‘No, you are coming with me.’
‘I am?’ Emma gave him one of those distracted looks and a quick nod before returning her attention to the other woman. ‘I am fine, truly, Hélène. I think Sir Richard may even help me.’
At her words, the muscle-bound Saxon effaced himself. Geoffrey let out a breath and his hand fell from his hilt.
Damn right I am going to help you, Richard thought. But not perhaps in the way that you are expecting. Grasping her hand, he led her past the tables, past outstretched legs, past the dogs lazing at the hearth and out into the night. He could not let her continue on this course; his friend Adam would never forgive him.
‘No cloak,’ he muttered as the inn door snapped shut behind Geoffrey and the chill March air rushed into his lungs. ‘We have left your cloak behind.’
‘My cloak?’ She gave a wild laugh and jerked against his hand. She was trying to break free and she would no doubt have succeeded if Richard had not maintained the firmest of holds. The moon was up, the stars were visible behind the roofs of the houses, and her pink veil glowed palely through the dark. Something—a stray?—brushed past Richard’s leg.
‘Please, my lord.’
She tried to shake him off, but he would have none of it. ‘You are coming back with me.’ Swiftly, he removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. When he set off at a brisk pace for the castle, she began to struggle in earnest.
‘No, no!’ Slim fingers twisted and wriggled within his. ‘Please…’ Her voice cracked. ‘I must go back. You don’t understand.’
‘Don’t cry, I am not going to hurt you. I just want to get you away from…that place.’ He stopped dead at the crossroads where what was left of Golde Street met Market Street. Her breath was agitated; her veil lifted as she peered over her shoulder towards the darkness surrounding the market cross.
What, or who, was she looking for? Richard could see little. Here, a few cracks of light crept round the edge of a shutter; there, a slash of yellow escaped through a slit in some planking, but as to the rest—black night.
‘Please, oh, please.’
As she pulled at him, the moonlight fell directly on her cheek where a single tear gleamed like a pearl. Hell.
‘He will find him, I know he will. He will find him and—’
Richard lost patience. Either Adam’s sister-in-law was a madwoman or she was in desperate trouble. In their interview that morning, she had not struck him as mad. He swept her up in his arms, a struggling armful of woman who smelt charmingly of roses. Closing his mind to the twinge in his shoulder, to the stab of awareness of her as a desirable woman, he made for the castle drawbridge.
‘Calm down, my lady. Emma, calm down. I know you are not an innocent, but really, you cannot be allowed to continue on this course. You were lucky with that Saxon rebel.’
‘Lucky? What do you mean?’
‘You were lucky not to have had a child. How would it be if you had to suffer the shame of having a rebel brat clinging to your skirts?’
Silence. Perhaps he was getting through to her. ‘You may not be so lucky the next time. We are going somewhere warm where we may talk, and you are going to explain what you think you are doing.’
As they waited for the guard to lower the drawbridge, she kept her face averted. Her fists were clenched under her chin. Quiescent in his arms, but resisting him with every fibre of her being.
While the chains rattled and the drawbridge lowered, Richard exchanged glances with his squire.
‘Your shoulder, sir?’ Geoffrey said.
‘It is fine.’
She was quivering, not from fear, Richard hoped. ‘Geoffrey?’
‘Sir?’
‘Help arrange my cloak over her properly. She’s cold.’
Emma’s mind seemed to have frozen and she barely saw where he was taking her. Judhael, Henri, Azor, Sir Richard…it was too much. She was also digesting the fact that Sir Richard didn’t realise she already had a child, a bastard child. If only she could be certain that Judhael didn’t know, too.
Dimly, she recognised she was being carried across the torchlit bailey. Excited barks skirled through the air, and several dogs raced out of the stables—Sir Richard’s wolfhounds, the white mongrel.
Sir Richard ducked into a doorway at the base of one of the towers and started up a curling stairway.
Emma would not demean herself by struggling. The man was over six foot tall and his build, well…since she was pressed close to that muscular chest, she could not help but notice that Sir Richard was a powerfully built man. As one would expect of one of King William’s officers, a knight and a commander.
