Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

by Carol Townend

  Catching her chin, Richard made her meet his gaze. ‘No, that’s not it, something has…flustered you. What happened?’ His mouth became grim. ‘Someone accosted you?’

  ‘No, my lord. It…it was Henri, he got too near the edge of the quay and he slipped. For a moment I thought…’ She trailed off. Those grey eyes were very searching at times. ‘It is the truth, don’t look at me like that!’

  Fortunately at that moment, Geoffrey emerged from the stables, leading a mare. Eagerly, Emma turned towards it and made her voice light. ‘Is this the horse you have hired for me, my lord? Isn’t she pretty?’

  With an effort, Emma wrenched her mind out of the obsessive channel it had fallen into. They had been riding for a couple of hours now and for almost every moment of it she had been thinking about the past. About Fulford and Judhael. About Judhael and Henri.

  Was it cruel to deny a father sight of his son? No, it was not cruel, her mind answered back. Think about Bertha’s wrists and the fire at the mill. Judhael was lucky to have Azor, a loyal friend who was trying to help him. But, friend though he was, Azor had not claimed that Judhael had reformed. And he would have to reform for Emma to want to see him.

  After the Saxon defeat in the Great Battle, Judhael had taken to lashing out at her; indeed, he had gone so far as to beat other women, including taking his anger out on the Fulford cook, Lufu. The Norman invasion had turned the hot-headed Judhael into a dangerous stranger—a bully given to browbeating his fellow rebels, a man who hit women, herself included. What might he not do to a little boy?

  Miles had passed unnoticed on the pretty brown mare, Emma realised, while her mind had been looping round and round like a Celtic knot pattern. Round and round and no escape. She forced her gaze outwards.

  The road was following the course of a stream and the land hereabouts was thickly wooded. There were no familiar landmarks. This was Normandy, and that was the sum of her knowledge. The last shreds of mist were twisting through the trees—had the sea breezes blown it from Honfleur? Had the fishermen set out to sea? As far as she could tell they had got away from Honfleur without being seen, but was Judhael already on their trail?

  Emma ought to feel safe. She was at the centre of a cavalcade currently headed by Richard and a couple of his Norman knights. They were bearing full arms—the shiny helmets, the leaf-shaped shields, the heavy swords. Geoffrey must have been swift to have Richard’s shield repainted, for the silver pale running through the crimson field had been replaced by a gold one. Similar pennants fluttered at either end of their troop. And why not? This venture had Duke William’s blessing.

  This purposeful parade through Normandy was, she supposed, like the trumpeting of a herald, Richard announcing his altered status to any with eyes to see. But Emma could no longer delude herself that she was safe. Judhael knew her destination, and if Azor failed to convince him to set off for Apulia…

  The horses’ hoofs thudded over last year’s dead leaves and beech mast. In the thickets, wood pigeons cooed.

  Godric rode beside her with Henri on his lap while the other Saxon mercenary, Theo, followed immediately behind with Sir Jean and Asa. Geoffrey and the other squires brought up the rear.

  At the outset, Henri had been wide-eyed and alert, but his eyelids were beginning to droop and the way he was slumping against the mercenary’s front warned Emma he was entirely reliant on Godric to hold him in place.

  ‘Are you all right, Godric? Henri is half-asleep.’

  Godric smiled. ‘Do not worry, my lady. I have him.’

  Richard’s helmet caught the light as he turned and drew rein to fall in beside her. The way was narrow; he waved Godric ahead.

  ‘Tired, my lady? You have been very quiet.’

  ‘I am fine, thank you.’

  ‘You ride with confidence.’ Richard pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. ‘You must have ridden much at one time.’

  ‘We had ponies at Fulford. I have missed it.’ She shot him a sharp look. It was easier than she had imagined to meet the grey eyes behind that noseguard. Last night when Emma had crept out of the stables, she had been filled with a complex mixture of shame, guilt and delight. Shame at what she had done, at what she had become, and guilt and delight because this man’s touch had given her such pleasure. She might have entered into this relationship for protection, but his body delighted her. Saints.

