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Emmeline watched idly as the lighter boat holding Captain Lecherche approached the shore. She narrowed her eyes; the harsh brilliance of the winter sun dancing on the water made it difficult to see clearly, muddling her perspective. Captain Lecherche appeared much larger and broader than normal. But then maybe he’d padded himself out with warm clothes just as she herself had done. Normally he would have stayed until the last of the cargo was off the ship, usually as a safeguard to make sure there was no thievery from his crew. But his men were a trusted bunch, and Emmeline feared that he intended to tell her about some damage or other that needed to be fixed.
Her mouth dropped open as the boat tore up the loose stones at a cracking pace and two large booted feet jumped agilely onto the shingle. Perturbed, she scanned the horizon for another large keel ship, for this man was no Captain Lecherche! He must have come in off another vessel, but there was none to be seen! What on earth had this man been doing on her ship? It was her strict policy to never carry passengers; her captain was well aware of that.
Resisting the temptation to take a few steps back, she gaped as the man ran up the slipway and straight toward her, powerful strides carrying him forward with imposing momentum. He would stop soon, Emmeline thought, determinedly holding her ground. She had the briefest impression of fierce brooding eyes, a harsh aquiline face and hard, slashing brows before his heavy bulk smashed into her slight figure, carrying her several feet away from the edge of the jetty with the weight of his body, knocking her flat to the ground. Behind them, a wine cask crashed to the ground, splitting open with a shuddering violence to soak the wooden planks of the jetty with Gascony wine.
With her nose and mouth pressed into a woollen cloak that smelled of the sea, Emmeline spluttered furiously, trying hard to catch her breath. The vast body above her squeezed the air from her lungs, squashing her limbs into the hard wood of the jetty. With her arms pinned beside her, she had no way of levering this man off her, of pushing him away.
‘Get…off me!’ she managed to struggle out. The crushing weight rolled away with astonishing swiftness. Her bones felt mashed and bruised, her chest sore as she fought to breathe normally. Sitting up, hands shaking, she lifted one hand to rub the back of her head where it had hit the jetty on impact. Soft, silky locks slipped between her fingers. Her hair spilled down from her shoulders, looping traitorously down the front of her cloak. Where was her hood? Her fingers scrabbled for it at the back of her neck in a vain effort to preserve her dignity, but not before a livid blush swept over her face. Pulling the hood back over her head, tucking her hair viciously behind her, she lifted her eyes to meet the intense, mocking blue gaze of the man standing at her feet.
‘Methinks ’tis a little early to ply your trade, madame,’ he remarked drily, his glance immediately condemning. ‘Or is it still the night for you?’
Emmeline closed her eyes in shame.
Chapter Two
‘You have the devil of a nerve, monsieur, to speak to me like that!’ Vexed, she shunted to a sitting position, strands of pale golden hair falling forward from beneath her hood. Raising exasperated eyes to her accuser, she forced herself not to flinch at his overbearing size. He towered above her, this huge bearlike ogre of a man, a day’s growth of beard darkening the lower half of his face, a shock of cropped black hair falling vigorously over his brow. Caught in the stiff breeze, his cloak swirled about him, blocking the sun from her eyes to cast her into gloomy shadow.
Emmeline shivered, suppressing a leap of…what? Was it fear, or some other emotion she couldn’t quite pinpoint? She would not be cowed by this stranger, no matter what his opinion of her; he’s just a man, she reminded herself. After everything Giffard had done to her, hadn’t she learned anything about how to deal with the opposite sex? Have some courage! Her eyes travelled warily from the thick leather of his great sea boots, up the muscled length of his legs to a broad chest encased in a buff-coloured leather jerkin. His vast cloak, rippling out in the breeze, was of a rich blue, a colour denoting him to be a member of the nobility by the sheer expense of the indigo dye. The colour matched the fiery vividness of his eyes, an azure brightness so intense that her heart skipped in shock as her indignant stare locked with his.
‘Pray tell me, how else does one address a whore?’ The dispassionate nature of his voice enraged her, raining down on her head in hollow censure.