It might be disturbing to be held so close, closer in fact than she had been to any man since Judhael, but Emma’s mind was fixated on her son.
Did Azor know about Henri? Did he know that Henri was asleep upstairs at the inn? Had Azor perhaps followed them when they had brought their things from the mill to the Staple? Was Azor even at this moment snatching Henri from his bed?
But Emma did not struggle. If she were to engage in a physical fight with Sir Richard, she could only be the loser. He took the stairs in brisk strides, a small entourage trotting at his heels—his squire, the three dogs. No, a physical struggle with this man could only result in ignominious defeat; he had the build of a champion.
She did not speak, either. For this man, this friend of her sister’s husband, Sir Adam, did not know the full extent of her fall from grace. He had not heard about her illegitimate son. How would it be if you had to suffer the shame of having a rebel brat clinging to your skirts?
Perhaps—Emma slanted him a swift look through her lashes—perhaps other tactics might work here….
Saints, but this Norman was handsome in a strong-jawed masculine way. His hair was thick and brown. A torch in a wall-sconce cast a shadow from his straight nose across one lean cheek. A cheek that this close Emma could see was dark with stubble. His lips—she bit the inside of her cheek; she would not look at his lips—but surely they were too well-shaped for a man?
He paused to draw breath on a landing, or so Emma thought, until his squire pushed past him to open the door.
‘That is all, Geoffrey.’ Sir Richard gave a curt headshake as the boy made to follow them into the room. ‘I will call you if I need you.’ The white mongrel almost tripped him. ‘And take the damn dogs with you.’
Chapter Five
‘Yes, Sir Richard.’
Emma found she was holding her breath as the squire called the dogs to heel and the door closed behind him. Sir Richard’s cloak fell away and she was set, none too gently, on her feet. His breathing was uneven. So, too, was hers.
What did he want with her? She could not be long, not with Azor and Judhael at large and Henri stuck at the inn. Sir Richard does not know about Henri; it is bad enough that he thinks of me as a fallen woman, but if he should find out about Henri—‘the rebel’s brat clinging to my skirts’?
She lifted her chin. ‘Sir?’
He tossed his cloak over a chest that stood at the foot of a bed. A large bed, Emma noticed, an indecently large bed. She also noticed that it was oddly quiet up here. If she were to scream to be released, would anyone hear? Where had that squire gone? Would he come if she called?
Willing herself not to give in to hysteria, Emma studied him, resplendent in a green tunic edged with silver braid. He was very tall and that handsome face wore an expression in which amusement looked to be mixed with irritation in equal measure. And his eyes, how odd…In this light, in this room, they did not look in the least bit cold.
The sheer physical strength of the man was impressive, the wide shoulders, the muscled thighs, which she had felt for herself as he had carried her up those stairs. But, there was more than mere strength here. She sensed enormous vitality, limitless reserves, an indomitable will. Yes, it was most odd, it was there in his eyes…This evening Emma would swear she could put her life in his hands and rest easy.
But he is a
Norman!
Sir Richard might have the strength of the devil, he might be Norman—but Emma had never heard of him being violent or cruel to women. She would not have gone to him for help that morning if she had.
Pointedly, she made a show of looking about his bedchamber. It was furnished with royal extravagance. The candles in the wall prickets were, by their scent, beeswax. Their light fell softly on to walls patterned with swirls and chevrons in ochres, blues and reds. Tapestries gleamed with gold thread. There was a single shuttered window slit. One of the walls was curved; it must follow the outer wall of the tower. The door was almost within her reach, casually, she edged closer.
There were two braziers, comforting glimmers of heat. Adding more coals to one of them, Sir Richard waved her towards it. ‘Warm yourself, my lady.’
My lady. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. How long had it been since anyone had done her the courtesy of addressing her by her title? This man had, in the castle stables that morning. But he would soon stop doing so, once he learned about Henri….
Emma made a grab for the door latch, but he got there before her. She caught the gleam of white teeth as the key grated in the lock.
