Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

by Carol Townend

  But she definitely needed more gowns. Perhaps he should have thought of it before, but he had been so eager to reach Normandy that he had hustled them out of Wessex with scarcely time for thought.

  ‘What’s the matter, my lord?’ She had caught him staring at her.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Blue eyes narrowed. ‘I can see something is wrong…’

  ‘I was thinking about my cousin’s fiancée.’

  ‘Ugly Aude?’ Her lips twitched.

  Diable, she had remembered. ‘I wish you would forget I said that, I have the feeling it will be held against me. But, yes, I was thinking of Lady Aude. She will be waiting for my arrival at Castle Beaumont.’

  ‘How will she react when she sees me?’

  Richard’s jaw tensed. ‘She will accept you.’

  ‘She may not be so compliant, my lord.’

  ‘She will if I order her.’

  Emma lifted a brow and said nothing.

  ‘But your attire does leave something to be desired.’

  ‘I have the pink gown—’

  ‘That,’ Richard said firmly, ‘is too rich a gown for every day. I would not wish you to wear that about the Castle.’

  Her eyes went wide. ‘It is a perfectly decent gown, Cecily chose it!’

  ‘Nevertheless, that is my wish.’

  She bowed her head, giving every indication of obedience. ‘Very good, my lord.’ Her veil fluttered.

  Richard had the niggling feeling that far from indicating her agreement, she was in fact hiding her eyes from him. With an exasperated sound, he flicked at her skirt. ‘Emma, this simply will not do.’

  She sent him a wry look. ‘I dress like a washerwoman, you mean.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  That nose lifted. ‘Well, until a couple of days ago that is what I was, a washerwoman.’

  ‘Is that truly all you were, a washerwoman?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Emma, I found you in the Staple—’

  ‘I was selling the pink gown!’ Henri murmured a sleepy protest and she lowered her voice. ‘Why will you not believe me? You are the most stubborn of men.’

  ‘Be that as it may, we have made our agreement and if time had not been so pressing this should have occurred to me sooner.’ He smiled. ‘You will need respectable clothes, more gown and veils and…and silk girdles and suchlike. And shoes that look as though they were made for a noblewoman rather than a ploughboy.’

  She bit her lip and yanked her skirts over boots that even the most partial of admirers would not call elegant. ‘At least I can ride in these. But I…I expect you are in the right.’ Unexpectedly, she smiled. ‘We can’t have Lady Aude thinking you have chosen a beggar for your concubine.’

  Impulsively, Richard took her hand and kissed her slender, work-reddened fingers. He was conscious of his two Saxon mercenaries, watching them, but what harm? They were men of the world; he had hired them after a particularly brutal skirmish near York. ‘You always look charming, even when you are wearing a dress that is the colour of pond slime.’

  ‘Pond slime? Why, do be careful, my lord, my head will be turned by such flattery.’

  The ship juddered and a sailor tossed a hawser to the dockside.

  Richard was grinning as he pushed himself to his feet. Taking the child from her, helped her up. Across the deck, Geoffrey and the knights were steadying the horses ready to lead them off as soon as the gangplank was lowered. Animals were usually unloaded before cargo.

  She touched his arm. ‘Do we go to Beaumont this evening, my lord?’

  For himself, Richard would have Roland off the ship and be in the saddle in no time. He still might, Roland would need exercising after the stress of the sea-crossing, horses never took them well. The hounds could come, too. He glanced at the child, at the child’s mother. ‘No, my lady, not tonight. Henri is tired.’

  ‘Yes, he is. I…I thank you, my lord.’

  ‘Tonight we will lodge in an inn. We shall leave for Beaumont in the morning. Perhaps you may use what is left of the day to see to your wardrobe.’

  Her gaze was steady. ‘Yes, I must not let you down. Nor must I alienate Lady Aude.’ Her mouth edged up at the corner. ‘It is a thin line you would have me tread, my lord.’

  Richard nodded. The wind had teased a long strand of hair out from under her veil. He had to curl his fingers into his fists to stop himself reaching forwards to tuck it back in place. In name only, he reminded himself. This pretence will not be for long.