With sharp, angry movements, Emmeline began to tuck her wayward hair back into her hood. Her fingers moved over the back of her head; her skull ached. ‘I’m no whore, sire. Surely anyone with a whit of sense can see that!’
The stranger chuckled, a deep, throaty rasp. ‘Then I must have none. In my experience only a whore or an extremely foolish woman would come this early to the dockside with her hair unbound and not ask for trouble. Which one are you?’
‘’Tis none of your business!’
‘It became my business when I pushed you away from the falling wine cask. Count yourself lucky, mam’selle, for another man might not have bothered saving one such as you.’
One such as you. God in Heaven, he really does think that I’m a whore. ‘Then why did you?’ she asked out loud.
He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Instinct, I suppose. No one likes to witness a life lost unnecessarily. You would have been crushed to death. That cask weighs at least six times your body weight.’ He looked down the arrow-straight ridge of his nose at her. ‘Most people would be thanking me by now.’
‘Thank you,’ she chanted, her tone faintly mocking, aware that the cold from the jetty began to seep through her clothes. Collecting her cloak and skirts about her, she pondered on how to rise with dignity, unwilling for this arrogant stranger to witness her disability. If only she had something to pull herself up with! The sooner she could escape this horrible man, the better!
‘Let me help you,’ he offered, grudgingly. She stared at the neatly stitched hide of his gloves, his hand reaching out to her from his great height to where she sat in a miserable puddle of skirts, her inadequate leather slippers and wrinkled stockings on show for everyone to see, and gritted her teeth. ‘I can manage,’ she mumbled, shaking her head at his offer.
‘’Tis your choice.’ The hand withdrew.
Around her, the men of the port had gathered, some concerned, some smirking slightly to see her humiliation. Annoyed, she flicked her skirts back down to cover her ankles, as one of the merchants pushed through to the front of the crowd.
‘Ahh, Mam’selle de Lonnieres, it’s you! A thousand apologies,’ the small man blustered, his fat little hands fluttering nervously before his mottled face. ‘I assure you, I checked the ropes thoroughly!’
‘Not well enough, it seems,’ the tall stranger remarked drily. ‘This woman could have been killed.’ The blue gleam of his eyes assessed the other man scornfully.
The wreckage of the cask lay before her on the edge of the revetment, splayed out in bits like broken bones. The red wine had soaked into the rough timber boards, winking in the sunlight as the gulls wheeled overhead, sensing the drama below, their shrieking calls piercing through her…
‘Mam’selle?’
She scarcely heard the stranger’s voice as a fierce trembling overtook her, the enormity of the incident becoming sickeningly clear. He grunted impatiently, before bending down to lift her up with two broad hands under her armpits.
‘Monsieur!’ she squeaked in surprise, eyes snapping wide as she realised the dangerous proximity of his large thumbs to the sensitive underside of her breasts. A peculiar, fluttering feeling coiled in the pit of her stomach, but she quashed it smartly, retreating hurriedly from his imposing build as soon as he set her on her feet.
‘Let me be!’ She raised a hand up as if to ward him away as he removed his hands abruptly.
‘Have no fear, mam’selle, I have no intention of taking advantage of your “trade”.’ His brilliant blue eyes bore down into hers. ‘I wanted to make sure you were steady.’
Emmeline drew herself up to her full height and found herself looking at the lacing holes of his leather jerkin. Cursing her lack of stature, she tilted her head back, bristling with irritation. ‘Now, look here!’ She wagged her finger bossily at him, intending to put this raven-haired barbarian firmly in his place. ‘You have made a serious misjudgement! Mother of Mary, just look at me! I’m far too old to be…to be that sort of thing!’
The man’s lips twitched, his mouth, wide and generous, softening the raw-boned angles of his upper cheekbones, just visible above the growth of beard. This woman, a woman who scarce reached his shoulder, amused him—nay, intrigued him, despite the fact that she should be clapped in irons for her outspokenness. His hooded eyes snapped over her, standing straight and proud and defiant before him. With her stunning pale gold hair now hidden by the all-enveloping cloak, her clear green eyes sparkled like brilliant jewels set in the creamy alabaster of her face. Her skin bloomed with a lucid suppleness that for some odd reason he itched to caress. Beneath the billowing folds of her cloak, he already knew the delicious svelteness of her figure; his hands held the memory of the narrowness of her rib-cage, the lightness of her frame as he had lifted her.
