Richard frowned. ‘Yes, yes, if that is your wish. You will find me generous. You may have money, clothes, jewels, whatever you desire within reason. And…’ he reached behind him to touch the small bump beneath the bedcovers ‘…when the time comes for us to end our liaison, I will ensure your son is fostered in a noble house if he so wishes. Should he develop a yearning for knighthood, I might even foster him myself.’
‘Henri might become a knight? An illegitimate Saxon?’
‘He is part Norman, is he not?’
‘Yes, oh, my lord…’ Her eyes became glassy with tears.
Reaching out, Richard tucked a golden strand of hair behind her ear and pushed himself to his feet.
‘Think about it. It can’t be worse than the life you are living, but think quickly, my lady. I shall need your decision by first light.’
She jumped to her feet and a small hand took his. ‘My lord—’
‘Richard, remember?’
‘Richard…’ she cleared her throat ‘…I have given you my answer, I do not need more time. Provided you swear to see to the welfare of any child we may have…’
‘I swear it, though if there is a child, I may reconsider your future. The complications…your reputation in Normandy…’ He shook his head. ‘Emma, these are weighty matters. Take tonight to consider them.’
Small fingers reached out, and came to rest against his shirt. Richard liked the way she touched him with those worn but capable hands. Bold and unafraid. As if it were her right. Their gazes met and he saw in her eyes that she really would agree. His mood lifted as though the thought of her running those hands over more of his body was something to look forward to. Indeed, already his pulse was quickening….
In name only, he reminded himself. She is coming with me so that I may protect her, from herself and whatever terror it is that drives her. She will not really become my mistress. I shall not touch her.
Her hand slid up, hooked round his neck and brought his head down to hers. Her kiss was brief and surprisingly cool, but it fired his blood. His loins throbbed. In name only. Richard held down a groan, and before he realised what he was doing, he had taken her by the hips and pulled her close. His body seemed to be having a hard time remembering his good intentions.
‘I trust you,’ she murmured. ‘I trust that you, Adam’s friend, will honour your word. Thank you for honouring me with your confidence, and thank you for giving me this chance to leave Winchester. And for Henri, too—a knight…’ her nostrils flared and she swallowed ‘…I thank you and I accept. I will accompany you as your maîtresse, for as long as you may require.’
Richard smiled and reached for her hair. As he caressed it—so long, so silky—the scent of roses filled the room. ‘Then we have an agreement.’
Pretty lips angled towards his. ‘When do you wish our contract to start, my lo…Richard?’
He lowered his lips. Just a kiss, just one small kiss.
‘Mama? Mama?’
She wrenched herself out of his arms. ‘Henri! I am sorry, did we wake you, sweetheart?’
‘Mama…’ the child’s voice was slurred with sleep. ‘Mama, kissie, kissie.’
The child had seen them!
Richard waited for her swift denial, but Emma surprised him. Smoothing down the coverlet, she sank on to the bed and stroked her son’s head. ‘Yes, darling…’ she lowered her voice, but he caught the words ‘…I was kissing Sir Rich.’
The boy murmured. Then, seeing Prince curled up next to him on the bed, he smiled and wound his arms about the dog’s neck. His eyes closed.
Smiling himself, Richard turned for the door. The boy was safe with that ugly dog, it was as soft as they came. His heart felt lighter than it had for weeks. Richard would always regret not being able to save that Saxon child near York. In helping Emma and her Henri, perhaps he was doing something to set the balance straight.
‘Richard?’ She padded after him.
‘Hmm?’
Great eyes stared up at him, anxious eyes. ‘You…you do not wish to…to…’ Her cheeks were crimson.
‘Not here, not tonight. There will be time enough later. I trust you will honour our contract when we get to Normandy.’
‘As I trust you, my lord.’
Raising her hand to his lips, Richard let himself out. His smile faded as he made his way to the chamber below. It was not going to be as easy as he had first thought, keeping her at arm’s length.