  Far too aware of Emma’s thigh pressing against his, Richard broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into his soup, a mouthwatering broth, rich with mussels and fish and flavoured with wine. Geoffrey had chosen the inn well. They kept a fine table at the Mermaid, and Richard was ravenous, having spent the evening exercising his animals. He had also hired a mare for Emma to use the next day, since the horse she had ridden from Winchester to Bosham harbour had been returned to the garrison stables. Asa, however, could not ride. Sir Jean had volunteered to have her up behind him, pillion, as they had done on the ride to Bosham.

  Richard turned to Geoffrey, seated on his other side. ‘God willing, the beds here are as good as the soup. After last night’s interruptions, I could do with a full night’s sleep.’

  ‘I tested the mattresses, my lord. They are not feather ones, but they didn’t seem too bad.’

  ‘Not too many lumps?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ Geoffrey said. ‘They don’t smell musty, either. But we will be sleeping in common.’

  ‘That is only to be expected. It is rare indeed is the tavern that can offer its customers private accommodation. We may count ourselves lucky that there is a curtain to screen us off from the living area.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, I know, but I was thinking of your quarters at Winchester Castle and…’

  Richard caught the flash of concern, albeit quickly masked, in his squire’s eyes and turned quickly back to Emma. Geoffrey knew he was having trouble sleeping. Hell. Richard had never had trouble sleeping, not until York.

  Emma’s thigh was warm where it rested against his. After they had disembarked from the ship, he had pressed a purse into Emma’s hand and sent her off in search of new attire with the maid and Sir Jean as her escort. Her skirts were heather coloured this evening rather than the muddy green; she had clearly had some success at the Honfleur market. This gown had a much finer weave; it was good cloth, practical but attractive. The purplish hues made her eyes seem bluer than ever.

  ‘I like this soup.’ Emma sent him one of those irresistible smiles. It made him long to forget his resolution not to make her his mistress. Beside her, Henri was eating with as much relish as his mother. In between mouthfuls, he was slipping pieces of bread under the table to Prince. Richard pretended not to notice.

  ‘You are no longer feeling ill, I see.’

  ‘No, thank goodness. At the time I never thought I would eat again.’

  ‘I am glad you are recovered.’ He glanced at her gown. ‘I see you found the market.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ She reached for her wine.

  Delicately shaped hands, Richard noticed, not for the first time. Hands that surely had not been made for pounding linen from dawn to dusk. Hands that Richard wanted to feel on his skin again, as soon as possible. In name only. Hastily, he called his thoughts to order. But Emma’s mouth was moist from her drink. He wanted to kiss her, to take the taste of Emma mixed with wine onto his tongue. In his dreams perhaps, if he won a little sleep. Richard shook himself and tried to listen to what she was saying.

  ‘We were in luck, my lord, we found two gowns that had been made up for someone who had failed to collect them, and the length was perfect.’

  ‘Two? You will need more than two.’

  ‘We bought fabric also. Enough to make two more gowns and…a cloak. Surely that will be enough?’

  ‘Shoes?’

  ‘No, my lord. I…I…’ She looked away, colour rising.

>   He touched her arm. ‘What?’

  She ducked her head, whispering under her breath, ‘I felt uneasy spending your money. I wanted to give you some back.’

  ‘Emma, listen to me. We have an agreement.’ Until Beaumont, that is. And it is all pretence. But as those blue eyes raised to meet his, Richard realised he was finding it increasingly difficult to remember that. He wanted Emma of Fulford, and every time he looked at her his good intentions seemed to fly out of his head.

  It was a pity he had not found Frida appealing; it had evidently been far too long since he had had a woman. Every time he looked at Emma he wanted her. And she, she was Cecily’s sister…Lord. ‘You must have suitable clothing. Two gowns are not enough.’

  ‘I have the pink one, too, don’t forget that.’

  An image of Emma wearing the pink gown in the tower room at Winchester leaped into his mind. She had been flushed then, with his kisses. ‘How could I forget it?’

  ‘My lord?’