He shook his head slightly. ‘’Tis not apparent to me, mam’selle.’ His voice, low and melodious, curled seductively around her. ‘You certainly have the face and body to pleasure a man.’ His insulting words dropped like blows, ripping through her to shatter her precarious control. Shuddering, she took a hesitant step back, cheeks flaming.
‘You go too far, monsieur! Your words bring shame on you!’
The stranger’s expression remained unconcerned. This virago’s performance afforded a pleasing diversion after the arduous sea crossing, a veritable feast of feisty womanhood. Idly, he wondered how far he could push her before her temper burst, but he quashed the impulse rapidly.
‘Well, monsieur? What have you got to say for yourself?’
She treated him as if he were a child, refusing to bestow him the proper respect that his nobility required—nay, demanded. She obviously had no idea of who he was, or what he represented.
‘Are you always so ill-tempered?’
Her fingers bunched to fists at her sides; he wanted to laugh. Did she really think she was going to take him on? He raised one eyebrow in derisive surprise. Catching the gesture, she grimaced, then relaxed her fingers. He faced her impassively. Experience had taught him to be wary of women; simpering manners and cunning ways often obscured their true natures, yet this little maid was no whore. Her reaction to his offensive words had been evidence enough: the heat of her blood suffusing her face in embarrassment, a pink wash imbuing the fresh delicacy of her skin.
‘Emmeline, Emmeline, what on earth has happened?’ Geoffrey appeared at her side, red-faced and out of breath. ‘I heard the crash from inside the warehouse…oh, Lord Talvas, I bid you good morning.’ To Emmeline’s great surprise, Geoffrey swept off his hat and swung a deep bow toward the stranger.
‘Geoffrey, do you know this man?’ Emmeline demanded imperiously.
Geoffrey smiled. ‘Of course, we shared the journey over from England.’
‘On my ship?’ Emmeline responded scathingly.
‘On your ship?’ The stranger quirked an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you mean your father’s ship? Or your husband’s?’
‘Nay, I mean my ship. My ship that takes no extra passengers. How did you persuade Captain Lecherche—?’
‘Emmeline!’ Geoffrey’s normally amiable voice held a warning as he pawed at her sleeve. ‘Forgive me, sire, I had not thought to introduce you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Lord Talvas of Boulogne, may I present Emmeline, Mademoiselle de Lonnieres, the owner of La Belle Saumur.’
‘Enchanté,’ Lord Talvas murmured indifferently as he removed his gloves, his warm, strong fingers enclosing her own cold ones as he bowed low over her hand. He didn’t appear to be enchanted. As she watched his head come nearer, a lock of raven hair falling over his brow, she resisted the urge to pull away, instead clenching her teeth against the awkward situation. He lifted his head to meet her agitated perusal.
‘You should have told me who you were, mam’selle,’ he growled softly, trying to conceal his surprise. It was a rare event indeed to find a woman in charge of her own income.
‘You gave me no chance, jumping to your own conclusions.’ Her chest constricted unexpectedly as she stared into the exhilarating blue depths of his eyes, conscious of the firm pressure of his fingers on her own. She wrenched her hand away, dropping her gaze abruptly.
Geoffrey frowned, sensing the animosity between the couple, but unsure as to the cause of it. ‘Lord Talvas’s mother is the King’s sister-in-law, Emmeline. He has just returned from visiting his lands in England.’ Geoffrey laid heavy emphasis on the words.
‘And why have you returned?’ Emmeline made little attempt to keep the rudeness from her voice, despite Geoffrey’s desperate reference to King Henry I. She refused to be bowed by this man’s superior status; there was such a thing as good manners and she still rankled from his insulting treatment of her.
‘Emmeline, a word.’ Geoffrey jerked her away from Lord Talvas. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me aright. Lord Talvas’s own sister is married to Stephen de Blois, grandson of William the Conqueror. He is as good as royalty. You would do well to show the proper respect.’