  Her mother, Philippa, would turn in her grave if she knew, just as she would have done if she had ever learned about her illegitimate grandson. And if her father had been alive? Thane Edgar would have beaten her, no question.

  But, disconcerting though it had been to meet Azor at Honfleur, Azor’s ready acceptance of her current status—Count Richard’s woman—somehow made it easier for her to come to terms with it, too. How strange. These were difficult and dangerous times.

  Four years ago, Emma would have died rather than consider selling herself.

  Four years ago, she had been a complete innocent. Four years ago, England had been Saxon.

  ‘Will we reach Beaumont today, my lord?’ she asked, careful since they were in company to use his title.

  Removing his helmet and looping the strap round the pommel, Richard shook his head. His face was stern; he remained very much the commander, but she could see behind the commander’s mask and his grey eyes sent her a look of such warmth that a pang of longing shot through her. It was so powerful it pained her. Would he look at her like that if he knew that Judhael was chasing after her? She did not like keeping secrets from him and longed to confide in him. Foolish girl. Confide in a Norman count?

  He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Today? No, Beaumont is two or three days’ solid riding and maybe longer with your son and the maid.’ He grimaced at Asa sitting behind Sir Jean, clinging to the knight’s swordbelt as though her life depended on it. Asa was not a natural horsewoman. ‘Tonight we will be lodging at Crèvecoeur.’

  ‘Crèvecoeur? The home of your cousin’s fiancée?’ A hard lump formed just below her breastbone.

  ‘Yes, Lady Aude was indeed born at Crèvecoeur. Her brother Edouard, Count of Corbeil, has held it since their father’s death.’

  ‘You go to discuss your cousin’s obligations to Lady Aude,’ Emma said. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded small. The news discomfited her, badly. But this should not affect her…when they had made their agreement, Richard had told her about Lady Aude, making it plain that he was in some way obligated to the woman. Politically and morally. Back in Winchester, she had thought nothing of it. But that had been before…before…

  The grey eyes were fixed on Sir Stephen, the knight at the head of their conroi. Richard had much to think about and his mind had left her again.

  Emma watched him covertly. He needed allies and it made sense that the Count of Corbeil’s sister should marry him. Count Richard of Beaumont would think nothing of taking a wife he could not warm to if it would bring him prestige and advantage. Emma found herself contemplating the line of Richard’s nose—so straight—and the thickness of his hair, hair that had felt soft and springy under her fingers. And his hand on the reins, that casual strength, his easy stance on the big grey. All of it attracted her.

  Heavens, what was she doing, making an inventory of the man’s physical attributes! His political ambitions were far more pertinent.

  ‘Do you need Count Edouard’s support, my lord?’

  A broad shoulder lifted. ‘It could be useful, but he needs mine more. His grandfather was disgraced for a time and his lands declared forfeit.’

  ‘Forfeit?’

  ‘Yes, even today, many of Count Edouard’s holdings remain in dispute. His title—Count of Corbeil—is merely a courtesy title.’

  ‘I see,’ Emma said, though she didn’t see at all. Surely Count Edouard’s support must be questionable, if his family had been disgraced?

  ‘However, Lord Edouard will be able to brief me on the latest developments in Normandy. Some news does, of course, cross the Narro
w Sea, but more may be gleaned from someone who is making Crèvecoeur his home.’

  Emma nodded. ‘I expect Lady Aude will be useful to you in that regard also.’

  ‘She will. Despite their ancestors’ dark past, some prestige still attaches to the family. Emma…’ he smiled ‘…I think we should discuss your position in my household. I would have you understand, I will honour my obligations towards you, but I will not flaunt you at Crèvecoeur.’

  The hard lump in her chest began to burn, as though she were jealous. Of Ugly Aude? Of a woman Richard did not really want?

  ‘As you will, my lord,’ she said, bowing her head. It was then that she was taken by the urge to lash out. It had the force of a tidal wave. Why, she could not imagine, for Richard’s words had not hurt her—how could they when he was nothing to her? He was simply a man with whom she had made an agreement, for their mutual benefit. She looked up, narrowing her eyes. ‘Crèvecoeur—it is an oddly apt name that Lady Aude bears.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Crèvecoeur means heartbreak, does it not?’

