Reaching up, Emma removed her veil and laid it at the foot of the bed. She loosened her plait and kicked off her boots, sturdy working boots in need of new soles, and somewhat out of keeping with her pink gown.
Sighing, she sank into the generous pillows. The linen smelt of him, of Sir Richard, commander of all in this castle unless King William was in residence. Emma was lying at the centre of Norman power in Wessex and, in her whole life, she had never felt so safe.
She was awakened in the small hours by the dull slam of a door. Whatever time was it? She was in Sir Richard’s bed with her son and the length of a candle on a wall pricket told her it had been an hour at most since he had brought Henri to her. She and Henri had the bedchamber—and the bed—to themselves. Having passed Henri to her, Sir Richard had briskly informed her he would be joining his squire for the night.
True to his word, a heartbeat later he had gone.
Voices, male ones, could be heard in the room below. What could be important enough to waken the garrison commander in the dead of night?
Rebellion? Fire? Flood? Or a command from the King? Emma shot upright, heart pounding. Yes, it could be a message from the King!
Pausing only to smooth Henri’s hair from his face for, unlike her, he slept like a log, she crept out of bed and dragged a fur about her shoulders. It wouldn’t do to be seen wandering the corridors of Winchester Castle in her undershift, but something was happening below and there was no time to dress. Besides, she wasn’t intending that anyone should discover her…
Hair flowing down her back, she padded across the matting.
On the half-landing below, the small white mongrel was lying across the door, his wiry coat gleaming in the torchlight. He was an ugly animal, and she prayed he was not ill-tempered.
Thankfully, when he saw her, his stumpy tail tapped the floor. Smiling, Emma held out her hand and allowed the dog to take her scent before squatting down beside him. Good. This was a dog who liked to be petted. He would not betray her as long as she kept him happy. Stroking him, she put her ear to the door.
‘And the King’s despatch?’ The deep tones of Sir Richard’s voice, though muffled by an inch of oak, were unmistakable.
‘Here, my lord.’ A voice she did not know. The messenger.
‘My thanks.’ As Emma strained to hear, she imagined that dark head bent over a scroll, breaking open the seal, unrolling it. There came a pause; she pictured him reading. ‘Thank God.’ Sir Richard’s voice again. ‘It has arrived. Geoffrey, we will be leaving in the morning.’
Emma’s heart sank. In the morning? They would be leaving in the morning! How on earth was she to secure his help in such a short time?
‘Tomorrow morning, my lord?’
That was the squire again. But…my lord?
‘Certainly, why wait? The King has promoted Sir Guy here. He will command the Winchester garrison, and as far as I am concerned he may take over at once.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
My lord?
‘My duty in England is done.’ Even through the door, Emma could hear the lightness in Sir Richard’s tone. ‘I must confess to a longing to see the Duchy again.’
‘Yes, my lord. Beaumont is beautiful in the spring.’
Beaumont? What was going on? She pressed her ear to the oak.
‘It is indeed, and it is far too long since I have seen the orchards in the valley pink and white with apple blossom.’ Sir Richard cleared his throat. ‘My congratulations to you, Sir Guy, on your appointment. I apologise for not staying to see you settled, but you will appreciate that since affairs in Normandy are so…uncertain, my presence there is urgently required. Sir Adam Wymark may be called upon to assist if you have any difficulties regarding the men and Nigel Steward knows everything worth knowing about the management of the castle. Both may be relied upon. Before I leave, I will make certain they know to brief you fully.’
‘Thank you, Lord Richard.’
The mongrel wriggled on to his back, presenting his tummy for Emma’s attention. Absently, Emma obliged him.
‘As you are aware, Sir Guy, the commander occupies chambers here in the tower, this one, as well as another on the upper floor. There will also be quarters reserved for you in the garrison hall. I shall be gone shortly after first light tomorrow and until then I shall require these tower rooms. If you wouldn’t mind bedding down in the hall until then?’
‘Of course, and again, my thanks, I hadn’t hoped for private chambers.’
