She lifted her chin to meet the sapphire brilliance of his eyes. ‘I…I thought you were on board.’ In truth, she had avoided his presence ever since Guillame had fetched her at first light. The niggling thought that he had seen the damage to her leg made her feel vulnerable before him, and that was the last thing she wished for.
His eyes flicked over her. From his position on La Belle Saumur he had seen her standing alone on the jetty, a determined, isolated figure, frowning with the responsibilities of loading the ship, hugging herself against the sharp wind. Snared by the scene, an unusual feeling had gripped him, tugged deep in his chest, propelling him to jump into one of the returning lighter boats to be at her side.
‘I was.’ He smiled, a generous curving of his mouth that caused her heart to flip. ‘But I thought you might need some help with the loading.’
‘Nay, but I might need some help with the unloading!’ Emmeline gestured at the heavily laden leather bags heaped on the shingle.
He laughed, teeth gleaming white. ‘Or you might need some help with him!’
Fear slicked her veins as she watched the Earl assist Maud from the ox cart, struggling to keep her emotions under control at the sight of his gaunt, sneering features.
‘I think he’s learned his lesson.’ The bitterness of her tone cut the air.
‘That may be so, but powerful men like him are not easily deterred.’ Surveying her closed, inscrutable expression, he wondered if the Earl reminded her of her husband.
Her forehead creased as she examined the tanned planes of his face. ‘Talvas, stop this.’
The vivid green of her eyes transfixed him. ‘Stop what?’ he ventured lightly.
Her hands fiddled with the dangling cloak ties that fell from her throat. ‘You’re treating me differently…because of…what you saw…my leg.’ The last two words emerged as a mumble. ‘Please don’t.’
He placed one finger beneath her chin, savouring the sweet heart shape of her face as he lifted it gently, compelling her to look at him. ‘Would you prefer it if I were nasty?’
‘Nay…but…’ How could she tell him it would make him easier to deal with?
He tilted his head to one side, awaiting her answer. Emmeline grimaced. ‘At a loss for words, mam’selle?’ he teased. ‘Surely not.’
‘Oh…go back and check on your crew,’ she said finally, exasperated. ‘I am familiar with the loading process. I really don’t need your help.’ Her veil blew over the lower half of her face in the breeze; she swept it back with an upraised hand. ‘But the Empress seems to have brought the entire contents of her wardrobe.’
‘A woman’s prerogative, I suppose,’ he remarked drily. ‘But the Empress has extra cargo; the reason why she must travel at this time of year.’ He indicated another ox cart moving slowly toward them; the nodding heads of the beasts ploughing steadily through the milling crowds. The citizens of Barfleur had turned out in their droves to glimpse the notorious Maud and now the jostling mass packed the length of the wooden revetment.
‘Not more stuff!’ she burst out, exasperated. ‘I must speak with her.’
She made to step forward, stopped only by Talvas’s firm grip on her forearm.
‘Stay for a moment,’ he commanded. ‘Did you never ask yourself why it was so important for her to travel across the Channel at such a dangerous time of the year?’
Emmeline studied the lean angles of his face, a sense of foreboding sliding to her gut. Talvas’s leather hat was pulled low over his face, casting his features in shadow, yet she could still see the sapphire gleam of his eyes.
‘Tell me,’ she demanded taking a step closer so that the rounded toes of her shoes almost touched the dark, sea-stained leather of his own boots. The scent of him swirled about her, a tangy, spicy aroma that threatened to unbalance her. He glanced at her face, a face pale and drawn from lack of sleep, yet unafraid as she waited for his answer.
‘Look.’ He took her arm, a gentle hold, yet firm enough so she could not pull away. Emmeline glanced along the wooden revetment to where four men lifted a long bundle, tightly wrapped in white strips of linen, from the ox cart. They staggered slightly under the weight, hoisting it onto their shoulders to negotiate the unsteady shingle down to the waiting boats.
‘A body!’ she gasped, incredulous. ‘Talvas, who is it?’
‘Maud’s father, the King. King Henry I.’
Emmeline clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I had no idea,’ she murmured.