  ‘You know it does, your French is as fluent as mine. What of it?’

  She tipped her head to one side. ‘It may not have struck you, my lord, because you have always known her by that name, but it is a cruelly ironic name for a lady who has lost the love of her life.’

  That beautifully carved mouth twisted into a bleak smile, but he did not reply. Silence, save for the plodding of the horses’ hoofs and the creak of leather.

  Already Emma was regretting the urge to wound him. For one thing, she sensed she had not truly hurt him, and she must bear in mind at all times that it was in her interests to keep him sweet, not to alienate him. Whatever had come over her?

  ‘Why that name, though, my lord? Your cousin died only recently, and I take it their family have long been known by it.’

  ‘The name could in some way be connected with the forfeiture of their land…but, no, it cannot be that. The family bore that name before the land was lost. I do not know its origins. I have yet to meet Lord Edouard personally.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The pain in Emma’s chest was beginning to ease. She sucked in a breath. Good. Because that proved she was not beginning to like him more than she ought to. Her position in his life was uncertain, and, despite his promises about looking after her, he could set her side at whim. She must ever be charming, she must ever entertain. With Judhael at her back she—and Henri—needed Richard de Beaumont more than ever. She was his mistress and only if she remembered that—must charm, must entertain, not wound—would he honour her and keep her safe in his castle at Beaumont.

  The land they were riding through was thickly covered with trees. Tall oaks with wide trunks stretched their branches across the road. There was a stream to one side with ash trees marching along its banks. Ahead of them, the forest looked as dark and deep as any in Wessex.

  ‘Where are we, my lord?’

  ‘A few miles outside Pont-l’Evêque.’

  A prickling sensation at the back of Emma’s neck accompanied the return of that most unwelcome of thoughts—had Judhael seen her running away from the port, was he following them? Gritting her teeth, she fastened her eyes on Sir Stephen at the head of their column and willed herself not to look back. Don’t look back. Remember Lot’s wife.

  ‘Emma, what are you thinking about?’

  Sweet Mother, this man’s perceptions were subtle indeed for a soldier—he noticed her slightest shift of mood. She snatched at a likely answer, one he might accept. ‘I think I will miss England, my lord.’

  Leaning across the gap, he briefly ran a finger down her cheek. ‘You may return any time you wish.’ He smiled. ‘Though, naturally, I hope you will choose to stay.’

  His shield bumped her thigh. Emma held his gaze, conscious that even the lightest of his touches melted her every defence. His hair was ruffled by the breeze, beautiful thick hair with a chestnut glint to it, and as a lock fell into his eye, she squashed the impulse to smooth it back. He was dangerous, was Count Richard de Beaumont. He fascinated her, and that disarmingly subtle intelligence seemed to invite confidences. Not to mention that his person was attractive enough to undermine the will of a saint. Emma bit her lip. And she was definitely more sinner than saint, as last night had so conclusively proved.

  Richard distracted her so much, she was in danger of losing sight of her motives in accompanying him to Normandy. Henri must be kept safe, and to that end she must start a new life which might or might not—her heart contracted—involve remaining with this man.

  He touched her nose, the gentlest of touches.

  More defences melted inside.

  His hand fell away, his shield nudged her hip. ‘In any case…’ he stared over Roland’s ears and cleared his throat ‘…you have become my mistress in truth.’

  She frowned, conscious of a sinking sensation. ‘Was that not what you intended from the first?’

  ‘Not exactly. I…’ the lean cheeks darkened ‘…I confess I misunderstood your motives for being in the Staple.’

  ‘You wanted to save me from myself.’

  ‘Yes. I had no intention of making you my mistress in truth. Last night was not meant to happen. I am sorry.’

  He was apologising? Did this mean he no longer wanted her? No, no, she needed him! Emma gripped the reins. ‘You are trying to go back on our agreement?’

