Sighing, since he was obviously declaring the subject off-limits, Emma took the cloth from him and went to work. It was pleasant work, very pleasant, and infinitely preferable to scrubbing linens in the Itchen, she thought, as she soaped and scrubbed and rinsed. His skin gleamed in the candle-light. Lightly she touched the scar on his shoulder, where there was a slight depression, a reddish mark. ‘It is healing well.’
‘Mmm.’
Shaking her head, Emma began kneading his neck. Richard let out a sigh that was part groan and she could feel the tension that had lodged in his muscles begin to ease. His skin was surprisingly soft. She was careful to avoid the wound. Men. They thought themselves invincible with their strong bodies. They armed themselves to the teeth and clattered about in their armour, banging their shields together, riding their great horses. None of them facing the fact that underneath it all there was this, warm, soft flesh. Beautiful flesh and muscle which, while it was wholly male, remained vulnerable—male flesh could be hurt as much as it could do hurt. Men.
‘I am hoping that you might be able to avert conflict in Beaumont,’ she spoke softly.
‘Hmm?’ His voice was warm, having lost its sharp edge. He leaned forwards with his eyes closed to give her better access. ‘Do not stop. That is…Yes, there.’
He was relaxing, perhaps for the first time in weeks. Emma decided not to pester him with questions. The man needed this—he was barely able to conceal his fatigue. Surely the tension he had been hiding could not have been wound any tighter?
Richard might be Count of Beaumont, but positions of high honour brought with them heavy burdens—Emma’s father had taught her that. And this man, she was fast learning, did not take his responsibilities lightly.
‘There, my lord.’
He caught her hand and pressed a kiss on it. ‘My thanks.’
Emma retreated. Picking up her clothes, she hung her gown on a hook and took up her undershift.
‘I trust you are not about to put that thing back on?’
She hesitated. ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘I most certainly do not.’ When he stood a shower of water droplets arced across the room, gleaming like jewels. Briskly, he began drying himself.
Flinging her underskirt over the hook, Emma sank on to the mattress, the drying cloth wrapped firmly around her.
‘And…’ he grinned as he tossed the cloth down and advanced upon her ‘…I do hope I am not going to have to seduce that cloth off you.’
With a squeak, she backed into the middle of the bed.
Large fingers curled round her neck, his thumb pushed her chin up. ‘Emma, look at me.’
Emma looked. His thumb was moving up and down her cheek, pulling on her lower lip. His eyes were soft, dark and fathomless.
‘Emma,’ he murmured, as his lips met hers.
It was a sweet kiss, the sweetest she had received in her life. It curled her toes and created a pool of longing in her belly; it made her groan with longing. She reached for him.
They shifted and moved closer, side by side on the big bed. And somehow the cloth was gone from her body and the bedcovers were pushed back. There was nothing in the world but his mouth on hers. His hands were at her breasts, stroking and teasing. Emma arched upwards, Richard giving a guttural murmur of approval and then his mouth replaced his hands and his hands moved on. Lower, across her belly, back up again. Lightly, he touched her face, her cheeks. His fingers tangled in her hair.
He lifted his head, a blonde skein curled round his fingers. ‘It is still damp.’
‘Yes.’
A tiny crease appeared in his brow as, carefully, he spread her hair across the pillows. ‘We ought to dry it, to comb it,’ he said.
That ‘we’ pleased her more than it should. Though she knew she was deluding herself, it seemed to speak of tenderness. Tenderness? In a man who had taken her as his mistress? Tenderness was not a male quality. Emma must not let her desires run away with her; men were no more tender with women than they were careful with their own bodies. Her father had never been tender, and as for Judhael…
‘My hair will be fine.’ She understood what he really wanted.
Reaching out, she drew his mouth back to hers.
In the morning Henri was not in his room when Emma went to find him, nor was he in the hall.
Several long trestle tables were up from breakfast and a battalion of servants was clearing the leftovers. Asa was at one of the benches, biting into a slice of bread, gazing soulfully at a group of knights in animated discussion over a weapon stack. Of course, Sir Jean was among them. Soldiers were drilling in the bailey, someone barked an order, feet tramped. There was a pause, a hoarse shout. More tramping.