Talvas smiled ruefully. ‘Only a handful of people know. The Empress is keen to keep his death a secret, at least until she reaches England.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she wants to be Queen of all England and Normandy.’
‘But why the rush? Why risk the bad weather?’ Emmeline wriggled her toes in her thick winter boots. ‘Surely the crown belongs to her anyway? Why does she need to claim it in person?’
‘There are others who want it. The Empress’s cousin, Stephen, is a favourite among the people of England.’
‘No doubt, because he is a man,’ Emmeline replied drily.
Talvas inclined his head. ‘I will grant you that.’ The steel-blue of his eyes narrowed as he watched the lighter boat row out to the waiting ship. ‘But he is a good man, and true.’
‘You sound like you know him well.’
‘Aye, he is married to my younger sister, Matilda.’
Emmeline frowned. ‘Will you be forced to take sides?’ She followed the Empress’s slow, complaining progress down the shingle, idly wondering if the royal lady would be able to manoeuvre herself into one of the lighter boats without help.
‘It may come to that,’ Talvas replied enigmatically. He was not about to reveal that he had already done so. ‘But for the nonce, we must get this journey away with the high tide. Are you ready?’
Emmeline hesitated. The white crests of the waves pounded incessantly on the pebbles, transforming the dry stones to infinite varieties of glossy colour, before dragging out to sea with a loose crushing, sucking sound. Already a dark strip of wet stones appeared at the top of the beach; the tide was on the turn.
‘We must leave now,’ Talvas urged, catching at her elbow.
She fingered the amulet at her neck, feeling a prickle of apprehension. ‘There’s too much cargo,’ she stalled. ‘A small bag of garments would have sufficed for the Empress!’
Talvas smiled grimly. ‘A few extra clothes won’t sink us.’
‘Aye, but the weather might,’ Emmeline muttered. ‘The sea could claim us all.’ Petulantly, she kicked a small pebble with the toe of her shoe, watching it skitter along the jetty before dropping on to the beach.
‘Have some faith in my command, mam’selle,’ Talvas replied, the piercing blue of his eyes holding a faint smile. ‘I haven’t lost a ship yet.’
She met his gaze sharply. Not a trace of humility clouded his features. He obviously thought himself equal to the power of the elements, of Nature itself! ‘Those are bold words, my lord!’ Her delicate skin flushed with vexed irritation as she heard her own voice growing louder. ‘’Tis a huge risk to take a ship to sea at this time of year and well you know it! I need to make the journey, and so does the Empress, but you…you have no such necessity, so why put your life in jeopardy?’
Talvas shrugged his shoulders. His eyes snapped over her, unresponsive. For the briefest moment, she caught a flicker of…of what? Of emotion? Of pain? She couldn’t be certain. The monotone of his reply cut through her skin.
‘Because I have nothing to lose.’
Chapter Eight
Fingers curled over the smooth wood of the deck rail, Emmeline stared back over the churning waves to the distant figure of her mother standing on the foreshore. Behind her, the granite huddle of cottages and warehouses of Barfleur formed an impressive backdrop, a grey setting touched by the golden rays of sunlight. The pale fluttering fabric of her mother’s bliaut drew Emmeline’s gaze, held it fast. They had spent the previous afternoon together, pac
king a travelling bag of essentials, her mother white and tense at the prospect of her daughter’s journey. Tearful with the memory of losing her husband at sea, Felice had clung to her neck in a fierce embrace when Guillame had appeared on the threshold this morning.
‘The wind is fair, mam’selle.’ Talvas joined her at the rail, the dark blue cuffs of his overtunic falling back to reveal the tanned skin of his wrists. She jumped, nodding abruptly at his words, unexpected trickles of nervous excitement flowing through her limbs. Gritting her teeth against the unwanted sensation, she continued to watch the disappearing coastline of Barfleur. The deck undulated slowly beneath her soft, leather-soled shoes, the ship lurching over a lumpy sea, but past experience made her steady, feet set well apart to maintain her balance.
‘When was the last time you sailed, mam’selle?’ he asked.