‘There’s no escape that way, my lady.’
She bit her lip and stared up at him. The garrison commander had locked her in his tower room and she felt no fear—how strange. Yes, she wanted to get past him to go and check on her son, but she was not afraid. And, yes, she had read him aright; those grey eyes were indeed gleaming with amusement. Richard of Asculf was laughing at her.
‘I am so glad I entertain you, sir. But why did you interfere? It would have been better, much better, if you had let me alone.’
Tossing the key on to a bedside chest, he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. ‘I have angered you?’
‘Yes!’
‘How so?’
‘Not only did you shame me before half the town, dragging me out of the Staple before your entire garrison, but you tossed me over your shoulder like a sack of—’
His lips curved. ‘I didn’t toss you over my shoulder, I carried you. Quite carefully, as a matter of fact.’ Pushing away from the wall, he rolled those broad shoulders and grimaced. ‘To my own detriment, I might add.’
His shoulder, of course! Emma thrust aside the memory of the wound she had noticed in the stable and snorted. ‘I hope it does hurt. Perhaps it will make you think twice before abducting women.’
‘Abducting? I rather thought I was saving you.’ Crossing to the curved outer wall, he lifted a glazed jug from a tray. ‘Wine?’
‘No, thank you. I should like you to unlock this door, I want to go home.’
‘Home?’ Taking no heed of her refusal, he poured some wine into a glass—more glass? Sir Rich indeed—and held it out to her. He grinned. ‘Go on, I am not about to poison you, not yet at any rate.’
When Emma took the glass, she could not help but stare at it. He must think her a peasant, but she had never drunk wine from such a goblet. It was smooth to the touch, and had a cloudy yellow tinge to it. Tiny bubbles were trapped in the glass, minor imperfections revealed by the candle-light shining through it.
‘It came from France,’ he said, observing her reaction.
‘It is lighter than I imagined.’
‘And fragile.’ He lifted a brow. ‘Aren’t you going to try the wine?’
Nodding, Emma took a sip. It was then that she realised there had only been one glass on the tray and he was waiting for her to finish before he could have some. She took another hurried sip and, blushing, passed the glass back. It felt embarrassing, oddly intimate, to be sharing a wineglass with him. Another surprise. She would have thought, given his reputation, Sir Richard would have two glasses in his bedchamber.
Taking the glass with him, he sank onto the bed. ‘Warmer now?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘So where is home? I gather you do not live at Fulford with Cecily and Adam?’
‘Heavens, no!’
He rested an elbow on his knee, eyes watchful. He had long sooty eyelashes. And his nose, it was very straight. ‘Your sister never struck me as being inhospitable.’
‘No, of course she is not, but…’ Emma floundered to a halt. She could not fathom quite why Sir Richard had brought her here. This was his bedchamber. An uncommon bedchamber that he did not share with his squire, a private bedchamber such as she had never seen in her life. She had thought only King William would have a chamber to himself like this.
‘Emma, where do you live?’
Emma was not sure she should tell him anything. This man claimed he wanted to help her, but in view of him passing her over to that singularly unhelpful steward this morning, she was not certain. However, she could not sense any malevolence in him. Perhaps he was indeed trying to help her. Was it safe to tell him where she lived? And I am going to have to tell him about Henri. Oh, Lord.
Sir Richard’s loyalty to King William was unquestionable. Whatever she told him, she must make no mention of Judhael and Azor by name, Saxon outlaws whose every breath these past years had been devoted to overthrowing the regime he served. No, she could not tell him about them. She might not want to renew her connections with Judhael and Azor, but they had been her father’s housecarls and she did not have it in her to betray them.
‘Where do you live?’ he prompted. ‘Is that so difficult to answer?’
She swallowed. ‘I…I have recently taken lodgings at the Staple.’
He made an exasperated sound. ‘I thought as much. You fool! And what does your sister have to say about it?’
Emma squirmed. She had done nothing wrong, yet his tone made her want to hide her face in shame. Sir Richard was not going to like it when he learned about Henri. ‘Cecily does not know.’
