Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

by Carol Townend

  No more words, no more thought, just this blind animal movement, back and forth, back and forth, yes, yes. And she…no, not innocent, not in the least bit shy. Not when her moans and breaths matched his so precisely. Not when her body gripped his so tightly.

  They were one: one animal, one being. Here in the straw, they…

  With a final push, a shout that was both satisfaction and frustration filled the stall.

  And then, after a few soft kisses, a few gentle murmurings, quiet returned.

  Holding the guilt at the back of his mind, Richard fell headlong into sleep.

  Chapter Ten

  Something warm and soft was nuzzling Richard awake.

  ‘Emma.’ Richard’s lips curved, he reached out…. and got an armful of hound and a wet tongue in his eyes.

  With a grunt, he sat up and rubbed his face. No Emma, not a trace. The dawn light fell on his cloak. It looked as though the entire garrison had trampled it into the hay. There was Roland, his grey ears twitching over the top of his stall. There was no lantern on the hook; she must have taken it with her.

  ‘Run off, did she, boy?’ It was only to be expected. That shyness, Richard was certain, was genuine.

  Guilt rushed at him, sobering as a pail of cold water.

  What had he done? He had bedded Lady Emma of Fulford as though…Lord, this had not been his intention. He had suspected she found their arrangement awkward, embarrassing, but he had decided that a little temporary embarrassment on her part was a small price to pay if it got her out of Winchester and clear of whatever was haunting her. Once they reached Beaumont, Richard had fully intended releasing her from their supposed arrangement. But now…

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Rising, he shook out his cloak with a frown. He had treated her badly and must somehow make amends. Although…his lips formed a smile, she had not seemed to object. Quite the contrary….

  His brow cleared. And he had slept last night—how he had slept! He glanced at the indentation their bodies had left in the straw. Lying with Emma of Fulford had given him the soundest night’s sleep in months. If only he could keep her…surely the nightmares would leave him? No, he must be realistic. The reality was that he could not keep her. There was his cousin’s obligation to Lady Aude, which he might have to honour, whatever he might say. Hell. He wanted to keep Emma, he wanted her to be his mistress in truth.

  Richard nodded as he caught the eye of a sleepy stable-boy as they crossed on the threshold. ‘Bonjour.’

  The boy flattened himself against the door frame. ‘Bonjour, M’sieur Le Comte.’

  The yard was lost behind grey swirls—a sea fret. The air was damp with it.

  Yes, the best cure for his nightmares would surely be to go on sleeping with Emma of Fulford. Somehow he must arrange it.

  And Adam and Cecily? How will you explain it to them?

  He would find a way. He had to keep Emma of Fulford. Only the next time they slept together, he would make sure they were in a proper bed. He wanted that rare thing in this world, privacy with a woman. Asa could look after the boy while he and Emma…What did she look like naked? His loins ached.

  Lord. Grimacing, Richard adjusted his chausses. The sooner he found a decent bed, the better. She wouldn’t be running away from him so quickly next time, if he had to tie her down to keep her in place.

  Emma was in the habit of running away, it seemed. She had run away from marriage with Adam Wymark in 1066. Richard was under no illusions about her desperate need to accompany him to Normandy. It was only because she was in effect running away again. From that former lover of hers, from Judhael of Fulford. At the end of that first year in England, that man’s name had, Richard now recalled, been on everyone’s lips. Back then he was known to be ruthless, dedicated to the lost Saxon cause. Time would not have altered that. Richard grimaced, as an unpleasant thought hit him like a blow to the gut. Emma was running away from Judhael—would the time come when she would run away from him?

  Thrusting the thought to one side, Richard strode through the mist towards the inn. So what if she ran away again? His heart was not engaged and it never would be. The woman did not live who could capture him mind and soul. His mind was fixed on his county, and his service to Duke William. And after his duties were done? There was little room for anything else.

  He squinted skywards. Everything was grey, it was impossible to see past the sea fret. His nostrils twitched—bacon, someone was frying bacon. His stomach growled.

  But even though Richard knew it should be an easy matter to replace Emma of Fulford in his life, when he pushed open the door of the Mermaid and saw her at table next to Henri, his spirits lifted.

