Strong fingers found her cheek and he brought her head back so she had no choice but to look into those grey eyes. Her insides tightened. Why was it she had the feeling that he was enjoying this? Her confusion amused him; she amused him. It was as though—a wave of anger took her—was Sir Richard toying with her? Had she become a game to him?
‘You need saving from yourself, ma petite. Cecily would never forgive me if I permitted you to continue your arrangements with the Staple.’
The penny dropped. If Emma had not been thrown by Azor’s appearance and worried about Henri, it would have dropped long before now. ‘I am not one of Hélène’s girls.’
When Emma had been a thane’s daughter, she would not have hesitated to have spoken most disparagingly about whores. Women who made money by selling their bodies. But those disparaging remarks would have been made out of ignorance—that and pig-headed stupidity.
Life had been swift to put her right; it had shown her some of the things that might drive a woman to earn her living that way. Hunger and cold, desperation and fear, hopelessness. Of course, Hélène and Frida and the other girls were none of them saints—who was?—but they were among the few, the very few, whom Emma could call friend.
Anger and confusion made knots in her belly. She reached for calm. ‘I had hoped to repay Hélène for my new lodgings by washing linens for her.’
His smile grew maddeningly large. His fingers moved slowly over her cheekbone and came to rest on her mouth. ‘Of course you were.’
Damn him, he was playing with her. She twisted away. ‘It is true.’
Slowly he shook his head and a lock of brown hair fell over his eyes, brown hair that glinted chestnut where the candle-light caught it. His green tunic was intricately embroidered at the neck and the ties were undone. Beneath a cream shirt, she could see the beat of his pulse, a sprinkling of dark hairs.
Her face warmed. ‘It is true.’
‘What about this?’ He lifted the delicately hemmed edge of her veil. And this?’ His hand slid gently down her arm, past her hip to the fullness of the pink skirts. ‘This is hardly attire I would associate with a laundry maid in search of work.’
She could feel the heat of his hand through the fabric of her gown.
‘This gown…’ He cleared his throat and Emma’s gaze shot to his face. ‘This gown seems made more for seduction. I swear, you might tempt a hermit to break his vows in this.’
Snatching her skirts out of his grasp, Emma scowled. ‘Hélène did not need my services as a laundry maid, so I was trying to sell it—the gown, that is.’
The grey eyes gleamed, he gave a bark of laughter. ‘Selling the gown?’
‘Yes! Hélène has need of gowns like this, good gowns her girls…’ Emma’s voice trailed off. Sir Richard would never believe her; it was clear his mind was set.
Mouth amused, he reached for the wine. Adam’s friend would not hurt her; indeed, Emma was beginning to see that he had come to the Staple that night with a particular desire to save her—but his proximity was unnerving, there was an unsettling stirring in her insides that she could not identify. She moved away, as it was easier to breathe with a few yards between them.
‘Sir?’
Eyes still dancing, he refilled the glass. ‘Hmm?’
‘I was selling the gown. Or trying to.’
‘As you say.’ He gave her one of his disbelieving smiles.
‘Sir Richard, how did you know I was at the Staple tonight?’
‘Geoffrey.’
His squire, of course. ‘Yes, I thought I saw him.’ She tipped her head to one side. ‘Did you come to save me?’
‘I wanted you to have honest work, which is why I sent you to the castle steward. I had not realised he turned you away, and I would have you know I deeply regret it.’
‘The steward mislikes me, because of…because…I…I am not married and I have a son.’
‘Geoffrey should have stayed to make certain you were found suitable work. Work—’ closing the gap she had so carefully put between them, he took her hand and grimaced at her roughened palms ‘—work that is fitting for a lady of your station.’
Emma made a startling discovery. She liked standing with one of her hands in his. Pulling free, she gave him a straight look. ‘I was selling the gown.’
Those expressive lips twitched. ‘As you say.’