The attraction was there on both sides, certainly. But that was not the reason she had set out to seduce him for that, Richard realised, was what she had been about, trying to seduce him. Unless he was very much mistaken, Lady Emma was running from Judhael of Fulford; she was protecting her son. But what father would drive the mother of his child into living the life of a washerwoman rather than return home to those who loved her at Fulford?
When Richard caught himself wishing that soon Emma would prove she did indeed trust him by unburdening herself to him, he dismissed the thought as ridiculous.
Chapter Eight
Honfleur! Their ship, with its chunky curved prow and striped sails, was entering the port and as the swell began to slacken, Richard could barely master his impatience. Normandy! Home at last. On his left, the mouth of the Seine was falling away behind them, a broad expanse of water that narrowed fast as it wound its way inland, Jumièges, Rouen, Paris…
The ship’s design mirrored the longboats of the Norsemen and the creature carved on the prow was a demon, a demon with red glaring eyes. Many Norsemen had settled in Normandy; it was part of Richard’s heritage. Norsemen, Northmen, Norman. Viking blood flowed in his veins.
He gripped the ship’s handrail and ran his gaze over the approaching harbourside. Clouds scudded across the sky and sea-foam filled his nostrils. At his back, a sailor shouted, a rope creaked, a sea-bird shrieked. The wooden houses and storage barns that hugged the harbour’s edge were coming into view—single-storey buildings roofed in the main with shingles and reeds. Beyond the houses and barns, a thickly wooded hill sloped steeply up. Already the trees were beginning to green. Oak, ash, beech.
He grinned and inhaled deeply. Home.
‘Count Rich! Count Rich!’
Richard was not the only one in his element. Emma’s boy was skipping across the deck towards him, heedless of the dangers of snaking ropes and sailors scrambling to bring down the sails. He was a quick-witted child; witness the speed with which he had altered his name for Richard on hearing the way the men addressed him. Once more it came to him that Henri bore an uncanny resemblance to the Saxon boy he had seen butchered near York. The white mongrel was trotting after him, close as a shadow. The wolfhounds, less tractable, had been put on leashes and were tethered near the horses.
‘Clear the deck!’ the helmsman bellowed.
Stepping forward, Richard reached for the lad, blanked out the twinge in his shoulder and hoisted him clear. He clicked his fingers. ‘Prince, sit!’ The dog obeyed, tongue lolling.
Richard glanced towards the covered awning beneath the prow platform. As a shelter it was crude, but Emma and the maidservant that Geoffrey had managed to find her had been swift to take refuge inside. The flap was down and there was no sign of movement, not that Richard expected it. The ship had barely left Bosham before both women had turned green. Mal de mer. It was not something Richard had ever suffered from.
Since Geoffrey was amidships with the horses and the wolfhounds, Richard sighed and settled Henri on his hip. He didn’t know the first thing about looking after little boys and wasn’t in the least inclined to learn, but for the time being, he was stuck with Henri. Unlike his mother, Henri was the best of sailors. Richard shot another glance towards the awning. Perhaps mal de mer was not the only reason Emma was keeping out of sight. Had his ‘arrangement’ with her made her uncomfortable? Was she perhaps finding it difficult to face the others in his entourage?
What on earth was he going to do with her? Lord. In truth, Richard’s offer to take Emma with him had been made on i
mpulse, to prevent her from hurling herself at the first man who came along. He had had to act quickly. Despite her child and the fact that Richard had found her in the Staple, she still had an intriguing air of innocence about her.
One thing was certain, Adam and Cecily would kill him if he didn’t do his best by her. He grimaced as he pondered their reactions to the messages he and Emma had sent to Fulford before their departure.
And as for Emma herself, she had asked him to find her a husband when their ‘liaison’ was ended. Sighing, Richard smiled at her son. He could take his time over picking Emma a suitable husband. He would think about that later, after he had dealt with the unrest in Beaumont and when he had learned more about Emma herself. ‘Your mama is something of a mystery, Henri,’ he said.
‘Count Rich?’
‘Mmm?’ The child had inherited his mother’s eyes, large, blue…
‘I had a boat.’
‘Did you, lad?’