  Their party had broken their fast and Emma and Asa were packing their belongings for the journey, though truth be told, Emma’s mind was not on the task—it was back in the stable reliving her moments with Richard. Her previous experiences had left her apprehensive about what she might expect when he bedded her, particularly as she and Richard hardly knew each other. She need not have worried. She was unable to keep a reminiscent smile from playing about her lips as she folded one of Henri’s tunics and put it in a saddlebag. Her reticence had been no match for Richard’s eagerness. The attraction that she felt for him had undoubtedly weighed in his favour, but one moment above all lived in her mind, the moment when they had become one. He had hesitated, only briefly to be sure, but there had been that heart-warming vulnerability in his eyes when he had looked at her, making certain that she had been content. She sighed. It might be wishful thinking on her part, but she was beginning to think she had found a rare man indeed. Not only was he strong and powerful, but it seemed that he was also a man who at the very moment of their joining took care to see that she was content.

  Noticing an unnatural quiet, Emma looked up. Henri was no longer with them. Frowning, she dropped the saddlebag on to the bed. ‘Asa, where’s Henri?’

  Asa glanced across to the space in front of the tables where only moments ago Henri had been playing with Prince. ‘I am not sure, he was by the fire with that white dog, he must have wandered off. I am sorry, my lady, I didn’t notice. Shall I go and find him?’

  ‘No, I’ll go. Asa, take our things to the stables, if you please, the Count is anxious to leave. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Grabbing her cloak, Emma hurried to the door, struck by the irony that since she had agreed to become Richard’s mistress, she had in some measure regained her former status. Other people were following his lead in addressing her as ‘my lady’.

  Outside, a fine drizzle was washing the mist away and the wooden walls of the houses were dark with damp. Emma shrank into her hood and looked to right and left. There were plenty of townsfolk, cloaked like her against the rain, hurrying about their business. A man pulling a handcart; a baker with a tray of loaves shrouded in sacking; a handful of people around a fish stall. But no Henri. Heavens. A cold hand clutched her heart. This was a port and there were dangers in a busy port for a small boy, particularly when that small boy was dangerously fascinated by boats….

  By the time Emma reached the harbour she was out of breath. Rain gleamed on the quays. Masts pointed skywards, sails were tightly furled. Ribbons of mist trailed over the sea, but the breeze was strengthening; soon it would blow them away.

  The ship they had come in on remained at its mooring, next to another, which Emma had not noticed the previous day. There was no sign of Henri here, either.

  On another quay, a group of fishermen, faces darkened with sun and wind, were sitting on packing crates under an awning, mending their nets. Further off, at the end of one of the jetties, men in one of the fishing boats were getting ready to sail, apparently confident the sea fret would not last.

  Wheels rumbled over the planks. Another handcart, a boy taking a load of fish baskets to market—proving that at least one of the fishing boats had been out early, braving the mists. In the cart’s wake, a couple of seagulls foug
ht over fallen scraps.

  A dog barked. A man shouted.

  Prince! The white mongrel was loping along one of the jetties, a fish fast in his mouth and Henri—Henri!—was skipping alongside him, grinning from ear to ear.

  His path was taking him dangerously near the jetty’s edge.

  Grabbing her skirts, Emma hurtled towards them. ‘Henri, come here!’

  ‘Mama!’ Henri, still grinning, waved and turned towards her.

  Her son had drawn level with a dockside tavern when the door opened and two men emerged, one with a bucket. The man with the bucket tossed the contents—a stream of fishguts and innards—into the water. Seagulls appeared out of nowhere, screaming, wings flashing.

  Henri slipped on the mess and went hurtling towards the edge.

  ‘Henri!’

  The other man broke step and glanced idly towards Henri.

  Emma’s heart stopped.

  Azor! Azor was in Honfleur? The nightmare was back.

  Time seemed to freeze. There was movement, though; the man with the bucket got to Henri first, Emma reached him a moment later, and while she gathered him to her, she was dimly aware of Azor’s gaze on her.

  When she lifted her head from Henri, Azor was at her side, staring down at her. ‘My lady?’