‘It is the King’s wish. You are doubtless aware that the office of garrison commander would not ordinarily fall on one of his nobles, but Winchester is important to King William. He offers the use of private chambers by way of recompense.’
Footsteps had Emma scrambling to her feet. When the latch rattled, she lunged for the stairs. As she scurried up, the mongrel at her heels, she heard Geoffrey asking whether he should finish packing immediately.
‘What’s to pack? You’ve sorted most of it. I have what—a few weapons, some clothes? It shouldn’t take long. In any case, Cecily’s sister and her son are up there. Get your sleep, Geoffrey, you can finish in the morning….’
Sir Richard’s voice faded. The mongrel whined.
‘Hush!’ Emma stroked the wiry white fur for all she was worth. ‘Hush.’
‘Prince, is that you? Where are you, boy?’
Prince—he had named this ugly animal Prince? Emma attempted to push the dog back down the stairs, but the wretched creature stayed put, one ear up, one ear down, eyes shiny as black beads in the torchlight. Cocking his head to one side, he let out another whine.
‘Hush, for pity’s sake,’ she hissed.
Another whine.
The light strengthened. ‘Prince?’ A warm hand landed on her arm. ‘Mon Dieu, Lady Emma! Did you need something?’
‘I…I, yes…that is…no.’
A knowing expression came over Count Richard’s face. His lips twitched, almost into a smile. He turned back briefly with a, ‘Get some sleep, Geoffrey. We will finish our arrangements in the morning.’ Grey eyes raked her from top to toe, taking in the wolf-pelt, her underskirt, her bare feet and—Lord—her unbound hair. Emma’s cheeks took fire.
‘Come, my lady,’ he said, taking her firmly by the elbow. ‘You seem to have missed your way.’
She was marched back to the upper chamber and thrust unceremoniously through the door. Like her, Adam’s friend was half-dressed, wearing only some unremarkable brown chausses and a linen shirt. He remained an imposing figure. Henri, she was glad to see, was still sleeping like a baby.
Sir Richard closed the door and looked across at the bed, lips relaxing as the mongrel jumped on to it, and curled up beside Henri. The stumpy tail waved.
‘He likes dogs?’ he asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your son—I take it he likes dogs?’
Emma nodded, and pulled the wolf-pelt more tightly about her shoulders. ‘I think he will like that one, though he is wary of large dogs.’
‘With reason. My hounds are little better than wolves, but Prince…’ smiling, he shook his head ‘…all he catches are titbits from the table.’ His expression sobered. ‘Tell me, my lady, what were you doing on the stairs?’
‘N-nothing, sir. I heard voices and—’
‘You were listening.’
‘I sleep but poorly, and when I heard talking, I was concerned.’
‘You were afraid?’
Emma saw no reason to lie. ‘Yes.’ She edged closer. Thank heavens Henri is a sound sleeper, she thought, heartbeat speeding up as she prepared to leap in a bold and totally unladylike manner into the dark.
If Sir Richard was leaving for Normandy after first light tomorrow, Emma only had tonight to bend him to her will. In light of what she had just heard, she had questions. My lord? Beaumont? But they must wait. She must act now, or lose the chance for ever….
A second, longer step took her right up to him, close enough to feel his body h
eat. It was a step no lady would have made. Surprise flared in his grey eyes. Cold eyes? Never. Bright eyes, rather, intelligent, interested eyes. They were wholly focused on her; it was somewhat unnerving.
Taking a deep breath, Emma placed the palm of her hand on his chest. More heat, coming at her through the cream linen shirt. Muscle—this knight was solid muscle and his body was warmer than the brazier behind him. She was half-afraid his touch might burn.
‘Sir?’ She was conscious of her hair flowing about her shoulders, making her look like the wanton he thought her to be. She was conscious of her thin shift, of her bare feet.
‘Hmm?’
His gaze had fastened on her mouth. Good. She leaned even closer as a puzzling thought flashed through her mind. She felt no revulsion at this unseemly proximity only, shockingly, a desire to move closer. Well, she had chosen Sir Richard to be her protector, and her need was powerful. She had her son to think of, and that was apparently enough to overcome any natural reticence. Swallowing, Emma let the need take her and she leaned fractionally closer.