  Richard tore his eyes from her lips. ‘We shall make do with what you have for the moment. We will be passing through Falaise on our way to Beaumont. Perhaps you may find more there. And shoes. The market at Falaise has more to offer than the one here.’

  She set her cup down and fingered her skirts. ‘You don’t like this?’

  ‘It is fine, for travelling. The colour suits you better than—’

  ‘Pond slime?’ She lifted an eyebrow. Her eyes gleamed in the torchlight, and Richard found himself on the receiving end of another of those lethal smiles. Saint Denis, save him.

  The talk drifted on to other matters, from the length of the ride from Honfleur to Falaise to a discussion on the merits of the mare Richard had hired for her. Finally, she noticed Henri drooping over his bowl. ‘My lord, if you will excuse us?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Pallets had been set out on the other side of the fire. Richard remained at table while Emma and Asa led Henri past the looped-back curtain. Emma twisted back her veil as she bent over her son, and Richard allowed his gaze to linger on her shape. It was a fine shape, with a narrow waist and a gentle outwards flare at the hips, all woman. Lady Emma of Fulford could tempt a saint whatever she wore. Uncomfortable, he shifted on the bench. ‘Geoffrey?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘I know you said we are sleeping in common, but are there any screens behind that curtain?’

  Geoffrey frowned. ‘No, my lord. It is set up as a single sleeping chamber.’

  ‘There is not even a division for male and female?’

  ‘I am afraid not, my lord. I am sorry if you do not approve, but I was told the Mermaid provided the best suppers in Honfleur. And despite the bedchamber being open to the rest of the inn, thieves are not thought to work here.’

  ‘It is fine, Geoffrey. Better, perhaps.’ At the far end, the women had found blankets. Emma was tugging off Henri’s shoes and unbuckling his belt. ‘It is reassuring to know they will be within hail.’

  Having to keep awake to watch out for Emma and Henri was in fact the last thing Richard needed, but he probably wouldn’t be doing much sleeping in any case. Merde. What with his recurring nightmare, this newfound lust for Emma of Fulford would be hard to bear if he could not satisfy it.

  ‘Geoffrey?’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘Keep an eye on them for me.’

  Geoffrey’s jaw dropped. ‘That is to take precedence over my duties to you?’

  ‘No, of course not, just watch over them whenever you can. Particularly if I am not close to hand.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘If I have to go out tonight and you need me, it is likely you would find me in the stables.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, I know.’

  Chapter Nine

  It had been some time since Count Richard’s entourage had taken to the pallets behind the sleeping curtain, but Emma lay wide-eyed and restless. The inn blankets were scratchy and she really was not comfortable in a room full of strangers.

  The mattress rustled with her slightest movement. Of course, this was not the first time Emma had slept in common, but the Mermaid was a world away from her father’s mead hall. Emma had grown up at Fulford Hall and she knew everyone. More recently, she had slept in the mill with Gytha and her husband, Edwin, but they were certainly not strangers.

  Even last night in Count Richard’s bedchamber Emma had managed to sleep after she had grown used to the unnerving silence. It had been so peaceful in that lofty tower. Further, she had known without a shadow of doubt that, even if Judhael discovered where she was hiding, there would be no way he would follow her into Winchester Castle bailey, never mind the private chambers of the garrison commander. She had been safe.

  As she was tonight, for Count Richard occupied the pallet next to her. He was asleep. She had seen him put his sword close to hand before covering it with his blanket.

  Emma sighed. Yesterday night she had been in Winchester, in England. Today she had travelled further than most people travelled in their entire lives; she had crossed the Narrow Sea. This was foreign land, this was Normandy. Of course, her mother had been born here. Emma had imagined that she would feel pleasure to see the Duchy, but one thought dominated.

  Judhael. Count Richard’s departure from Winchester—his conroi, the horses, the dogs—could hardly be called covert. Half the town must have witnessed her riding out in his company. Had anyone told Judhael? And Count Richard’s destination was no longer a secret. Might Judhael take it into his head to follow her to Beaumont? Saints. She chewed on a fingernail. Would Judhael be haunting her for the rest of her days?

  Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. Impatiently, she blinked them away. One could feel very alone in a roomful of people—how strange.

  Henri was snug in the pallet on her right, her son, whom she adored. This journey was for him, Emma reminded herself, to keep him safe. And she did have friends in Winchester; perhaps no one would tell Judhael where she had gone. And even if he did follow her, the pursuit must take him some time. Yes, surely she could dismiss him from her mind, for a while…

  A horn lantern hung on a wall hook over her bed. Others were dotted about the sleeping area, warm glowings in the gloom. In the dim light Prince the mongrel was just visible, curled up at Henri’s feet. And beyond Henri, a bump on the pallet beyond. Asa.

  Asa was Saxon. Emma had already begun to like her, and if Count Richard was to be believed, Asa was to be her personal maid, at least for the duration of Emma’s arrangement with him.

  Neither Henri nor Asa were having difficulty sleeping. Logically there was no need for Emma to be worrying, since Richard had ordered that his party occupy the entire corner of the room. Doubtless, he had grouped them together for safety. And, judging by the heavy snoring coming from one of the Saxon mercenaries and one of the knights, their escort did not feel threatened here.

  In short, everyone was perfectly content except her. At that moment, the person on Emma’s left hand flung back his blanket and mumbled in his sleep.

  Well, perhaps not quite everyone….

  Emma did not want to look his way, lest anyone should see. Yes, she felt safe with Richard at her side, but she also felt shame. She was to become his mistress and she did not know how to behave, feeling awkward about the arrangement. He had said nothing to any of their companions about her status, nothing that might embarrass her; nevertheless, it seemed that the role of mistress would take some getting used to. And, while no disparaging remarks had come her way, Emma was continually bracing herself to receive them.

  Count Richard had been the last of their party to take to his bed. Emma had feigned sleep when he had appeared, though she had to admit to being glad it was he who was sleeping next to her and not one of the knights. Hearing another indistinct mutter—was he having a nightmare?—Emma held her breath and listened.

  Movement. It sounded as though he was fighting with his blankets. He groaned and then clearly, some words came to her.

  ‘Hold
! Hold, I say!’

  More muttering, a sharp intake of breath, a muted groan. Silence.

  ‘Merde.’

  The bed ropes groaned; he must be sitting up. Turning her head a fraction, Emma peeped out. Yes, Richard was awake, he was pulling on his boots, putting on his cloak. He was moving away; first came soft footsteps, then a gentle rattle of curtain rings and a rush of cold air.

  Emma bolted upright. What hour was it? Midnight must be long past. Earlier, she had been embarrassed and not a little shamed to find the man who had bought her for his mistress publicly settling down next to her, but with Richard gone, any hope of sleep had apparently fled. She had to admit, she did feel safer with him close by.

  What was he doing?

  Pushing back the itchy blanket, Emma grabbed her boots and cloak and slipped through the curtain in time to see the tail of Richard’s cloak whisk through the door. The latch clicked shut behind him.

  Embers glowed on the hearth. A couple of sailors were slumped over an upturned wine jug, another cast a bleary look in her direction. Taking one of the horn lanterns from its hook, Emma walked briskly to the door.

  The stables—Richard would be looking in on his beloved war-horse.

  Following his broad-shouldered figure across the yard, she saw him lean heavily on the stable door post as he went in. Likely he was still half-asleep.

  Gathering up her skirts to keep them clear of the straw, she followed. Dark. Quiet. The soft harrumph of a horse.

  ‘Lord Richard?’ She lifted the lantern.

  He was standing with his back to her, arms braced against an empty manger. His head was bowed, his dark hair was tousled and he gave no sign that he had heard her. He must have been looking into Roland’s stall; she could see the pale gleam of the big grey’s coat as he shifted from one foot to the other.

  ‘Richard?’

  He raised his head, but he did not seem to see her. His hand was clenched, the knuckles bone-white. Emma’s blood went cold. His eyes were silver in the lamplight, unearthly, and there was no recognition in them, none whatsoever. The two wolfhounds sat motionless at his feet, like stone sentinels.