  But he had abruptly ceased to listen. At a shout from the head of his entourage, he had spurred forwards and the intimate moment was lost.

  Chapter Eleven

  Later, Richard again fell back to check on her and their conversation could resume.

  ‘Emma, listen to me. I am trying to treat you with the honour your innocence deserves.’

  Emma looked meaningfully at Henri. ‘My lord, I am not innocent.’

  ‘No, but neither do you belong at the Staple. I was mistaken in you and for that I apologise. Last night I was carried away and I treated you badly. Adam and Cecily would have me pilloried.’

  ‘Adam and Cecily are not here. Please, my lord, do not set me aside.’

  The grey eyes seemed to look into her soul. ‘You are content for our agreement to stand?’

  ‘More than content.’

  His knee nudged her thigh. ‘Emma, will you not trust me with what is troubling you?’

  She tore her gaze away and stared at an approaching oak. ‘No, my lord.’

  He sighed. ‘We shall discuss this further, my lady. But in the meantime, I would still have you accompany me to Beaumont.’

  She sent him a sidelong glance. ‘You promised me a knight as a husband.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, you did. But originally—’ she kept her voice light ‘—I thought to seek out my mother’s family—’

  ‘Not yet awhile.’ Again his lean cheeks darkened. ‘I took advantage of you in the stable and I would be certain there is no child as a result. Besides, I enjoy your company.’

  ‘My lord, I enjoy yours also,’ Emma said. And that, she realised, was not flattery but the plain truth; she did enjoy his company. ‘I am perfectly happy that our arrangement should stand.’

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Emma, I will be honest with you. It is likely that I shall have to marry Lady Aude, but it is you whom I want in my bed. And not just for pleasure, but as my mistress, my chosen mistress. I can talk with you, I am beginning to enjoy your company and I would like it for longer.’ He grinned lopsidedly. ‘I think you might be an acquired taste, tart as you are at times.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ She made her voice dry. Tart? Tart?

  Reaching across, he took her hand and squeezed it. ‘I will provide well for you and Henri, for as long as you are content with our agreement. But please understand this, you would be my honoured mistress.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, I am content.’ Save for the fact of your marriage to Ugly Aude. That rankled, more than it should. But, none the less, Emma felt her mood lifting. Richard wa
s not about to discard her. And if she wanted his continuing protection—she would not look over her shoulder, Judhael was not following her—she must go on pleasing him.

  His smile lit his face. ‘Good, I am glad you wish our agreement to stand, but I want you to understand that tonight, when we reach Crèvecoeur, we will not be together. It is one thing for you to become my mistress, but quite another to flaunt you before my bride’s brother.’

  ‘I understand, of course.’ Charm. Entertain. Smiling what she hoped was her most beguiling smile, Emma made a show of looking about her. The road was beginning to climb, brambles were twisting along the track, interspersed here and there with the yellow flare of gorse. ‘The mist has lifted, my lord. At last I may see some of your country.’

  The town of Crèvecoeur was little more than a village, much smaller than Winchester. A few ramshackle streets hugged the road leading to the castle, which was a simple motte and bailey like the ones King William had thrown up in England shortly after the Great Battle. There were no stone buildings that Emma could see, and an air of dilapidation hung over the place. The inhabitants stopped to stare, eyes dark with suspicion.

  Strangers in Crèvecoeur.

  Women and children dived for cover. Doors and shutters snapped shut as they rode past. A shiver ran down Emma’s spine.

  Ahead, Crèvecoeur Castle was lit by the evening sun. It sat on a rise above the houses, and like the town it appeared to be built entirely of wood. A moat surrounded the palisade, but it needed dredging; the ducks were swimming through pondweed. And surely those trees at the base of the palisade should be cut back? Emma was no military strategist, but years at her father’s knee enabled her to see that the trees offered handhold and foothold to anyone wishing to break in. Why, her Henri could climb them blindfold!

  Their party trotted over the moat through the deepening twilight, hoofs beating hollow on the boards. The gates opened into a grassy inner yard, where a herd of goats was grazing at one end. Goats? In the bailey?