‘Asa, if I might have your attention a moment?’
Asa dragged her attention from Sir Jean. ‘My lady?’
‘Where is Henri?’
‘Henri?’ Gulping down her bread, Asa looked blankly at her.
Emma clenched her teeth. The girl looked as though she had not the first idea who Henri was. ‘Asa…’
Asa roused herself. ‘Henri? Heavens, has he gone again? Slippery as an eel, that boy.’
A ball of anxiety formed in Emma’s stomach, a fingernail tapped edgily on the tabletop. ‘Asa, when you are caring for him, you must watch him at all times.’
Asa scrambled to her feet. ‘Yes, my lady. I’m sorry, my lady.’
People were staring. Servants laden with platters and trays were looking her way. A guard lounged by the main doorway, picking his nose, eyes fixed on her. Someone must have spoken to them about her. Lifting her chin, Emma made a point of meeting the guard’s glance. At once he straightened and gave her a smile. There was no insolence in his demeanour, nor, as far as Emma could judge in any of the servants. Some of her anxiety melted away.
A maidservant appeared, gesturing politely at a trestle. ‘You would eat, my lady? I will fetch you warm bread.’
‘In a moment, I thank you. But first I must find my son.’
‘The little boy called Henri?’
‘Yes.’
‘There he is.’ The maid pointed at a woman coming in from the bailey. A lady by her dress and veil, she walked with slow dignity, blue skirts trailing, fine white veil seeming to shimmer with each step. Her circlet had the yellow gleam of gold. The guard bowed his head as she passed.
Henri had fast hold of one of the lady’s hands and in the other he was holding what appeared to be a toy boat. A deadly hush fell on the hall.
Emma went cold. ‘Asa, who is that lady?’ She strongly suspected she knew the answer, but she had to ask.
She was utterly beautiful. She had pale white skin, shining russet hair and full lips, but one glance told Emma that the core of this woman’s beauty resided in her person rather than her features. She was poised in her carriage, and smiling, but nevertheless she brought an indefinable air of sadness with her into the keep. She drew all eyes.
‘Why, that is Lady Aude.’
Chapter Thirteen
Lady Aude! Mouth dry, Emma managed a curtsy and forced herself to cross the rushes and greet her. Her heart slammed in her ears. Would Lady Aude acknowledge her?
‘Lady Aude de Crèvecoeur, I understand?’ Emma held her hand out to Henri, who skipped over and took it.
‘Yes. And you must be Lady Emma of Fulford. Welcome to Beaumont.’
Lady Aude’s eyes were arresting, with the glow and colour of amber. ‘I thank you. I hope Henri has not been making a nuisance of himself.’
‘On the contrary, Lord Richard finds him most diverting. But since the men have started their drill, he thought it best that Henri was returned to his nursemaid.’
‘Henri has been with Count Richard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mama, look! Count Rich gave me this.’ Grinning, blessedly oblivious of any undercurrents, Henri offered the boat up for Emma’s inspection. It was large and finely detailed, a world apart from the crude stick that had sailed out of reach on th
e Itchen.
‘That’s lovely, sweetheart. I like the blue-and-yellow sails.’
‘Yes!’
Lady Aude was watching them, a pensive smile on her lips. ‘Your son has made quite an impression on Lord Richard. In the midst of mustering the local knights and soldiers, he found time to have that boat made.’
Emma clung to Henri as though he were her lifeline. Lady Aude de Crèvecoeur bowed her head and drifted slowly away amid a flutter of silk.
This was Ugly Aude? This beautiful, sad, sympathetic woman? In any other circumstances, they might have been friends. But with matters as they stood…Lady Aude was right, careful politeness was probably the only course open to them. Emma would, naturally, follow her lead. But poor woman, to be grieving for one man, while another was suing for her hand in marriage.
