Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord

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‘The woman’s a whore! Hell, my lady, Ju—he will kill you when he finds you.’ Again, the harsh features appeared to soften; his voice became gentle. ‘He wants you back, my lady. It has become an obsession with him.’

‘Let me pass.’ Emma’s mouth was dry, for she feared Azor spoke the truth. Judhael might well kill her. It was a struggle to keep her expression calm, when every nerve was shrieking at her to pick up her skirts and dash upstairs to check on Henri. She must know that that he was safe. Azor might have found me, but please, God, let him not learn about Henri.

‘My lady, there is no need to look at me like that. You must not fear me, I came to warn you—’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ Hélène broke in. She had found a wooden cup and was filling it with wine from one of the barrels. As she approached, trying—bless her—to draw Azor’s attention, Emma willed her friend not to mention Henri. ‘You are new to the Staple, are you not? Please accept a cup of our best red. It is come in a recent shipment from Aquitaine in the land of the Franks.’ She lowered her voice. ‘King Harold himself never drank better.’

Azor looked doubtfully at the wine and more narrowly at Hélène. ‘He drank Frankish wine?’

Hélène smiled. ‘Indeed he did.’

‘But I didn’t order it.’

‘Take it, sir, with my compliments, as a welcome to the Staple.’

‘Waes hael.’ Mouthing the traditional Saxon toast, Azor grudgingly nodded his thanks, but his eyes never left Emma’s and she knew he had not finished with her.

Nevertheless, she made to push past him, not trusting him an inch. ‘Excuse me, if you please.’

Someone threw a log on to the fire and sent up a shower of sparks as the door opened to admit two men. The fire flared.

Silence gripped the room. Squinting past Azor’s shoulder, Emma tried to see what everyone was looking at, but Marie was moving between the tables, blocking her vision.

Emma was not the only person to notice the silence; Azor turned to look, too. ‘Swithun save us!’ Thrusting the cup at her, he ducked deeper into his hood.

Sir Richard of Asculf, garrison commander, paused in the doorway as a trio of troopers jumped to their feet and saluted sheepishly.

Richard had heard of this place—what man in the garrison had not? The prettiest girls in Wessex worked here. Richard was not averse to the idea of using their services—he would hardly have sent for Frida if that had been the case, but this was the first time he had stepped inside the Staple himself. His subordinates needed somewhere where they could be at ease, somewhere where they were not under the eye of their commander. By unwritten law, this was their territory, not his.

If the women here nursed a hatred for Norman soldiers they hid it well, or so he had been told. Saxon tavern wenches who had learned to smile at Norman soldiers.

A swift glance around found Richard surprised. Many of his men were there, of course, sprawled across benches, leaning on tables, sitting with girls on their laps. But overall, the Staple was more orderly than he had expected. The tables, though busy with cups and plates and half-eaten suppers, had a clean, scrubbed look to them; the fire was well built and spare logs and kindling were stacked safely to one side. A mouthwatering smell of beef stew reminded Richard that not only was he hungry, but that the Staple’s reputation did not rest entirely on the beauty of the servings girls. The madame apparently ran a kitchen fit for a king.

Irritably, Richard addressed the room in general. ‘At ease. Mon Dieu, you’re all off duty!’ As conversation resumed, he turned to Geoffrey. ‘You are certain you saw Emma of Fulford in here? I thought I told you to help her find work at the castle.’

Geoffrey bit his lip. ‘Yes, sir. I left her with the steward, as you said.’

Richard frowned. ‘Left her? You are saying you didn’t make certain she was given work?’

‘N-not exactly, sir.’ Geoffrey shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I told the steward what you had said and…and—’

‘You went away.’

Geoffrey stared at the floor. ‘I…I am sorry, sir.’

‘That was ill done, Geoffrey, very ill done. Do you even know if she was given work?’

‘No, sir. I am sorry.’

Sighing, Richard dragged off his gloves and held his hands towards the fire. Behind them, the door slammed, candle flames bent in the draught.

Richard acknowledged one of his soldiers with a smile. Belatedly realising who had joined them, a lanky sergeant hastily pushed a girl from his lap. ‘At ease, soldier, you’ve earned a little relaxation,’ Richard repeated. He scowled at his squire. ‘You had better be right.’

‘I am, sir. Look, there at the far end.’

Merde. The lad was right, though Richard could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was Lady Emma of Fulford, flanked on the one side by a huge wine keg, and on the other by Hélène, the madame of the Staple. Emma had been talking to a Saxon giant of a man. Negotiating a price for her favours? Lord.