This shouldn’t be too shaming. Sir Richard had already mistaken her for a woman who was prepared to sell herself, and a certain…expectancy about his stance, an almost imperceptible tension, told her that he was aware of her, very aware in a purely carnal sense. How she knew that was a mystery, because her experience of men had been limited to Judhael. Be that as it may, Richard of Asculf was hardly moving a muscle, but she was certain he found her attractive.
‘Sir, I was wondering…that is…you had dealings with Frida this morning.’
His gaze met hers. ‘So?’
Emma put her other hand on that broad chest. It trembled only slightly. ‘I heard that you turned her away because she does not speak Norman French?’
His mouth edged up at the corner. ‘That was one reason. Word certainly travels fast at the Staple, eh?’
‘Yes, yes, it does.’ A draught hit a candle, and their shadows danced across the painted walls. Mouth dry, Emma licked her lips. His eyes followed the gesture before locking with hers. She stumbled on. ‘And…and while I would stress that I am not one of Hélène’s girls, it has occurred to me that you…’ Her cheeks scorched, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. The words stuck, too.
‘Yes?’ His hands cupped her elbows; he gave the smallest of tugs and then she was leaning fully against him, breast to thigh. Her breasts tightened. ‘Please go on. This is—’ another quick glance at her mouth ‘—most diverting.’ He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ears, fingers lingering in a soft caress as he tested the texture.
‘I speak Norman French, my lord.’
‘Quite freely, it seems.’ His voice was dry. His fingers were exploring her ear.
His touch did indeed burn, but oddly, it made her shiver. ‘My mother was Norman.’
‘I remember. And…?’
Wretch! He knew what she was fumbling towards, she was certain. He was relishing her discomfiture, laughing at her shame while she groped her way towards making the most indelicate proposition of her life. Anger was but a breath away. Clenching her hands into fists, she shoved at him, but he had her fast.
‘Come on, Lady Emma.’ His voice was both sensual and teasing. ‘Against my better judgement, I find myself curious. What are you trying to say?’
Briefly she closed her eyes then, thanking God that Henri was asleep and could not hear his mama’s wanton words, she blurted, ‘Sir, I heard you want a woman, one who is fluent in your tongue—I…I ask you to consider me.’
He cleared his throat, eyes flickering over her son before returning to her. ‘You want to be my…belle amie?’
Eyes widening at his careful turn of phrase, Emma nodded.
‘A thane’s daughter, offering herself as a…maîtresse?’ His gaze returned to the bed and he fell silent.
Thank Heaven the man had the delicacy not to utter a worse word in front of her child…putain, whore.
He shifted and stroked her cheek before sliding his fingers through her hair, combing its length. His hand curled round the back of her neck and his thumb moved up and down on her nape, loosing tiny curls of awareness down her back. His scent, the scent Emma recognised from the pillows, filled her nostrils.
His head lowered and his lips took hers. Soft. His fingers curled more firmly round her neck. Secure. Emma was surrounded by warmth. Warmth from the strong body pressed so closely to hers; warmth from the thumb that was moving up and down on her nape; but most of the warmth was flowing from his kiss, from his lips to hers.
Well, good, she needed a protector. And with Richard of Asculf’s lips on hers Emma had no doubt that she had found him. If she could only persuade him to take her with him to Normandy, she and Henri would be safe.
When her limbs began to buckle, she stiffened them. Was this delight that was running like fire through her veins? It was not possible. She must remember why she was doing this. She was doing this for Henri; she was doing this so they could both be safe. It wasn’t because…delight, it felt very like delight, but it must be relief.
The kiss drew out. His tongue found hers, stroked up and down its length. Emma responded with more confidence than she felt, and instantly the little curls—lust, they were caused by lust—moved deep in her belly. She was—her mind was seriously disordered—she was kissing Richard of Asculf because, because…
Delight? Relief? She moaned. Her motives were getting confused; she was confused. It wasn’t that she could not break free—rather, she did not want to break free. His kiss burned. But surely it was the unaccustomed heat of the braziers that was melting her limbs, turning them to water? It was not him, it could not be him. She had only chosen Sir Richard because he was powerful and he could protect her. This was the first time she had kissed a man since the winter the Normans had come and she had forgotten how devastating it could be.