  The man with the bucket retreated.

  ‘Azor.’ Emma knew her smile must be as frozen as her wits. Azor, here? She had not been granted the reprieve she had prayed for. Her heart began to thump.

  Azor’s gaze was intent as he took in Henri’s features. ‘This is your son?’

  Emma swallowed and wished for a miracle.

  ‘How old is he?’

  She hugged Henri to her, tears stinging at the back of her eyes. No words. What could she say? Despite being one of her father’s housecarls, Azor had always been Judhael’s creature.

  Azor caught her arm. ‘My lady…this boy…your son…how old is he?’

  ‘Two. I am two and—’

  Emma clapped a hand over Henri’s mouth. Too late.

  Azor’s gaze met hers. ‘Judhael has a son,’ he murmured. His grip tightened and he began pulling her towards a gap between the tavern and the next building. ‘Take care, my lady, lest Judhael see you.’

  Dread was a wave of nausea that weakened her knees. ‘Judhael is in Honfleur as well?’ Of course he was, she had known it the moment she had seen Azor.

  ‘Aye. Judhael…as I tried to tell you at the inn, my lady, Judhael is determined to have you back.’

  ‘Someone saw me leave Winchester.’ Emma’s heart was banging like a drum, her mouth was dry with dread. If she called out, would anyone hear? ‘I feared as much.’

  ‘Yes.’ Azor’s expression softened. ‘But do not fear me, my lady. I know your time with Judhael is over.’

  ‘You do?’

  Azor nodded. ‘I came to the Staple to speak to you. It is true that Judhael wants you back, but I wanted you to know that I am doing my utmost to persuade him on to another path.’

  She stared. ‘Truly?’

  ‘Aye, it is no longer safe for us in England.’ Azor lowered his voice, a great, shaggy bear of a Saxon with a gentle voice. Why had she only now remembered that? Azor had always had a gentle voice. ‘That is what I was trying to tell you. I wanted to warn you to stay out of sight for a few more days. England has nothing to offer us and Judhael…Judhael is a man who needs an occupation.’

  ‘Yes, he always has.’ Azor was trying to help her!

  ‘So I thought, if we were to become mercenaries, Judhael would have something to fight for, to get involved in. The life of an outlaw has twisted him, but if he found a leader willing to trust him, perhaps he would no longer dwell on the past, on what might have been….’

  Emma nodded. Azor was making sense. Richard employed Saxon mercenaries; indeed, lords in many corners of Christendom were beginning to do the same. And it was beyond question that Judhael’s febrile energy had always needed a harness.

  ‘There is much demand for Saxon warriors in other lands,’ Azor continued. ‘I hope to persuade Judhael to come with me to Apulia.’

  ‘Apulia? Isn’t that part of the old Roman Empire, far across the Alps?’

  ‘Not any longer it isn’t, not since Robert Guiscard…Never mind, my lady, that is where I hope to take him, Apulia.’

  ‘It must be weeks away.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Emma was so startled at what she was hearing that she made no protest when Azor drew her deeper into the alleyway. Dimly she recognised that he was indeed trying to protect her, trying to keep her out of Judhael’s sight. As well as the white strands in his beard, there were lines on Azor’s face, lines that had not been there when she had known him in Fulford.

  ‘My lady, the Normans in Apulia are carving out kingdoms for themselves. The Eastern Emperor has a fight on his hands.’

  ‘Apulia?’ It wasn’t easy absorbing the full import of this. Saint Swithun help them, Azor was hoping to take Judhael with him to Apulia….

  Azor jerked his head in the direction of the harbour and released her. ‘Get away from the port as quickly as you can, my lady. Judhael wants to see you, but I am working on him, trying to make him see that the life of a mercenary is the only thing left for a pair of housecarls who have lost their lord.’ He grimaced. ‘It is a long road persuading him.’

  Emma glanced towards the port and the screaming gulls. ‘But surely he knows where to find me? It is no longer a secret where we are going.’

  ‘You go to Beaumont.’ Azor’s eyes filled with regret. ‘Is it true that you have become Beaumont’s whore?’