Emma’s mind raced. It was infuriating not to be believed, but there was no time to convince him. Henri! How long would it be before Azor discovered she had a son, assuming he did not already know? And after that, how long would it take Azor to make the connection between Henri and Judhael? How long did she have?
She stared up at Richard of Asculf. He might be commander of the Norman garrison in Winchester, but he was Adam’s friend and he truly did seem minded to help. Would Sir Richard be prepared to let them stay at the castle for a time? She must find out. The last place Judhael would think of looking for her would be in Winchester Castle. Even he would think twice about crossing that drawbridge….
Different tactics, she told herself, different tactics…
‘Sir, I…I thank you for your concern. But I must beg you…’ To Emma’s horror, her voice broke. ‘Let me go to my son.’
His expression sobered. He reached for her hand, a simple touch, a gentle touch that had tears spill over and run down her cheeks. She dashed them away, but in truth she did not care if this man saw her tears; Henri’s wellbeing was far more important. ‘My son, sir, please.’
A frown as the glass was set aside. ‘Tell me, tell me everything.’
She shook her head. ‘Let me go.’
‘Very well, I shall tease you no more.’ Formally, Richard offered her his arm. ‘My lady, permit me to escort you back to the inn.’
Richard watched, entranced despite himself, as a smile transformed her face. Sunshine after rain, he thought. Rainbows.
‘Thank you, sir!’
She whirled, the silken veil drifting out behind her as she dived for the key. The key rattled in the lock, then she flung back the door and gestured imperiously. ‘Hurry, sir, please hurry’
Her smile, her anxiety, her unashamed pleasure at his agreement touched Richard as no one had touched him in years. There was some dark mystery here. Mon Dieu, but Emma of Fulford was diverting.
Richard did not have the first idea what was troubling her, but he was finding—somewhat to his surprise—that his desire to help her was genuine and not solely because Emma of Fulford was Adam Wymark’s sister-in-law. She was concerned about her son, and it seemed to him that her concern was rather more than the usual concern a mother would feel for her child. The boy’s rebel father had to be tangled up in this business, but how?
For some unfathomable reason, Richard felt a connection with her. She attracted him, but it was more than animal lust that could flare up between almost any man and woman, sometimes even when they disliked each other. Lust was there, certainly, for he had felt its pull when he had seen her in the tavern, and again later when he had carried her across the bailey. But, setting aside animal attraction, Emma of Fulford pushed the bad memories from his mind.
This was the first time this evening that Richard had given his nightmare a thought. This woman might not know it, but she was doing so well at distracting him that he was not dreading the oncoming night. And since York, that was cause for celebration. Ever since he had been unable to prevent the cruel death of that poor Saxon child, Richard’s nights had been troubled.
With a rustle of skirts, she started down the stairs. Richard followed, but she had not gone more than two turns when she stopped abruptly.
‘What now?’
Her eyes were huge in the flare of the torches, and full of worry. ‘I…I cannot go.’ She began chewing a finger.
Gently, he removed her hand from her mouth. Rather alarmingly, he had to remind himself to release it.
‘Az…th-there is someone…that is…I have just realised, I might be seen.’
H
er chest rose and fell. Standing a step above her, the slashed neckline of the pink gown drew his gaze. Richard managed—just—to avert his eyes from the fascinating shadow between her breasts and focus on her face, on what she was saying.
‘Would…would you help me, sir?’
‘Haven’t I said so?’
‘I cannot explain fully, but my son and I are in desperate need of a refuge.’ She touched his sleeve. ‘Would you send someone to the Staple to bring him back here?’
Richard stared. ‘You want me to have your son brought to the castle?’
‘If you would. I know I shouldn’t be asking this of you, but I can’t go myself because…’
‘You might be seen.’
‘Exactly.’
This was becoming more mysterious by the minute. Richard glanced down at the hand on his arm as he struggled in vain to recall the name of her former lover. It was a small hand, with slender fingers and a slim wrist. If it weren’t for the broken nails and lye-chapped skin, it might be a lady’s hand. It would help if he knew who or what Emma of Fulford was battling against. She might even, given the allegiances of her one-time lover, be involved in a plot against the King.
