Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

by Carol Townend

  It was pointless looking at the market stalls, since she was once again penniless, and in any case much of the brightness had somehow leeched out of the day. Nodding at Theo to accompany her, Emma turned her face to the castle. And even though she felt Judhael’s eyes on her until she reached the shrine and must pass out of his sight, she did not look back.

  As evening closed in, Emma retreated to Richard’s bedchamber as soon as she was able. In the hall, Asa had badgered Sir Jean into teaching her the rudiments of some strange new board game. Since the girl was utterly absorbed—whether in the game or the man was an open question—Emma had given her leave to stay and had taken Henri to bed herself. Loving Henri as she did, it was no hardship.

  As she sank on to the edge of the downy mattress on Richard’s bed—would she ever get used to the softness?—her mind sifted through what had happened in the village.

  Judhael was in Beaumont! He had seen Henri, he had learned that Henri was his son, and he had not fallen into one of his rages. Had time changed him so much? She would never have thought it possible. Yet today he had accepted her refusal with uncharacteristic calm. He must have changed. On the other hand, that wildness remained in his eyes. For his sake, she hoped that Azor’s assessment of him was right. Apulia might be the making of him.

  Emma loosened her braid and reached for her comb. She was hazy as to the precise location of Apulia, but it was far away, across the Alps, well outside the land of the Franks. If Judhael went with Azor to Apulia, she was not likely to meet him again. In Winchester she would have longed for such an outcome. But having seen him today, with the weight dropped from his bones, his muscles wasted…

  As a mercenary, could Judhael last long?

  Sighing, she ran the comb through her hair, found a knot and began teasing it out. More and more Saxons, thanes and housecarls who had lost their honour alongside their King, were becoming mercenaries. Which thane had Godric and Theo served under? she wondered. What had their lives been like before 1066; what ambitions had they buried?

  But Godric and Theo were fortunate, they had landed on their feet when they had hired themselves out to the Comte de Beaumont. Richard treated his men with scrupulous fairness, and that went for his mercenaries as much as for those whose ties to him were feudal. Emma had not been here long, but that was already plain.

  A sound on the landing drew her gaze to the door.

  Richard. Shoving the purse he had given her, the empty purse, under the bed, Emma found a bright smile and prayed he would not remember to ask what she had bought at the market.

  Outside the bedchamber, Richard leaned against the door for a moment, the metal studs biting into his shoulder. He was exhausted. He had put the guards through their paces; he had toured the estate at the head of his conroi, showing the flag; he had discussed tactics in the event of Argentan and Alençon joining forces. And still there was more to do. The armoury, the stores…how ever much he managed to delegate, there was always more awaiting his attention. There hadn’t even been a moment to pay his respects at Martin’s grave.

  ‘Merde.’ Lifting the latch, he went in. The air was filled with the scent of roses. His mood lifted.

  Emma was sitting on the edge of the bed, comb in hand, smiling. Dropping the comb on the bedcover, she jumped up and came towards him. ‘My lord!’

  He reached for her waist and steered her back to the bed. ‘You are a great blessing to me, ma petite. I need you tonight.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Nudging her on to the bed, he settled himself beside her.

  ‘No veil, good,’ he muttered, threading his hands through a wild fall of honey-gold hair. ‘Good.’ The buckle on her girdle winked in the candle-light. He frowned as he began wrestling with it; it was not easy to undo. ‘Lord, this is an ugly thing, you might find a better one in the village. Did you get to the market?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  She flushed; it was most becoming. But there was something fleeting in Emma’s expression that gave him pause. Guilt? Shame? He couldn’t pin it down. ‘My name is Richard,’ he said softly. ‘Have you forgotten?

  ‘No, Richard, I haven’t forgotten. I am sorry.’