But…ugly? Anyone less ugly, Emma could not imagine. Those eyes, that hair…
Emma had decided to spend the day exploring Beaumont Castle, subtly testing the servants in their attitude towards her. So far she had encountered no animosity anywhere, for which she suspected she had Richard to thank. She felt a rush of affection for him, an overburdened count who took time to ensure that both she and Henri were made welcome. She frowned. Affection? This must stop. Her feelings for him could not be allowed to grow; she was already indecently fond of him, and he wasn’t even Henri’s father.
The girl who had approached her in the hall was named Lisa, and Lisa was happy to show Emma everything from the watchpoints at the top of the highest tower, to the peculiar stone chimney in the hall that she had noted on her arrival. She was even shown the cellars and found herself gazing at row upon row of casked wine, of salt beef, of cheese…
All of this was, of course, Lady Aude’s domain. Lady Aude had been chatelaine at Beaumont for most of the time since her betrothal to Richard’s cousin. Emma had no intention of treading on any toes, but if she was going to remain here, she needed to find something with which she could occupy herself. Merely being Richard’s mistress would not be enough. Life here was going to be a challenge.
In the evening, none the wiser for what she might find to do in a castle that was well regimented from turret to cellar, Emma and Henri returned to the hall where the boards were being set for supper. Lisa vanished into the cookhouse.
Catching sight of Richard’s squire talking with others by the fireplace, Emma called him over. This was so awkward. ‘Geoffrey?’
‘Lady Emma?’
‘Please would you ask someone to bring me food up on a tray?’ It was one thing to exchange a few civilised words with Richard’s fiancée, but quite another to sit at her table and break bread with her. Meals taken in halls were such public affairs. No woman, not even one with as saintly an aspect as Lady Aude, would find that easy to stomach.
‘Of course, my lady.’
Emma ate with Henri in his narrow room and sat with him until he fell asleep. Then, prising the boat from his fingers lest he poke himself in the eye with the mast in his sleep, she left the door ajar and went upstairs.
The upper bedchamber was full of shadows, but it was not yet dark enough to merit a candle. The blackbird was singing his evening song, a trio of notes followed by a trill. It floated through the window, over and over.
Geoffrey had told her that messengers had arrived from Count Edouard, so it was likely that Richard would be late retiring. Sinking on to the bed, Emma took time to absorb her surroundings properly as she had not done last night.
Her few possessions had been stowed in a storage chest that Geoffrey had indicated was exclusively for her use. This evening, Richard’s lute, still unstrung, hung on a hook on the wall above it; and a discarded helmet lay next to the wrapped sword propped in the corner. The helmet had the most alarming dent in it.
Her gaze skimmed over the ewer and jug on one of Richard’s large travelling chests, over the crimson pennons on the wall. She yawned and wandered to the ewer to wash.
The stiffness of the journey had not yet left her. When her father had been Thane of Fulford, Emma had thought nothing of day-long rides across the downs. But since she had been living in Winchester, her body had had to become used to a different sort of exercise. Washing linen was back-breaking work, but it did not use the same muscles as riding. Her legs…Saints.
Drying her face on a linen cloth, Emma removed her clothing, save for her undershift and crept under the covers.
A clunk woke her. Soft light filled the room. ‘Richard?’
He was standing by the window—it must have been the closing of the shutter that had woken her. The lamp on the bedside coffer was alight, a round glow that pushed back the dark.
‘I am sorry if I disturbed you.’ Crossing the room, he came to look down at her before turning away to undress. His belt fell to the floor. His tunic, shirt…
‘The Count of Beaumont needs his squire, I see,’ Emma said, raising a brow at his untidiness.
‘Hmm? Oh, yes.’ Smiling, he bent over the ewer. Water splashed. ‘You could oblige.’
‘I do not think so.’ Emma pulled the bedclothes up around her chin. ‘It is too cosy in here. I am not used to such a fine mattress and now I’ve got in I may never want to get out.’ Too late did she realise the possible interpretation he might place on her words. Biting her lip, she focused on his crimson pennon.
Rustling. The mattress sagged and a warm arm snaked round her waist.
‘Richard?’