She hunched over the rail, unwilling to reveal that she hadn’t sailed since her father’s death. Fear rippled in her chest. ‘Not for some time,’ she admitted, casting her eyes about to find something with which to deflect his interest. Her eyes flicked critically to the tell-tails, small strips of ribbon sewn at intervals down each side of the square sail. On one side, they hung down limply.
‘The sail is set badly,’ she announced, triumphant that she had discovered a flaw, throwing a disparaging look at the helmsman. ‘We are losing speed.’
‘The wind has just changed,’ Talvas replied patiently. ‘See, the helmsman adjusts the tiller now.’
‘I’ve not seen him before.’ Emmeline stared at the rough-faced helmsman, his huge fists hugging the smooth wood of the tiller handle. ‘Are you certain he knows his profession?’ The embroidered hem of her linen head-covering began to slip; she tossed it back over her shoulder in irritation.
‘I should hope so, for he is my own helmsman. I have travelled with him many times.’ Talvas smiled over at the man, who nodded a greeting. ‘I trust him with my life.’
‘And I am supposed to be content with that?’ The deliberately provoking words were uttered before she had time to think—what was it about this man that made her want to goad him, to needle him? Yet she was well aware that his behaviour had changed toward her, for, despite his arrogance, he could also be courteous and charming. She would be better served by avoiding him completely.
‘Surely that’s the highest possible recommendation?’ He lifted one dark eyebrow.
‘A recommendation from you! A man who “has nothing to lose”!’
Talvas laughed out loud, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling with joy. God, but she was argumentative! He wanted to stop her cherry-red mouth with a kiss to silence her, scoop her delicate body in his arms until she cried for mercy, begged for him…Merde! He shuddered, schooling his features back to a rigid mask, knowing he should close his eyes against the beauty of her wind-whipped rosy face, the tempting curve of her smooth cheek.
Emmeline cocked her head to one side, awaiting his answer.
Talvas tried to look stern. ‘You have the temerity of an old crone, mistress, with a tongue to match. Would that your father had taken a crop to you when it was needed!’
‘Don’t you dare speak in such a familiar way. You didn’t know my father; he would never have done such a thing!’ Her emerald eyes lit with anger.
‘Then maybe he should have, to stop that mouth of yours.’
Emmeline drew herself up to her full height. ‘How dare you speak to me so! You overstep the boundaries of good manners!’ She pushed at the solid wall of his chest.
‘As you do, mam’selle? You address me like a common peasant, not as a lord!’ She flushed slightly under his reprimand, knowing she deserved it. ‘What about your husband?’ Talvas continued. ‘Why did he not discipline you?’ he wanted to goad her, to provoke this wilful minx to full anger, to make her lose control, to tell him what had occurred in her past. ‘Surely he wouldn’t have let you behave as you do?’
Emmeline’s world tilted. The stiffness in her calf muscle mocked her, a constant reminder. How could he know about Giffard? Or was he just guessing? Nay, Giffard hadn’t let her do anything. One step out of line, and she had been punished. Curbed. Imprisoned. She didn’t want to remember, yet this man pushed her so, that the memories surfaced keenly, as if they had been yesterday.
Talvas studied her reaction with growing interest. It was as if he had thrown a bucket of icy water over her. The fire went from her eyes; her slim body drooped, folded in on itself. She wrapped her arms around her fine limbs, shaking slightly. When she spoke, her voice dripped ice. ‘My husband is dead.’ And good riddance to him, her tone implied.
‘Did you love him?’ he asked, unexpectedly.
She nibbled at a nail, her lashes black spikes on the flushed curve of her cheek. ‘Love him? Nay, my lord, love never came into it.’ Her tone chafed at him.
‘Then your father arranged the marriage?’
‘My father, God rest his soul, would have never approved of such a union. He would have never let me go to him.’ Her eyes darkened to deep leaf-green pools. ‘But we needed food on the table, Talvas, and Giffard provided it.’
At what cost? Talvas wondered. He moved his hand to cover hers where it rested on the rail, his strong fingers forming a brief touch, warm and reassuring. ‘Tell me,’ he urged, softly. The sapphire of his eyes burned with a dazzling light.
‘I cannot.’ For to talk about it would make it real again, the dreadful images of her past resurfacing with dreadful clarity. She would prefer to forget, to drown the memories in a pit of oblivion.