‘It was lost.’
‘Was it? What happened?’
‘The river ate it. But look…’ All smiles, Henri waved a fist towards the bristling quays. ‘More boats. Lots.’
‘Yes, lad, more boats. And that—’ Richard waved at the woods, at the land beyond them ‘—that is Normandy.’
‘Normandy.’
Eagerly, Henri absorbed it all. He looked as excited as Richard felt, only unlike Richard, Henri was able to display his excitement. A count could not make a parade of his feelings. Though it had been over three years since he had seen his homeland, Count Richard of Beaumont must conceal his emotions. The tears might be pricking at the back of his eyes, but they would never fall.
Richard ruffled Henri’s hair. He was not used to children, but perhaps he might like this one. It was fortunate that Emma had seen to it that her boy understood French, as well as English. Indeed, Richard thought ruefully, the child’s English was better than his. Witness the way Henri had already managed to twist the two Saxon mercenaries round his little finger. Not to mention the new maid, Asa.
‘My lord?’ Emma was picking her way across the deck, holding her skirts clear of ropes and tackle. She looked pale after her bout of sea-sickness, but her veil was back in place, its hem lifted gently in the breeze. ‘I’m sorry. Let me have him.’
‘He is fine,’ Richard said. Thank God, her manner towards him seemed fairly natural; she was managing to conceal any unease she might be feeling at their supposed relationship. The only sign of it that Richard could see was a slight tension about her eyes. ‘I was showing him the land of his forebears.’
She nodded, and gave the harbour and approaching hillside an appraising glance. ‘It looks very much like England.’
‘It is in many respects. It is arguably more beautiful, especially with the trees coming into leaf. Wait until you see the orchards in Beaumont, the trees weighed down with blossom, the doves roosting in—I will show you.’ He stopped abruptly and hoped he had not revealed too much. ‘You are recovered?’
Pulling a face, she put a hand to her stomach. ‘Not entirely, but the worst must be over. I am sure that once we are on dry land this queasiness will pass.’
‘The swell is already easing.’
‘Thank Heavens. Now, my lord, you must pay that shoulder of yours some respect.’ Brushing aside his protestations, Emma lifted Henri from him and settled him on her own hip. ‘Please tell me what is happening in your county. I ought to know something about it. I would have asked earlier, but there was no time before we boarded and then I was sick and had no heart for questions.’
‘Very well.’ They had a few minutes before the ship docked. Richard shifted a couple of feet. ‘Here, my lady.’ He indicated a spot where they could sit and lean against the ship’s side and not be under the crew’s feet.
‘Your cousin, Count Martin—you said his horse threw him?’
‘Yes, he died over a week since from some unknown internal injury.’
‘Were you close?’
‘Close?’ Richard found the question disturbing—he and Martin had been close, but what business was it of hers? ‘I do not see the relevance of that question.’
‘You think I am impertinent.’
A gull screeched past them, a flash of white. Emma of Fulford had something about her, something that made Richard think that perhaps he could share his most private confidences with her. Before this, there had only been Geoffrey and it simply was not done for a man to bare his soul to his squire. ‘We knew each other as boys,’ he said, finally. ‘We were fostered in the same household for a time, but later our ways parted.’ He shrugged. ‘Martin was destined to be Count, while I, as his cousin, son of a younger son…’
‘You had manors of your own, though, before your cousin died?’
‘Yes, they are not far from Falaise, but they are nothing to compare to Beaumont itself.’
On her lap, the boy stirred. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and leaned his head against her breast. He had worn himself out dashing about the deck. Envying the boy the comfort of his mother’s arms, Richard looked away, focusing instead on the canvas stalls rigged up in the stern of the ship. Roland’s head was visible over the top of one, his white mane streaming out like a banner. The hills behind Honfleur were drifting closer and the mouth of the Seine was lost to sight behind a spit of land.
‘Your voice tells me that you love Beaumont, my lord. Describe it to me.’
‘Beaumont is, to my mind, quite simply the most beautiful place in the Duchy. The Castle is set on a plateau overlooking a curve of the river.’