Irritated with himself, Richard frowned. That should have occurred to him before.
As he looked down at her, he had to drag his eyes from her breasts again. The faint scent of roses swirled in his consciousness. The woman was bewitching him. Still, she certainly pushed his other problems to the back of his mind—Martin’s death and all that entailed, his nightmares…
‘Please, will you have Henri brought here?’
‘Yes. And I shall go myself. He will recognise me from our conversation this morning.’ If Lady Emma’s former lover had dragged her into some scheme, it occurred to Richard that it might be best to keep her where he could watch her.
‘You won’t frighten him? He is only two.’
Richard brought his brows together, and fought to keep the image of that poor child near York at bay. ‘I would never deliberately frighten a child.’
Back in the bedchamber, Emma hovered by the door while Sir Richard went to rouse his squire. She should not have asked him this favour, indeed she wondered that she had dared.
He was a Norman knight with the ear of King William, and she had asked him to fetch her son and give them refuge. What desperation drives us to do, she thought. Thank God, he hadn’t taken offence.
The low murmur of voices floated up from the floor below. A dog whined. Footsteps retreated down the stairs. She heard the hollow bang of a distant door. Then nothing, not a single bark, not a whisper.
Latching the door, Emma wrapped her arms about her waist and began walking up and down. Her boots brushed across the matting, it was the only sound. A couple of paces brought her to the wall and the warm glow of a brazier. She turned. Up and down, up and down.
The quiet in this bedchamber was most unnerving. Fulford Hall had never been this silent. And City Mill, even in the dead of night, was never so silent, either. Wood creaked, thatch rustled, water hushed under the mill. And beside her, for the past two years, there had always been the soft sigh of Henri’s breathing. But here, high in Richard of Asculf’s lofty stone tower, with only an empty room below, the silence was total. Stone did not creak. You couldn’t hear the mutterings of others as they slept. It felt unnatural.
Emma paused by the bed. She had never been in a chamber like this. The bed, so vast, and that fat mattress, the richly embroidered coverlet…
This was refinement of a sort she had never seen, not even at Fulford. Even in the days before King William had taken King Harold’s crown, even when she had been a thane’s daughter, she had never known such splendour. The rush matting—it kept the chill from the floor—was woven matting, not simple strewn rushes. The tapestries were as fine as any that had hung in the old Saxon palace—delicately wrought, with split threads for the detailing. Costly gold and silk yarns were artfully intermingled with woollen ones. And the painted walls were simply extraordinary, with swirls and chevrons covering every surface. It was almost like being in the cathedral.
Apart from the bed.
Emma and Judhael, because of the illicit nature of their relationship, had never shared a bed. What would it be like, she wondered, to wake up in a bed like this, beside the man that you loved?
Tentatively, she reached out to test the softness of a pillow. Yes, as she suspected, he slept on goose-down. And there, furs and a silken coverlet…Did he sprawl across the middle? On his back or on his front? An unsettling image of Sir Richard asleep sprang into her mind. That large, well-muscled body would be relaxed, that dark hair would be tousled…
As she turned abruptly from the bed, her gaze fell on a shield leaning against the wall, and an object that could only be a sword, wrapped in sacking.
Emma frowned. A travelling chest stood next to them, along with a hauberk. Something about their placing told her that Sir Richard’s squire was in the middle of packing. Was Sir Richard leaving Wessex? Was he going to Normandy to see those lands he had inherited?
Lord, that would not suit her at all. With Judhael threatening everyone she knew, she needed Sir Richard’s help. She caught the edge of her veil and twisted it round her fingers, thinking furiously.
Was he leaving? Saints, a few days of his protection was not going to be enough, not nearly enough! If he was leaving, what on earth could she do?
Chapter Six
Henri had to be kept safe from Judhael, that was Emma’s first concern.