‘Geoffrey told me about your leg.’ His hand still clasped around hers. The calloused skin of his palm burned into her knuckles, charging her veins with a flickering vitality.
Emmeline dragged her fingers away, anger flaring. ‘He had no right!’ she blazed at him. ‘No right at all! God in Heaven, I knew it! I knew it from the way you are treating me! I don’t want your pity!’
She twisted away from him, across the deck, her hem-line swirling to reveal shapely ankles encased in knitted stockings. Her blond braid, hanging down the back of her cloak, swung out beneath her veil.
He seized the curling end of her plait, pulling her back round to him. Lean fingers curled around her heart-shaped chin, pulling her closer. His eyes traced the delicate veining of her throat, the quick pulsing of her skin just visible above the sweep of her veil that curved around her neck. His chest squeezed…pinpricks of desire peppering his heart, blood roiling. What in God’s name was happening to him? He prided himself on a strict self-control where women were concerned, a self-discipline commendable in monks and priests, let alone a man like himself without a faith to guide him, a man with normal desires.
‘Nay, mistress, you are mistaken. I don’t pity you at all.’ His voice held a dangerous, lilting eddy. ‘I desire you.’
Emmeline’s eyes popped open. The curtain covering the doorway of the wooden shelter cracked alarmingly, snapping in a gusting wind. Rain slapped at the tough canvas, with occasional drops spraying on to her skin. Snuggled into furs on the wide horsehair mattress, she realised suddenly that her body was not on the level, her toes much lower than her head. Emmeline had retreated to the makeshift shelter constructed in the bow of the ship on the excuse of keeping the Empress company; in truth, she needed to escape the peculiar tension that had arisen between herself and Talvas. When darkness had fallen, some hours earlier, Maud and Emmeline had buried themselves under the furs, Emmeline relishing the comfort of the horsehair mattress, whilst the Empress muttered and grumbled about the conditions of the voyage. The weather had been calm, a strong breeze speeding them toward the English coast. Now the ship was listing badly.
‘Emmeline, Emmeline!’ The Empress groaned miserably at her side. Her hand reached out to clutch at Emmeline’s sleeve.
‘What ails thee?’ Emmeline whispered back. Raising herself on to one elbow, she tried to discern Maud’s features through the pitch-black.
‘My stomach is bad.’ Maud groaned again. ‘I
feel so sick.’
‘Let me feel your forehead.’ Emmeline reached out and touched Maud’s dry skin, heart leaping in fear at the heat she encountered. ‘You need some water, my lady, and a wet cloth to cool your fever. I would fetch it…and a light, as well.’
Dragging her cloak over her shoulders, she fumbled around for the unlit rush torch, intending to go out on deck to catch a flame from the charcoal brazier that was kept alight for the whole journey. She struggled to push back the heavy curtain, sodden with rainwater, eventually making her way through the doorway on her hands and knees.
As she pushed her face through the thick wet material, the rain poured over her skin in thick rivulets: freezing, stinging drops that forced her mind abruptly from befuddled sleep to stark, vivid survival instinct. Bracing herself against the side of the wooden frame to raise herself to her feet, clinging to the rough wood as the deck tossed and pitched, Emmeline squinted through the lashing rain…and gasped in shock.
The unlit torch slipped from her fingers. The deck was covered with bodies!
Fighting to comprehend what might have happened, thinking the crew to all be dead, she started to work her way toward them, and realised they were ill, their faces drawn and white, their bodies huddled tight into miserable balls. What in the name of Mary had happened? Glancing behind her, up to the tiller, her gaze sought frantically through the gloom for the helmsman. God forbid that there was no one steering the ship in these high seas!
He was there. Dieu merci!
His strong frame propped against the back stay, Talvas, his hands carved around the heavy wooden tiller, fought to keep the ship on an even keel. He saw her movement through the driving rain and shouted down to her, his voice booming over the relentless shriek of the wind, shaking his head vigorously.
‘Nay, stay down! ’Tis too dangerous!’ She caught the tail end of his words as they were whipped away by the violent gusts.
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