‘Which river it that?’
‘The Orne.’
‘So your castle is strategically placed?’
‘Yes, Beaumont is a buffer county.’
Richard paused, uncertain how much he should tell her. He had only been granted leave to return to Normandy because it was in King William’s interests to have Beaumont in the hands of a man whose loyalty could be relied upon. Martin had been such a man; he was such a man. King William of England, also Duke of Normandy, did not give his trust lightly.
‘It is complicated,’ he said. Two powerful Counts, Argentan and Alençon, had holdings nearby. Both of them had from time to time made threats against the Duke and a large part of Richard’s role as Count of Beaumont would be to continue to keep watch on behalf of his liege lord.
Richard felt awkward, unused to political discussions in which women took part. His mother had never taken much interest in his father’s affairs; indeed, his mother had never taken much interest in anything apart from the Church. Richard glanced at Emma, surprised and not a little shocked at himself for even considering further confidences. Her lover had been a Saxon rebel.
And then a distant memory rushed back. Lucie, his father’s maîtresse.
Lucie had been small and plump and dark, and his father had valued her for the comfort she had given him when Richard’s mother, having done her duty and provided him with three sons, had walked away from him straight into the arms of the Church. Lucie had also, Richard recalled, liked to sit talking with his father long into the night. Had his father been discussing matters of politics with her? He sighed. He would never know the answer, for his father and Lucie were both long dead. ‘Lucie,’ he murmured. He was not really intending to make Emma of Fulford his mistress, but should he ever do so in truth…
‘Lucie, my lord?’
Richard looked at her, at the sleeping boy in her arms. He should keep his discussions with Emma of Fulford as brief as possible and tell her nothing that she could not work out for herself. Her lover had been a known rebel and while his instincts were telling him that he might trust her, she was little more than a stranger.
‘Beaumont has many faces,’ he said, temporising. ‘It is a rich and fertile country and that alone makes it covetable, but its chief attraction is the position of Castle Beaumont itself, high on the hillside overlooking the river.’
Emma’s veil blew over Henri’s face; she tucked it out of the way. Ca
ndid eyes met Richard’s, straightforward eyes, eyes he wanted to trust. He was conscious of the impulse to confess that he had no intention of making her his mistress. He wanted to watch those lines of strain ease. Wait until we reach Beaumont, he told himself. When I have her safely there, then I shall tell her.
‘Your castle is a watchtower,’ she said.
‘Exactly. Duke William—here in Normandy he is Duke—Duke William has endorsed my claim to the county because he knows I am his man.’
‘What are the names of the neighbouring counts that Duke William is so concerned about?’
Richard shot her a sharp look. He had surmised that Emma of Fulford was intelligent despite her past mistakes, but this was too nice a matter to be discussed in full hearing of a deckful of sailors, some knights whose loyalty was yet to be tested, and a couple of Saxon mercenaries who had only joined his company at York. ‘Later,’ he murmured.
Nodding her understanding, she stroked her son’s head, lulling him, he supposed.
Richard leaned back against the side of the ship, while Emma turned her face to the sun and closed her eyes. For all her beauty, she was an easy woman to sit with, he realised, surprised. Companionable. She didn’t make a man feel he had to speak unless he wanted to. He studied her profile, the high brow, the upturned nose that was so like her sister’s, the full lips. She was wearing the limp green gown she had worn when she had come to the castle, begging for work.
That sumptuous pink gown was much more pleasing, shamefully pleasing. Richard could not say why that was, because the pink gown was not in itself indecent, but something about it made him want to tease it from her so that he could discover if what lay beneath was as promising as he imagined.
Did she have other gowns like it? He doubted it. Emma would need more clothes while he decided what to do with her. Richard frowned. But they must be sensible ones; it wouldn’t do for her to distract his knights from their duties.
Oh, Lord. Richard’s frown deepened. At Beaumont, Emma would most certainly meet Lady Aude. Yes, Emma must get some good clothing. And as soon as they arrived at the Castle, he would explain that he was going to find her a husband.
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 10