  She was watching him in that attentive way she had, with a hint of a crinkle in her brow. And there it was again, that fleeting thought he had had several times since meeting her, a wish that he was not honour bound to Lady Aude, a wish that he could offer Emma more than a half-life as his mistress. And there—again!—that sense that if he was not careful he might lose something of great importance. That there might be more between him and Lady Emma of Fulford, that he wanted more…

  Lord, this woman muddled his mind. But roses, the scent of roses was filling his entire consciousness and all that mattered was that she was with him tonight. His Emma, looking anxiously up at him with those wide blue eyes. Her hair trailed out over the pillows like spun gold.

  At last he managed to dispense with the girdle. ‘Next time you go to the market, have pity on me and find one with a buckle that is easy to undo.’

  ‘Yes, Richard.’ Her eyes gleamed, unfathomable like the sea. Reaching up, she stroked his cheek. Her smile was back.

  Richard closed his eyes as her fingers slid into his hair. ‘Nice,’ he murmured. ‘Nice.’

  There was only Emma in his mind and he could relax. ‘You chase my worries away.’ His eyes flew open—his need of this woman was surely a weakness, and he should be careful about admitting it. It was always a mistake to reveal weakness. His father had tried to beat that lesson into him more than once.

  But her gaze remained steady, so did the smile. Could he trust Emma with his confidences? After his mother had gone to the convent, his father had become more stiff-necked and taciturn than ever, but he had found his mistress Lucie. Had his father confided his innermost thoughts to Lucie? ‘Richard, I think you should take your boots off.’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yes.’ Glad that she did not seem to have picked up on his slip, Richard levered himself upright and dragged off his boots.

  ‘And your belt. And—’ her smile was warm ‘—you may as well take off your tunic while you are about it.’

  He found a smile himself. ‘Quite the sergeant this evening, aren’t you?’

  ‘It seems you need it from time to time.’

  As Richard tugged his tunic over his head, it occurred to him that she might be right. But it went against the grain, very much against the grain, to agree. Never confess to weakness. So he merely grunted and dropped his tunic on to the floor.

  The room went dark as she snuffed the candle out. He heard the rustling of bedcovers as she got into bed. He felt his way back to her.

  Warmth. Softness. Emma.

  She drew the linens over him even as he was pulling her under him. No gown, although she was in her shift.

  ‘That was quick,’ he said, not displeased, as he ran his hand over her, breast, waist, thigh. Hoping she was not going to spout that nonsense about it being the wrong time of the month, he pulled at the skirt of her shift.

  She kissed his cheek and her fingers found their way into his hair, gently stroking the back of his head. She drew him onto her breast. ‘Hush now.’

  Hush?

  ‘Sleep.’

  Sleep?

  The careful stroking went on and the scent of Emma, of roses, wound its gentle way into his mind. ‘You need rest, Richard, quiet and rest. Geoffrey told me that many nights you have no sleep. It cannot go on, not when so many are relying on you to lead them.’

  ‘Lead them…’

  ‘Yes. Are your eyes closed?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Leadership. Her words had started an unwelcome train of thought, and rather to his surprise Richard found himself giving voice to it. ‘That is what I aim to do, to command, to lead.’ He raised his head from the cushion of her breast, but made no resistance when she pressed it back down again. She had lovely breasts, did Emma of Fulford, even if she did like to hide them from him by wearing her shift in bed. When this con
versation was over—the woman clearly wanted conversation this evening—he would kiss every lovely inch of them. Come to think of it, he would kiss her everywhere…

  ‘I am sure you are more than capable, Richard.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Your reputation in Winchester. When everyone realised that King William was not going to relinquish his claim to England, the whole of Wessex was in dread of who might be put at the head of the garrison.’ Her voice became dry. ‘King William is not known for his…charity or his kindness, and many of his commanders are of a like mind. But you, Richard…’ She paused, continuing to play with his hair. It was very soothing. ‘Wessex breathed a sigh of relief when command was given to you. You were known to be firm but fair. And I am certain that will not change simply because you are back in Normandy.’