‘Respect!’ she hissed. ‘This man has no knowledge of the word! He believed me to be a dockside whore—’
‘Much as I’d like to stand about all day exchanging pleasantries,’ Lord Talvas cut across their whispered exchange, ‘I must bid you adieu. My horses have arrived.’
Lifting their hooves between the bulky hessian sacks and weaving a path around the towering wine casks, a pair of glossy chestnut mares picked their way across the crowded quay, led by a tall, blond-haired man. He dropped the reins abruptly when he recognised Lord Talvas, his clean-shaven face breaking into a wide grin.
‘My lord! I’m mighty pleased to see you, sire. Praise be to God that you are safely returned.’ With the broad flat of his palm, he slapped Lord Talvas heartily on the back.
‘I’m glad to see you, as well, Guillame. Grab those horses’ reins before they wander off!’ Talvas returned the back slap; a friendly, intimate gesture that surprised Emmeline. ‘How did you know I would be here?’
Looping the reins over one hand, Guillame replied. ‘I knew you would come into either Boulogne or Barfleur. Your father’s men wait in Boulogne, so I took the liberty of securing lodgings in this town. I’ve been down every morning for the past two weeks, awaiting your arrival.’
‘Every day?’ Emmeline blurted out, astonished at the squire’s loyalty to his master. She realised now that she recognised his smiling face, for she had seen him, too…every morning…‘But you didn’t come on your own ship, did you, my lord?’ She turned petulantly to Lord Talvas. ‘You came aboard mine.’ Placing her hands on her hips, she waited for an explanation.
‘My ship was damaged in the journey across to England. I had to leave her there for repairs. I was fortunate to meet with Captain Lecherche, who offered me passage on La Belle Saumur.’ His eyes glinted down at Emmeline’s tight-lipped expression, languorously tracing the well-defined bow of her lips as he awaited her inevitable verbal challenge.
‘Against his better judgement,’ Emmeline replied, churlishly. ‘He knows not to take passengers.’
‘He made sure I paid handsomely for his kindness. You have done well out of my misfortune, mistress.’
‘It’s not the gold—you could have been anyone…a pirate, a brigand. You could have stolen the ship.’ She knew her argument to be petty; in truth, she welcomed any extra income. The debts from Giffard’s gross mismanagement of the business still needed to be paid off and she and her mother needed to eat.
He grinned wickedly in the weak sunlight, his white teeth gleaming against the black shadow of his beard. ‘Ah, but I am not anyone, mistress. I am Talvas of Boulogne and no stranger to your captain.’ The deep sea of his eyes linked with her dark-fringed orbs; her heart somersaulted. Nay, he was not anyone; he was someone, someone of whom she had to be careful. Upon the stars! She folded her arms defensively across her chest, as, unnerved by her reaction to this man, the confidence spilled from her.
‘After a few days of waiting, I realised something must have happened to your ship,’ Guillame explained, ‘so I asked all the shipowners who still expected vessels back from England. None of them did, apart from Mam’selle de Lonnieres.’ That was it! She remembered him from a few days back, asking questions.
‘Then Fortune smiled on me that day,’ Lord Talvas said, amused by Emmeline’s scowl. Obviously the maid held more concern for the fate of her ship than common courtesy toward strangers. Impudent imp! ‘I was lucky to find a ship sailing back so late in the season.’ He turned back to Guillame. ‘Do they expect us?’
‘Tomorrow, sire. I have good lodgings in the town for tonight.’ Guillame steadied the horses as a screaming bunch of seagulls flew close, pushing his broad body up against one shining flank in an effort to keep the animals in one place, and lowered his voice. ‘My lord, something has happened, but I don’t know what. The Empress announced yesterday that she needs to reach England as quickly as possible. She needs to find a ship to take her across.’