  Emma lifted her chin. ‘Richard has offered me his protection.’

  Azor sighed. ‘So it is true. I did not want to believe it, but I can see how such a life might have its appeal.’

  Emma drew her head back. ‘You are not shocked? Not going to throw names at me?’

  A smile of understanding lightened his expression. ‘Shocked? When I have put my sword up for hire, the sword that I swore would serve only a Saxon king? No, my lady, you do not shock me. And you have your son to think of. In any case, I hear that Count Richard is not a bad sort—for a Norman.’

  ‘He has hired Saxon mercenaries himself. Two have come with us from Winchester.’

  ‘They could do worse. They say your Count is a good commander, a fair man.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am hoping Judhael and I shall meet more of his kind in Apulia, men who are ready to give seasoned Saxon warriors a chance. Such men deserve loyalty. I pray he appreciates his good fortune in you.’

  Emma blinked away a rush of tears, Azor’s matter-of-fact acceptance of her altered, immoral status moved her. ‘You won’t tell Judhael about Henri?’

  ‘Not I. I was trying to warn you back in Winchester, so that you might stay out of sight until we had gone. Judhael can be like a terrier the way he gets hold of things, and should he learn about the boy…’ he shook his head ‘…I will never convince him to go to Apulia, never. He is still trying to chase after you. His reactions were never temperate.’

  ‘No.’ Her smile was sad. ‘At the time I thought him moved by great passion. But you are in the right, Azor, Judhael is not a temperate man. You do swear not to mention Henri to him?’

  ‘You have my word.’ Azor gave her a gentle shake. ‘Get you gone, my lady, and quickly. I will win him round to my way of thinking in the end.’

  Emma did not need telling again. The dark bruises on Bertha’s wrists and the smoke writhing about the yard at City Mill flashed into her mind. She looked up the alley. ‘I can get to the Mermaid that way?’

  ‘The Mermaid? Ah, yes, I saw it last eve. It was too dear for us. Yes, continue down here, turn left, then left again at the end, the Mermaid should be ahead of you. God be with you, my lady.’

  ‘And with you.’ Emma started down the alley, Henri tight in her arms.

  When she turned, Azor was watching her, a giant bear of a Saxon with premature lines on his face
. ‘Take care of him, will you, Azor?’

  ‘Don’t I always?’ He made a shooing motion with his hands. ‘Go, and quickly. He could return at any moment.’

  Judhael was in Honfleur! The very thought made Emma trip over her skirts as she flew into the stable yard with Henri. Richard was standing at the stirrup of the Saxon mercenary named Godric, deep in conversation. Relief flooded her entire being when she saw him.

  He was frowning, but as he looked across his frown cleared. ‘My lady, you have kept us waiting.’ His words were for his men, but the touch on her arm and the searching look he gave her were for her and her alone.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord, Henri was looking at the boats.’ It was a struggle not to look over her shoulder. Judhael—in Honfleur! The saints had surely been watching over her when they let her bump into Azor and not Judhael.

  Richard lifted an eyebrow at Henri. ‘Would you like another ride this morning, young man?’

  Henri held out his arms. ‘Please! Henri be squire!’

  Richard lifted Henri from Emma, and the part of her mind that was not occupied felt relief that Henri went so easily to him. ‘A squire is it today?’ Richard grinned. ‘I thought you wanted to be a sailor.’

  ‘Squire! Squire!’

  ‘Well, you have some growing to do before that might happen. But if you sit up with Godric here and do everything he says, we shall see. One day, perhaps.’

  Emma hovered at Richard’s elbow while Henri was settled before Godric. Godric’s mount must be a Saxon packhorse—it was shorter than Roland by several hands—but there was still a long way for a boy to fall.

  ‘Not too high for you, Henri?’ she asked.

  Henri grinned and clung to the front of Godric’s saddle, looking, Emma had to admit, as happy as a lark.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Richard said, leading her away. ‘Which is more than can be said for you, ma petite. What’s amiss?’

  Emma focused on a leaky water trough, on the moss growing beneath it. ‘Amiss? Nothing, I was concerned that we had been keeping you waiting, that is all.’