  Richard yawned and pressed a kiss on her collarbone—the only part of her he could reach in his present position and he was disinclined to move. In a while though…

  ‘Leadership. People think it is to do with ordering men about, but really I am carrying them, carrying them all.’

  And there it was—that black thought he kept buried, that disloyal thought. Did King William always lead his subjects with love and care? Had it been good governance to stamp out every trace of life in those remote northern districts simply because some rebels had taken refuge there?

  ‘Is it good government to kill innocents? Are there any circumstances in which it is justifiable?’ Lord, he had done it again, voiced thoughts he should have kept to himself; perhaps she had not heard…

  ‘You would not do that, Richard.’ Her answer came softly through the dark, soothing and far more accepting than he would have thought possible given her father’s allegiance to Harold Godwineson.

  The calm certainty in her voice gave birth to a longing that was foolish in the extreme. Foolish, but…

  ‘Emma?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘There was a moment when I failed as a leader in York.’

  Her fingertips were drawing tiny circles on his cheek. They stilled for a moment, then resumed. ‘How so?’

  Richard took a deep breath. ‘We were deployed in the countryside outside York. Somewhere near a river, I forget the name. It was not as wide as the Itchen, and more thickly edged with reeds. The flow was faster. There had been much bloodshed and I was praying that it was over when I saw this child…’

  ‘A child?’

  ‘A Saxon boy. He was young, about Henri’s age.’

  ‘He was alone?’ The stroking stopped. ‘Where was his mother?’

  ‘I do not know, I suspect she had been killed. Some of the troops—not mine, I hasten to add—had taken the command to rid the north of rebels rather too literally.’

  He heard her swallow. ‘Richard, you do not have to tell me this.’

  ‘You don’t wish to hear it?’

  Her hand was back at his neck, soothing. ‘If it gives you ease, Richard…’

  ‘That child was running, running for his life. He had a trooper on his tail. There had been many dreadful sights that day, but that is the one that remains with me, the contrast between that poor innocent child and the fully mailed trooper.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Richard stared blindly into the dark. ‘The trooper got him. I yelled out for him to hold, but he took no heed. Before you could blink, the sun was flickering along the length of his sword. Cold flame with death at its edge. It was over in a moment. The boy’s blood soaked into the ground. Somewhere a rook was cawing—it is odd the irrelevancies one remembers.’ He gripped her shoulder. ‘Emma, that trooper was one of mine.’

  ‘But you ordered him to stop.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He disobeyed you. Richard, you are not to blame.’

  ‘I had the man disciplined, of course, but I cannot get that child out of my mind. He haunts my dreams.’ Careful fingers were smoothing his hair, his neck, turning his head; Richard caught one in his teeth and gave it a gentle nip.

  ‘Emma, I have also been thinking about our arrangement.’

  ‘You have found time for that? My lord, you astound me.’

  Up and down, up and down, the soothing touch of her hand in his hair. ‘Emma, much as I wrestle with it, my conscience will not rest easy with my treatment of you.’

  Her hand stilled. ‘You wish to terminate our arrangement?’

  ‘Lord, no.’ The hand resumed its stroking. ‘Back in Winchester I wanted you most…urgently, and I told myself that by offering to take you to Normandy I was saving you from yourself.’ Her breast rose; sensing that she was about to speak, he put a finger on her lips. ‘I am not done. I knew you had little means of support—your father having lost his lands.’

  ‘He lost more than that, Father lost his life, as did my brother.’

  ‘I am sorry for that, believe me, but that is the nature of war. What I am groping towards is this question. Last night you said you were drawn to me. I need to know—if circumstances had been otherwise, would you have accepted me for your lover, freely for yourself?’

  ‘Are you trying to ask if I have a real liking for you, Richard?’

  Richard frowned into the darkness; he would never have put it quite in those terms, but since she had mentioned it…‘Well, do you?’

  Soft lips pressed a kiss to his cheekbone. ‘Yes, Richard, I like you very well.’