Earlier that morning, when Emma had appealed to Sir Richard for help and had been sent away by his steward, she had dismissed Adam’s friend as a source of assistance. But clearly, that assessment had been too hasty. If Sir Richard was to be believed, he had not known how the steward had treated her. Also, he had come to the Staple, solely to help her, or so it seemed. Sir Richard wanted to help her! One of the most powerful men in Wessex, and he wanted to help her.
This was her chance to escape from Judhael once and for all. She might not get another.
Sir Richard’s travelling chest was banded with iron and studded. It even had a lock. But if, as she suspected, he was returning to Normandy? That changed everything. She might need his protection, but if he was leaving England…She grimaced.
Different tactics, she thought, I shall need very different tactics….
There lay his helmet and his sword. For all the room’s adornments, he had made it a warrior’s chamber. Another helmet lay against the wall, the metal dull with age. There was his shield. Incongruously, a lute lay on its side next to it. The lute was dusty and two of its strings were missing, but it gave credence to the stories of a Norman knight serenading the miller’s daughter back at Fulford.
A knight’s pennon had been tossed down alongside one of the hauberks. Emma picked it up; it was red and silver. Yesterday by the river, she had seen this pennon, the colours of Sir Richard of Asculf. The lute was the oddity in this gilded armoury, and it reminded Emma of what her sister had told her shortly after Hastings.
‘Be wary of Sir Richard, he is a sensual pleasure-seeker,’ Cecily had said. ‘He plays the lute and serenades my maid, and encourages her to make eyes at him. Adam says that Sir Richard is a man of honour, but I think that women might be his weakness.’
A pleasure-seeker, Emma thought, carefully folding the pennon and setting it aside. If Adam’s friend had been a sensualist in 1066, he was likely to remain one at heart. Another memory came back to her. At the wash-house, before Judhael had turned Bertha against her, Bertha had mentioned a rumour that was going the rounds. According to this gossip, some years back the garrison commander had given a gold cross to Adam’s adopted sister, Rozenn. Worse than that, Rozenn, a seamstress, had come all the way from Brittany in the hopes of marrying him, only to be rejected when she had arrived.
Could that be true? Could a knight have really planned to marry a seamstress? And if he had promised Rozenn marriage, why wait till the poor woman got to En
gland before turning her down?
Whatever the truth of the stories, they seemed to prove that Sir Richard was indeed a self-indulgent sensualist, a taker rather than a giver. It also appeared that he had a weakness for women. It was therefore most odd that he was not in the habit of visiting the Staple. Perhaps, since Frida had been summoned to the castle, his liaisons were usually conducted in private—here in this chamber.
Yes, that must be it. Emma glanced at the half empty wineglass on the chest. One wineglass, just one? Never mind, perhaps there had been two glasses, the other must have been broken; he had warned her they were fragile. Her brow cleared.
Sir Richard of Asculf was a sensualist. But was he rushing back to Normandy? Emma needed to know because if he was, then her best course might be to work on his weakness for women and use it to her advantage.
Absentmindedly, she sank on to the bed. It should not take him long to fetch Henri from the inn. It would be a relief to have her son here, well out of the reach of Azor and Judhael who, with prices on their heads, would not dare enter Winchester Castle itself. The Castle was surely the last place that Judhael would think of looking for her. It could be their safe haven, provided, of course, that Sir Richard truly meant it when he said he would help her.
Emma smothered a yawn. Saint Swithun, but she was tired. She eyed the pillow, which was fat and soft. Another yawn. She had been tired for months; pounding linen day in, day out was backbreaking work and, since leaving Fulford, she had been a light sleeper. Sir Richard would be at least half an hour; she should use the time to rest.
Usually, Emma had to keep half an ear out for Henri, in case he wandered. A mill was a dangerous place. Also, she had lived with her fears concerning Judhael for some years. They too had kept her on the margins of sleep. But here, in this lonely room high above the city…
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 7