Talvas’s expression turned immediately to one of alert suspicion, frowning at Emmeline and Geoffrey. ‘I’m sure she’ll enlighten me tomorrow,’ he murmured, throwing a guarded, careful look at Guillame, silently warning him not to speak further as he strode to the nearest horse and stuck his toe in the iron stirrup. Swinging himself up on to the animal’s back, he drew back on the reins as the horse skittered under his weight. The folds of his cloak spread over its shining rump as he looked down at Emmeline, before clapping his battered, water-stained hat to his head. ‘Mam’selle, I bid you adieu. It’s been a pleasure, but one I’d care not to repeat.’ He swung away through the bustling crowd, Guillame following closely.
‘My sentiments exactly,’ Emmeline muttered to his broad back.
‘You would not believe it, maman. The rudest, most boorish man I ever had the chance to meet!’ Emmeline fidgeted on the stool, her limbs still icy cold from her experience on the dockside. She felt shaken, unnerved by her experience, annoyed that Lord Talvas had effectively sabotaged her foolish notion that she could deal with any man. Her fingers, still numb from the cold, fumbled for the jade amulet that hung from her neck. To hold the precious stone within the palm of her hand steadied her, reminded her of her father and his wise words. Occasionally, Anselm Duhamel would accompany one of his own ships on a trading voyage; on returning from the Baltic, he had presented her with the necklace. Not long after, the ship he travelled on went down, with all souls lost, just before her fifteenth birthday. Emmeline missed his gentle presence with a keenness she would not often admit, but knew he would have been proud of the way she kept his ships afloat. She tucked the amulet back into the neckline of her pale green bliaut.
‘Keep still, child, or your hair will end up in a worse tangle,’ her mother admonished. Felice Duhamel attacked her daughter’s long coils of hair with vigorous swipes of the ivory comb. ‘What did you say the man’s name was?’
Emmeline’s slender fingers reached for the earthenware cup of spiced cider that steamed gently on an adjacent table. The puffs of heat rising from the surface bathed the icy skin of her face. Tentatively, she took a sip, wondering whether the dark liquid would burn her lips. The delicious, apple-smelling juice curled down her throat, an elixir, a soothing balm to her rattled senses.
‘Emmeline?’
‘He says his name is Lord Talvas of Boulogne. I’ve never heard of him, but Geoffrey seems to think I should have.’
The comb stilled.
‘Maman?’ Emmeline twisted round in her seat, trying to see her mother’s face in the dim light of their cottage. Outside, the bright sunshine had been obscured by low cloud; rain seemed imminent.
‘God in Heaven, Emmeline, what did you say to him? Lord Talvas is kin to royalty…you know his brother-in-law—’
‘I know all that, maman.’ Emmeline dismissed her mother’s words with a waggle of her fingers. ‘I know that he is nephew by marriage to Henry, King of England and Duke of Normandy—’
‘—and could have you slung in prison for insubordination.’
Setting her cup with studied deliberation on the scrubbed oak table, Emmeline rose swiftly, wrenching at the comb that had become snarled in her locks. Her eyes flashed an angry green at her unsettling memory of that odious man as she faced her mother. Her swift movement unbalanced her, jarring her weak ankle and causing her to grab the edge of the well-worn kitchen table in an effort to steady herself.
‘All I know, Mother, is that he mistook me for…for a woman of the night…’ There! She had said it.
Her mother viewed her in horror, mouth slack with disbelief. ‘Oh, Emmeline, daughter!’ Felice moved to clasp her daughter’s rigid hands. ‘What have you done? God in Heaven, this is all my fault, I should never let you leave the house with your hair unbound!’
Emmeline bit her lip, eyeing her mother’s pale face. She hated seeing her mother so upset, especially on her account. Felice had suffered greatly at the loss of her husband, spending long days just lying on her pallet, weeping. Emmeline’s instinct was always to protect her mother’s feelings, to guard her from reality, and now she moved away from the table to kneel on the flagstone floor, stilling her mother’s fluttering hands by clasping them within her own. ‘Don’t fret, Mother. He’ll have forgotten I even exist by now. Besides, it was all sorted by the time we parted. Geoffrey did most of the talking, smoothed things over. It’s not likely I will ever see the man again.’ She shook her hands free of her mother’s light grip and gave her a wide hug. ‘Why not continue with my hair?’ She handed the comb back to Felice and resumed her seat before the fire.