‘I should think not. It would break her heart.’ His nostrils flared. ‘How long have you been there? I don’t expect Adam knows about this, either?’
‘I only moved in today.’ Her chin came up. ‘I had no work, no means of paying for our…my lodgings.’ Oh, Lord. Hoping he had not noticed her slip, conscious of an irrational desire to delay the moment when scorn would enter his expression, she rushed on. ‘Your steward turned me away.’
But his gaze had sharpened; he hadn’t missed it. ‘Our lodgings?’
‘Yes.’ Setting her jaw, Emma met his gaze straight-on. And why should she not? It wasn’t her fault she had been in love and had lain with her man, the times had been against them. And now, with Judhael so changed…
Don’t mention Judhael, whatever you say, don’t mention Judhael.
‘Yes.’ Her throat seized up, and she had to swallow twice before she could continue. ‘I…I have a son.’
‘You have a son?’
‘Yes.’ His expression was well schooled; it had hardly changed. There was no trace of the scorn Emma had expected, unless he was keeping it well hidden. Hope flared in her breast, and she nodded at the key on the bedside chest. ‘And I need to go back to the inn—now—to see that Henri is all right.’
‘Your son will be asleep, I should imagine.’ Thoughtfully, he tapped the rim of his wineglass. ‘He is that blond boy? The one playing by the Itchen, the one who came with you to the stables?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had assumed he belonged to that other woman.’
‘No, Henri is my son, and I should like you to release me so that I may see him.’
‘In good time, in good time.’ The dark brows drew together. ‘I sense there is more you are not telling me. You may confide in me, my lady. Your sister is married to a trusted friend. You must know that I would honour your confidence.’
My lady. There it was again, and again his use of her title had tears stinging at the back of her eyes. Richard of Asculf was an extraordinary man. Far from turning his back on her on learning about Henri, he still seemed disposed to help.
Good, Emma thought, with Judhael and Azor back in Winchester, I am desperate.
Even if it is a
Norman who is offering help?
Yes, even then.
Emma drew closer, so close she noticed details about him that were new to her. His eyes had small black flecks in them. His pupils were large as he gazed up at her, and his eyelashes were very long. His eyes, she realised with something of a shock, were almost too beautiful for a man. She could see the dark stubble on his chin and smell the wine in his glass and more, a musky male scent that must belong to the man himself. ‘I cannot explain. I need to get home. Please, my lord, let me go.’
His gaze ran searchingly over her face, resting for the briefest of moments on her mouth. ‘There’s more, I would swear, but you will not confide in me.’
Tentatively, Emma reached for his shoulder before recalling his wound and snatching her hand back. ‘Please, sir.’
‘It doesn’t sit well on my conscience to let you go.’
‘How so?’
He leaned back, eyes hooded, and gave her a slow smile, a smile that made her catch her breath. ‘Let us say I escort you back to the inn. How long before you are back to your tricks?’
‘Tricks? Tricks?’
In a swift movement he was on his feet and the glass was on the wooden chest. Saint Swithun, the man was tall. With something of a jolt, Emma saw a flash of anger in his eyes. It was gone in a moment and then he was looking down at her with every appearance of sympathy. He smiled, and against her better judgement she found herself responding. She was beginning to see why Cecily and Adam liked this man.
His mouth was most finely shaped, especially when he smiled. It drew her gaze, it drew all of her attention, so much so that when a large finger ran down her cheek, she almost leaped out of her skin. Her stomach clenched.
His smile deepened. ‘Emma, Emma of Fulford, what am I to do with you?’
‘All you have to do is release me.’ Her heart was beating like a frantic drum. He stood too close. This man disordered her thoughts and she did not think that she liked it. No one, not even Judhael in the early days, in the days when she had loved him, had had so…so physical an effect on her. Realising that her attention had been drawn back to his mouth, to that full lower lip, that attractive dip in his top one…Saints. Deliberately she focused on a chevron on the wall.
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 6