Oblivious of everyone but Lady Emma—this was Cecily’s sister, her sister and Cecily and Adam would never forgive him if he let her continue on this course—Richard marched towards her. The Saxon giant vanished behind an oak post. Richard paid him no heed. ‘Lady Emma.’

She gave him a hasty curtsy. ‘Sir Richard!’

Taking in her finery, particularly the way the front of her pink gown gaped to reveal far more than it should, Richard’s gaze sharpened. ‘What in hell are you doing?’ Diable, it was obvious what she was doing. In that gown, a gown which set off her curves in a discreet yet, oddly, far more tantalising way than the vulgar yellow gown had set off Frida’s charms, Emma of Fulford could only have been doing one thing. The woman had been selling herself. With difficulty, Richard lifted his gaze from the alluring dip in the neckline, from the gentle curve of her breasts. The smudges of fatigue under her eyes were not visible in the torchlight. A translucent veil failed to hide her hair, which gleamed like dark gold beneath it.

Hidden treasure, he found himself thinking. Here in the Staple, in that gown, Emma of Fulford had the loveliness and the hauteur of a princess of the Norse.

Her brows snapped together. ‘What business is it of yours, sir?’

Richard shook his head. ‘Just look at you. Is this the first time you have…done this, or is it something you make a habit of?’

Her blue eyes were cloudy, perplexed. It came to him that she was not connecting properly with what he was saying, that her mind was elsewhere.

‘My lady, are you drunk?’ He leaned closer, intending to discover if she had the smell of wine or mead about her. Instead, he caught the sweet scent of roses, freshness and roses. Hastily, he drew back.

‘Drunk? Certainly not!’

Her eyes, dark in the uncertain light of the torches, were scouring the tavern behind him. Searching for her lost customer? Richard clenched his fists. ‘You are a thane’s daughter,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘What would your sister say? Lord, have you no shame?’

‘He’s gone.’ Those dark eyes were full of shadows. She put a hand to her head. ‘Saint Swithun, help me.’

Whatever was the matter with the woman? How could the loss of one customer mean so much to her? Was she so desperate?

Firm action was clearly going to be called for.

Pink skirts rustled as she made to move past him. ‘Sir, you must excuse me, I need to go upstairs.’

Richard had her by the arm before he had time to think. ‘A moment.’

‘Sir,’ the madame, Hélène, cut in. She clicked her fingers and another Saxon, all muscle, appeared at her side. Not a threat exactly, but close. Geoffrey’s hand crept to the hilt of his dagger.

Richard gave the woman a direct look. ‘Madame Hélène, I presume?’

‘Sir?’

‘Lady Emma and I have matters to discuss, private matters. She will accompany me back to the castle.’ By Saint Denis, that sounded as though he intended buying Emma of Fulford’s favours, which he most certainly did not. At least…Richard was opening his mouth to clarify himself, but Madame Hélène got in first.

‘Emma, are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes, I am fine.’ Emma smiled, but her smile made a liar of her—it was vague and abstracted. ‘Sir Richard, please, I must go up to the loft.’ She laid a hand on his arm, white teeth worrying her lower lip.

‘No, you are coming with me.’

‘I am?’ Emma gave him one of those distracted looks and a quick nod before returning her attention to the other woman. ‘I am fine, truly, Hélène. I think Sir Richard may even help me.’

At her words, the muscle-bound Saxon effaced himself. Geoffrey let out a breath and his hand fell from his hilt.

Damn right I am going to help you, Richard thought. But not perhaps in the way that you are expecting. Grasping her hand, he led her past the tables, past outstretched legs, past the dogs lazing at the hearth and out into the night. He could not let her continue on this course; his friend Adam would never forgive him.

‘No cloak,’ he muttered as the inn door snapped shut behind Geoffrey and the chill March air rushed into his lungs. ‘We have left your cloak behind.’

‘My cloak?’ She gave a wild laugh and jerked against his hand. She was trying to break free and she would no doubt have succeeded if Richard had not maintained the firmest of holds. The moon was up, the stars were visible behind the roofs of the houses, and her pink veil glowed palely through the dark. Something—a stray?—brushed past Richard’s leg.

‘Please, my lord.’

She tried to shake him off, but he would have none of it. ‘You are coming back with me.’ Swiftly, he removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. When he set off at a brisk pace for the castle, she began to struggle in earnest.

‘No, no!’ Slim fingers twisted and wriggled within his. ‘Please…’ Her voice cracked. ‘I must go back. You don’t understand.’