Felice eyed her daughter warily, hesitating a moment before resuming her measured combing. With a thudding anxiety, she recognised the mute, shuttered look on Emmeline’s face; her daughter would give her no further details on the matter. It was the same expression Felice received when she asked her daughter about her marriage to Giffard de Lonnieres; she would learn nothing of that relationship, of that she was certain. To this day, Felice was certain she had made the right decision in marrying Emmeline to Giffard—he, a rich merchant, had offered for Emmeline two years after Anselm’s death. Felice had supposed her daughter to be happy in the marriage; she saw her daughter often as Giffard lived in Barfleur when he was not away on a trading voyage. But when Giffard had died in a hunting accident, Emmeline had seemed strangely unmoved.
After plaiting her daughter’s hair into two long, fat braids that shone like golden ropes down her slender back, Felice reached into the wicker basket to draw out a heavy linen veil, anchoring it to her daughter’s head with a circlet of gold filigree. Concentrating, with pursed lips, she secured the fabric further with jewelled pins. Felice would make certain that her daughter’s hair would never be seen in public again. Oh, the shame of it!
‘Geoffrey also brought a message from Sylvie,’ Emmeline ventured after a while, the sweet melody of her voice breaking the amiable silence that had fallen between them. She withdrew the crackling parchment from her embroidered pouch. The rain pattered softly on the taut hides stretched over the window apertures; inside the cottage the light dimmed, evidence of the thick cloud that had gathered outside.
Felice pursed her lips. ‘What does she say?’ she asked reluctantly. She had never forgiven her elder daughter for abandoning her child.
‘Matters are not good in England, maman. I would go to her.’
‘Why would you want to do that? Sylvie made her choice when she left Barfleur with…that man. When she left her baby.’ Felice leaned over to stab the fire violently with an iron poker. A shower of sparks rose up the thick stone chimney, making the flames leap around the cauldron of hot water suspended over the burning wood. The yeasty smell of bread baking in the side oven began to permeate the room.
Setting her cup back on the table, Emmeline turned to look at her mother, her green eyes shining out of her pale, heart-shaped face. ‘Because she is our kith and kin? Because we have a duty to look out for her, to care for her, despite what she did?’
‘You have a kind heart, daughter,’ Felice replied, her expression bleak, ‘but when I remember what happened…’ she shook her head ‘…I find it hard to forgive her.’
‘She had no idea Rose was ill when she left—how could she? It was not her fault.’
Felice nodded abruptly before turning to lift a warm, crusty round of bread from the oven. Emmeline’s stomach growled; she had been awake since first light, searching the white mist from her chamber window.
‘But how can you go, Emmeline?’ Felice raised her head suddenly as she cut thick pieces from the loaf. ‘How can you sail the ship for no return? No one will give you coin for a visit to your sister! We cannot afford it.’
‘I have an idea, Mother,’ Emmeline replied enigmatically, chewing a hunk of bread. Her interest had been caught by the chance remark made by Lord Talvas’s man on the quayside. ‘I have an inkling that the Empress Maud has need of a passage to England.’
Felice let out a small shriek and clutched the windowsill. As the only daughter of King Henry I, the Empress Maud had a fearsome reputation, with a temper to match.
‘Emmeline, you mustn’t meddle with the likes of her…Why would she travel at this time of year…who knows what will happen?’
Emmeline shrugged. ‘Nothing will happen, Mother. I have no need to know why she wants to journey to England. All I know is that she’ll pay handsomely for the privilege of crossing the Channel, as long as I can find a willing crew and captain.’ She knew without asking that Captain Lecherche would sail no more this year; he believed the weather to be too unpredictable, the currents too dangerous. But there were many others she could ask. With luck she could visit Sylvie within the week.
‘On the morrow, I will travel to Torigny,’ she uttered, her mouth full of crumbs.
Chapter Three
The Empress Maud sat on a low stool at the bedside of her father, King Henry I. She leaned across the furs piled high on the bed to take one of his pale, dry hands within her own, shaking her head.