  Extraordinary. It was only a little phrase, yet it lifted a weight from his shoulders. Richard couldn’t fathom the power this woman seemed to command, he wouldn’t have thought it possible.

  ‘Emma, I allowed myself to get carried away in the stables at Honfleur, and I am sorry for it, although for myself I have no regrets. When I can, I shall start negotiations to put right the wrong I did you.’

  ‘Negotiations?’ Her voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘I would like to honour in full the undertakings I made to you in Winchester. It may take time, however.’

  ‘Richard, I am content with matters as they stand.’

  ‘That may be, but I am not.’

  Silence. What was going through her head? Emma had a mind of her own and Richard sensed she was not entirely happy with his decision. Not for the first time he found himself recalling Lucie, his father’s mistress. Richard had been fond of Lucie, he had always felt that she had had a raw deal of it. ‘You put me in mind of Lucie,’ he said.

  ‘Lucie?’

  ‘My father’s mistress. After Mother entered the convent, Lucie never left his side.’

  ‘Did your father love her?’

  ‘Lord, I wouldn’t know, my father would never speak of love. For myself, I doubt it exists, but I do know my father needed Lucie.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘My father never believed the theory that chastity made a man’s sword arm stronger.’

  She gave a light laugh. ‘You seem to agree with him.’

  Conscious he was venturing on to dangerous territory, Richard chose not to respond. A man might relax in the company of a woman, and, from observing his knights, Richard knew that he was not the only one who found that the release of sexual tension could give a marvellous clarity of mind. Up until this moment, Richard had viewed the brothels that invariably sprang up near garrisons as mere conveniences for the soldiers. But Emma was teaching him that when men visited such women, they were not only taking advantage of someone else’s misfortune, they were often compounding it.

  ‘Emma?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Did any of the women who worked at the Staple enjoy their work?’

  ‘Richard?’

  If his question had startled her, it had startled him, too. Richard was seeing the world in a different light. It was as if he had been wearing blinkers his entire life and Emma had ripped them from him.

  ‘Never mind.’ This evening, there was little Richard could do to make amends. But when Argentan and Alençon had been dealt with, then he would do his utmost to set things right with her. Howev
er, his present commitments—to his county and to Aude de Crèvecoeur—meant that for the moment he was honour bound to keep quiet about his intentions. ‘It must not happen again,’ he muttered. ‘It will not happen again.’

  ‘Richard, you are not making sense. It is time you slept.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He yawned; he was tired. Conversation with Emma had done the trick, though. Thank God he had found her, a woman who could drive away war demons not only with her body, but also, miraculously, by sharing confidences, by being there. ‘There is so much to do,’ he muttered.

  ‘I dare say, but there will be time enough tomorrow. You have not been sleeping well for how long?’

  ‘A few days.’

  ‘Geoffrey told me otherwise.’

  ‘Geoffrey talks too much.’

  ‘Sleep, Richard.’

  The soothing hand was doing its work on the nape of his neck, the movement lulling him. Richard had seen her caress her son in much the same way. ‘Henri, is he happy here?’

  ‘Henri is fine. Go to sleep, Richard.’

  Emma lay staring into the dark. She knew the exact moment Richard slipped into sleep; his body went lax in her arms, his head became heavy, his breathing softened.

  She pressed her nose against his hair and inhaled. Richard. A masculine scent that initially had meant protection and safety, but at some point along the road from Winchester to Beaumont had changed. Emma did indeed have a liking for him, a liking that was foolishly strong. She had entered into this relationship determined not to become another Frida, determined that emotionally at least, she would hold him at arm’s length. It now seemed a foolish hope.

  They had only been together a few days, but from the start Richard had got under her guard. He had got under her guard with that toy boat. And the gift of his purse? No, never that. It was more his behind-the-scenes insistence that no one should offer her insult. And those questions he had asked, trying to hide the fact that the great lord, Richard Comte de Beaumont, cared that she should like him. And she—idiot—she did warm to him, indeed she did.