‘Don’t cry, I am not going to hurt you. I just want to get you away from…that place.’ He stopped dead at the crossroads where what was left of Golde Street met Market Street. Her breath was agitated; her veil lifted as she peered over her shoulder towards the darkness surrounding the market cross.

What, or who, was she looking for? Richard could see little. Here, a few cracks of light crept round the edge of a shutter; there, a slash of yellow escaped through a slit in some planking, but as to the rest—black night.

‘Please, oh, please.’

As she pulled at him, the moonlight fell directly on her cheek where a single tear gleamed like a pearl. Hell.

‘He will find him, I know he will. He will find him and—’

Richard lost patience. EitherAdam’s sister-in-law was a madwoman or she was in desperate trouble. In their interview that morning, she had not struck him as mad. He swept her up in his arms, a struggling armful of woman who smelt charmingly of roses. Closing his mind to the twinge in his shoulder, to the stab of awareness of her as a desirable woman, he made for the castle drawbridge.

‘Calm down, my lady. Emma, calm down. I know you are not an innocent, but really, you cannot be allowed to continue on this course. You were lucky with that Saxon rebel.’

‘Lucky? What do you mean?’

‘You were lucky not to have had a child. How would it be if you had to suffer the shame of having a rebel brat clinging to your skirts?’

Silence. Perhaps he was getting through to her. ‘You may not be so lucky the next time. We are going somewhere warm where we may talk, and you are going to explain what you think you are doing.’

As they waited for the guard to lower the drawbridge, she kept her face averted. Her fists were clenched under her chin. Quiescent in his arms, but resisting him with every fibre of her being.

While the chains rattled and the drawbridge lowered, Richard exchanged glances with his squire.

‘Your shoulder, sir?’ Geoffrey said.

‘It is fine.’

She was quivering, not from fear, Richard hoped. ‘Geoffrey?’

‘Sir?’

‘Help arrange my cloak over her properly. She’s cold.’

Emma’s mind seemed to have frozen and she barely saw where he was taking her. Judhael, Henri, Azor, Sir Richard…it was too much. She was also digesting the fact that Sir Richard didn’t realise she already had a child, a bastard child. If only she could be certain that Judhael didn’t know, too.

Dimly, she recognised she was being carried across the torchlit bailey. Excited barks skirled through the air, and several dogs raced out of the stables—Sir Richard’s wolfhounds, the white mongrel.

Sir Richard ducked into a doorway at the base of one of the towers and started up a curling stairway.

Emma would not demean herself by struggling. The man was over six foot tall and his build, well…since she was pressed close to that muscular chest, she could not help but notice that Sir Richard was a powerfully built man. As one would expect of one of King William’s officers, a knight and a commander.

It might be disturbing to be held so close, closer in fact than she had been to any man since Judhael, but Emma’s mind was fixated on her son.

Did Azor know about Henri? Did he know that Henri was asleep upstairs at the inn? Had Azor perhaps followed them when they had brought their things from the mill to the Staple? Was Azor even at this moment snatching Henri from his bed?

But Emma did not struggle. If she were to engage in a physical fight with Sir Richard, she could only be the loser. He took the stairs in brisk strides, a small entourage trotting at his heels—his squire, the three dogs. No, a physical struggle with this man could only result in ignominious defeat; he had the build of a champion.

She did not speak, either. For this man, this friend of her sister’s husband, Sir Adam, did not know the full extent of her fall from grace. He had not heard about her illegitimate son. How would it be if you had to suffer the shame of having a rebel brat clinging to your skirts?

Perhaps—Emma slanted him a swift look through her lashes—perhaps other tactics might work here…

Saints, but this Norman was handsome in a strong-jawed masculine way. His hair was thick and brown. A torch in a wall-sconce cast a shadow from his straight nose across one lean cheek. A cheek that this close Emma could see was dark with stubble. His lips—she bit the inside of her cheek; she would not look at his lips—but surely they were too well-shaped for a man?

He paused to draw breath on a landing, or so Emma thought, until his squire pushed past him to open the door.

‘That is all, Geoffrey.’ Sir Richard gave a curt headshake as the boy made to follow them into the room. ‘I will call you if I need you.’ The white mongrel almost tripped him. ‘And take the damn dogs with you.’

Chapter Five

‘Yes, Sir Richard.’

Emma found she was holding her breath as the squire called the dogs to heel and the door closed behind him. Sir Richard’s cloak fell away and she was set, none too gently, on her feet. His breathing was uneven. So, too, was hers.