Emma wanted to cling, to grip those wide shoulders and push herself against him and never move away. But she could not cling. This was meant to be a seduction, and women who set about seducing men—Saints, why was it so hard to think? She did not know much about seduction, but she did not think that women who were bent on seduction clung. Even when trying to attract a protector.
She must be bold, she must seduce, not be seduced.
Forcing strength into her legs, Emma slipped a hand under the fine linen of his shirt, and brazenly ran it up and down his back. He moved immediately to grant her access. Warm skin. His body was both soft and hard, the skin smooth and silky over the muscles. She could feel the indentation of his spine. His body was toned, the body of a warrior. Her hand continued to explore. She felt ribs and the slight abrasion of chest hair. His breath was flurried in her ear, uneven. Hot. Her toes curled into the matting. Emma liked caressing Sir Richard’s body and he, if the uneven breathing was anything to go by, liked it in equal measure. Good, this was meant to be a seduction, he was meant to like it.
He let out a toe-curling groan, subtly altering the angle of the kiss, before drawing back and covering her cheek with kisses. Another groan, he was definitely not averse to her. Good. Shamelessly, she pressed her breasts against him.
Lightly, he nibbled her ear. His hold tightened, and he brought his lips back to hers.
Emma opened her mouth. She was dissolving, and with every second that passed she could feel more and more of those curls of awareness in her belly. It must be lust; it was certainly desire. No one could deny that Sir Richard of Asculf was handsome. And resting against her belly, she caught her breath, she could feel…him, hard and hot against her. Ready. He desired her. Urgently.
Seduce, seduce, she reminded herself. This is likely your one chance to seduce him. But in truth this seduction, if that was what this was, was too easy. It felt inevitable, it was as though it were happening without thought or will. Her fingers were running up and down his spine, they were pulling at the ties of his hose. They were sliding round the back, lingering over the fascinating curve of his buttocks, they we
re holding him to her. And she certainly wasn’t trying. It took no effort, this seduction business, Emma thought, when it was Sir Richard you were seducing.
Inhaling, she pulled his scent deep into her nostrils, a scent that spoke of safety, of coming home, though she knew that last was false. Home? With Sir Richard of Asculf? Wasn’t it bad enough that she was making a wanton of herself, did she have to be ridiculous, too?
Again she told herself she was seducing him.
But it was hard to remember that with that musky male scent befuddling her. It dizzied her, when she could not afford to be dizzied. As his tongue played with hers, she heard another moan. Shamefully it was hers.
If Richard of Asculf took her body tonight, would he want her with him on the morrow? Would he take her with him when he went to Normandy? She could only pray. This must be good, this seduction must be perfect, as Emma could not be left behind. Judhael’s arrival back in Wessex had put Winchester out of bounds. It was no longer safe for her here.
Dear Lord, please do not let Henri wake.
Hooking her fingers into his chausses, she began easing them down.
A hand clamped over hers, his head jerked away. ‘Enough.’
Cold, there’s a cold draught, Emma thought, blinking up at him. ‘Mmm?’
‘That’s enough.’ He moved back.
His hair…well, it looked as though he had been sparring with one of the other knights. The opening of his shirt was quite undone—had she done that?—and his breathing, Emma noted with satisfaction, was as ragged as hers. He watched her with an odd expression that she could not read. For a moment his eyes looked almost black, then he blinked and she realised she must have imagined it. They were once again cool and watchful—the eyes of one of King William’s most trusted men.
‘Be careful, my lady…’ he cleared his throat ‘…you know nothing about me.’ He bent to retrieve the wolf-pelt which had fallen to the floor unheeded. With a slight smile he handed it back to her. ‘And I think that is enough kissing for tonight.’
‘Sir?’ Now or never. Emma knew her cheeks must be as red as his pennon. She took a deep breath. ‘Will you not take me as…as your maîtresse?’
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 8