‘Mmm?’ Gently, he bit her shoulder. Guilty pleasure shimmered through her. ‘Why are you wearing this thing?’ His hand slid down to the hem of her nightshirt.
More pleasure. Setting her mind against it, Emma pushed his hand away. Startled grey eyes met hers; he was not used to being rejected. ‘Richard, there is something I must say.’
Strong fingers resumed their slow tracking down her thigh.
She caught his wrist. ‘It concerns Lady Aude.’
Sighing, he drew back and rested his head on his hands. ‘I heard that you met her.’
‘Yes.’ Emma leaned up on an elbow. ‘But, Richard, you told me she was ugly. How can you call her ugly? That woman would put Venus in the shade!’
Those broad shoulders rose in a careless shrug. ‘I am not drawn to her. She always did belong to Martin.’
‘Richard, I think you should let me find my relatives. Aude de Crèvecoeur seems a kind woman. I do not want—’
‘No.’ His lips tightened. ‘You are mine. I have battled with my conscience to keep you and I will not give you up.’
Sitting up, he waved at the coffer that had been set aside for her use. Emma saw that a pouch had been placed on the closed coffer lid, a fat pouch, doubtless bulging with coin. Anger began to simmer inside her, an anger that was only partly tempered when she read confusion and hurt in his eyes.
‘That came out badly,’ he admitted. ‘I meant to give it to you as a gift, but there is more if you wish. You may go to the market in the village tomorrow, I am told that a pedlar from Paris—’
‘Richard, it is no good. I thought I could do this, but I cannot. Lady Aude…if you marry her and keep me under her nose…’ she shook her head ‘…it is not right.’
His mouth thinned. ‘You were happy enough to throw yourself at me in Winchester. You were practically selling yourself—’
‘Give me strength! The only person around here who is selling himself is you!’ His jaw dropped. ‘Yes, you, Richard! You are marrying a fine woman, but she does not attract you. You do not love her, either, do you?’
‘Love?’ A cynical laugh gave her an answer.
‘I thought not. You are probably incapable of love. So explain, if you please, why are you marrying her?’
‘It is politics, Emma, you would not—’
‘I would not understand? How dare you say that to me! Politics such as yours robbed me of my father and brother. And, indirectly, of my mother, too.’
His chest heaved. ‘Believe me, I am sorry for that.’
Emma’s anger was a
t boiling point. ‘Politics! It drives men to…to…’ She glared at the crimson pennons. ‘Were those fluttering at Hastings, Richard?’
The grey eyes became distant.
‘Tell me, I want to know! Were they flying in the vanguard when the nobility of England was mown down like so much grass? I see why you chose that colour, lord knows why it didn’t occur to me before. A crimson field, indeed! It is a field of blood, is it not?’
A large hand reached out; she batted it away. ‘Our family chose that colour long before the Great Battle,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘Emma you should rest, you are overwrought.’
‘Let me finish. You, my lord Richard, are marrying Lady Aude for gain. You need her brother’s support and what is that but a gain? You are selling yourself. But I—’ Anger almost choked her. ‘Yes, I bedded you, and, yes, I took your purse at Honfleur, and, yes, I will probably take that purse tomorrow and it most certainly isn’t because of your good looks.
‘I chose you, Richard! I picked you out in Winchester long before I came to the castle in search of work. At first I picked you out because I…’ she swallowed ‘…I admit it freely, I was drawn to you. But the reason I actually approached you was because Henri and I needed help and you were best placed to give it. The only difference between you and me, Richard, is that I know what I have done, whereas you…you are deluding yourself. You don’t love Aude de Crèvecoeur. She doesn’t love you. And it is worse than that. When I looked into that woman’s eyes today, I saw someone who longs to be released from her obligations here. That woman is in a prison, Richard, and it is called grief. I suspect she loved your cousin. Yes, theirs was to have been a political alliance, but love was there, love. And you, my lord, do not have the slightest notion of what love is!’
Drawing a shaky breath, Emma glared at him, half-braced to ward off a blow. Judhael would certainly not have hesitated after such an outburst. Several heartbeats later, she realised the blow was not going to come.
Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord Page 17