “My mark appears on only the finest cloth. I buy with care. Is this wool of yours English or Spanish?”
“English.”
“Good.” Clasping her fingers in front of her, she paced as if considering her choices. Best not to ask how he would come by it. The English king had embargoed all shipments to Flanders for the last nine months. “Where were the sheep raised? I prefer Cistercian-raised flocks from the Tintern Abbey, though I will accept Yorkshire fleece.”
“Accept?” Amusement colored his voice. “You will accept whatever I bring you. You have no choice.”
Sweet Saint Catherine, what shall I do?
She had bargained with the larger cloth houses for any fleece they would spare. She had scrambled for the poor stuff grown on the backs of Flemish sheep. She had even directed her weavers to make a looser weave, hoping the fullers, cleaning and beating the cloth to finish it could thicken the final product.
She had no tricks left.
She had begged her unsympathetic uncle for help, but she feared unless she trusted this mysterious stranger, there would be no business left if—no, when—her father returned.
At least the stranger’s hands, large, with long, strong fingers, looked reliable, even familiar.
“How much can you get?” she asked.
“Maybe one sack.”
“A weaver will use that in a week,” Katrine scoffed, to cover her disappointment.
He did not move from his comfortable slouch. “One sack is one sack more than you have at the moment.”
She squeezed prayerful fingers. “What is your price? If I agree.”
“Twenty five gold livres per sack. In advance.”
“Fifteen.” With good negotiation, the pouch of gold her father left might pay for three sacks. “On delivery.” She gritted her teeth behind a stone saint smile.
“Twenty eight.”
Her smile shattered. “You said twenty five before.”
“I’ll say thirty tomorrow, if I please. Don’t try to bargain with me, mistress. You have nothing to bargain with.”
The sunlight shifted and revealed his eyes for the first time, the dusky blue of indigo dyed over gray wool. One eye hovered on the edge of a wink.
“Or maybe,” he said, softly, “you do.”
Something more than fear burned her cheeks and chilled her fingers. Something that had to do with him.
Stifling her body’s betrayal, she folded her arms, mimicking his stance. “I bargain only with gold. I want the wool, but I have another source.” She trusted her uncle little more than this stranger, but she would not give him the power of that knowledge. The man already had the advantage. “If your offer is better, I will take three sacks and pay twenty each—ten in advance, the rest on delivery. If you want more . . . ,” she hesitated. “If you want more money than that, find one of your other willing buyers.”
“It does not matter what you say. It is your husband who will decide.”
Her hand flew to the wimple hiding her red hair. The married woman’s headdress was one of the little lies of her life, so much a part of her she had forgotten it would signal a husband who ruled her every action. “I have been given authority in this matter.”
In her father’s absence, the draper’s guild had allowed her to conduct his affairs, but she was reaching the limits of their regulations. And their patience.
She waited for him to turn away, as had so many who refused to deal with a woman. Yet when the smuggler spoke, respect tinged his words. “You bargain like a man, mistress. I suspect you run your business well.”
“I do.” She willed her tongue to silence, waiting for his answer. Outside, the sign painted with the trademark of the Four-Petaled Daisy creaked in the breeze.
He barely moved his chin to nod. “We are agreed.”
Her sigh of relief slipped out without disguise. “Agreed if my other source does not better your offer.” Now, she had an option if her uncle failed her. “You will have my answer by the end of the day.”
“See that I do.” The respect, if she had heard it, had fled his voice. “I will not wait on your whim when there are others eager to buy.”
“If I tell you yes, when will I see my wool?”
He shrugged. “I will stay here while I make arrangements.”
“Here?” She had been mad to deal with a stranger. Already he was changing the bargain.
“Unless you want our business on the Council’s agenda. Any hosteler will be glad to collect their coin for reporting my every move.”
She could not argue. England and France were near war. The town was swarming with suspicion. An innkeeper would notice a tall, blue-eyed man speaking accented Flemish. “I am paying you twenty livres for the wool. What will you pay me for the lodging?”
No shadow of surprise crossed the deep blue moat of his eyes. “Are you reopening negotiations?”
“You were the one who did that.” Her tart words made her feel in control again. “If you stay, your room will cost you five pence a week and I’ll provide no board. Take a pallet on the third floor,” she said, vaguely uneasy at the thought of him sleeping under her roof.
He frowned. “With the apprentices?”
“They left months ago.” No need to lie. He’d learn that soon enough.
“No apprentices? How do you operate a draper business?” He spoke as though he already knew her answer.
She sighed. “Without wool, there has been little business.” Instead of being stacked with red, green, and blue woolen cloth bearing the mark of the Four-Petaled Daisy, Katrine’s shelves were bare.
Leaning over, he lifted his sack and slung it over his shoulder without effort. Strong arms, then, and a light load. “So, what will you make with this wool of yours?”
Anything will sell these days, but deep blue would fetch a good price. Indigo dyed over gray wool . . .
He watched her with a half smile. The thread of her thoughts unraveled. His glance seemed to expose her secrets while sharing none of his own.
“Indigo dyed worsted,” she said crisply. “The market hasn’t seen its like since before Christmas and it should fetch at least fifty florins. If, that is, you bring me wool worth weaving.”
“Whatever I bring, you’ll pay for.”
She bridled. “Of course. I’m an honest woman.”
“So you say.” Walking past her toward the stairs, he paused beside the loom. His fingers stumbled as he plucked the threads, the first awkward gesture he had made. “This is important to you, isn’t it?” he said, not looking up.
I leave it in your hands, daughter. Guard it well.
“It is my life.”
He scrutinized her wordlessly, as if gauging what kind of a life it was. She forced herself to remain still, hoping he saw a trustworthy guild wife. He must not suspect who she really was.
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