Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord. Carol Townend

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СКАЧАТЬ the veil, but it would not hurt to keep the rosewater. Slipping the bottle into her bundle of everyday clothes, she set about arranging the silk veil.

      Curtains brushed her shoulders as she made her way back to the head of the stairs. A piercing whistle cut through the din. By the fire at the middle of the inn, Ben Thatcher, a man with more looks than sense, was giving her the eye.

      Cheeks brighter than the flames in the hearth, Emma hurried downstairs and dived into the relative safety of the shadows at the cookhouse end of the room. Another appreciative shout came flying towards the wine-butts. At her table, Hélène scowled at Ben Thatcher and waved Emma over.

      ‘That the new girl, Hélène?’ Unrepentant, Ben shouted over the general clamour. ‘How much?’ His companion made a coarse gesture and muttered an aside. Ben spluttered into his ale.

      ‘It is the dress that is for sale here, Ben Thatcher, so mind your tongue,’ Hélène said, tugging Emma to her. ‘Never mind them, dear. They are good lads, but—strong ale and weak minds…’ She looked Emma up and down. ‘Ooh, yes. I see what you mean, that gown is fit for a queen. You look well in it, Emma, very well. Indeed, I am not sure that you should sell it. I am sure you will find another way of repaying me.’

      ‘If times were better, I would not sell it. I love it, but…’ Emma shrugged ‘…you know how things are.’

      ‘I wonder that you can bear to part with it.’ Hélène took the fabric of the skirt between her thumb and forefinger. ‘This cloth, shipped in from the east, would you say?’

      ‘I think so.’

      ‘Are you certain about this? What will your sister say?’

      Emma grimaced. ‘I hope she never finds out. I shall certainly not be telling her.’ She spread the skirts to demonstrate their fullness and gave a mocking curtsy. ‘See? Every detail is perfect. The lacing ribbons are silk, and this veil is light as a cobweb.’

      ‘It hangs well. I do like the way the skirts swing. Yes, it is perfect. A little large at the bosom, perhaps.’

      Flushing, Emma put a hand to the neckline.

      Hélène batted it away with a smile. ‘No, let it be. It is quite…alluring like that.’

      Emma fussed with the neckline. ‘Gudrun made it. She and Rozenn—the Breton seamstress—have been working together and…’

      A movement by the door caught Emma’s attention. She frowned.

      ‘Emma, what’s amiss?’

      ‘I…I…no matter. Except—was that Sir Richard’s squire I saw leaving just then?’

      ‘Possibly, he does occasionally favour us with his custom when Sir Richard is in residence. He likes it here, even if his knight does not.’

      ‘Excuse me?’ A man’s voice cut in behind them. ‘Lady Emma?’

      Emma whirled and her stomach lurched. ‘Azor!’

      The hood of Azor’s head was up and he was standing in the deepest shadows, but Emma knew him at once. Judhael’s comrade, Azor, was a former housecarl of her father’s. He, too, had allied himself with the Saxon resistance. So it had been Azor she had seen on Mill Bridge…

      Azor looked pointedly at Hélène and jerked his head in the direction of the screen. Hélène backed away. Catching Emma by the arm, Azor drew her into the darkness between two large wine caskets.

      ‘Lady Emma…’ Azor’s eyes raked her from head to foot; his beard—threaded with grey nowadays—quivered. ‘No wonder it took so long for me to find you. When I heard you were…in difficulties…I imagined the worst.’

      Emma swallowed. Azor had her fenced in with his body. Her hands began to shake. ‘Where is he?’ Her voice rose. ‘He is not here?’

      Azor flung a glance over his shoulder. ‘Hush, no names, eh?’

      ‘I am not stupid.’

      Azor’s lip curled as he looked at her. ‘I thought he might have caused you trouble when he visited your friends, but in my worst nightmares I would not have imagined this.’ His gaze took in the tavern, while the sneer on his lips spoke of a high disdain for tavern girls. He twitched clumsily at Emma’s skirts. ‘Bedding with men for coin, are we?’

      Emma’s heart was fluttering like a netted bird. Was Judhael in the inn? She had hoped to have at least a couple of days’ grace…

      Henri! Emma did not care what Judhael or Azor thought of her, the important thing, the most important thing, was that they should not find out that she had a son. Thank God Henri was safe upstairs.

      ‘Well?’ Azor gave her a little shake, such as he would never have done when her father had been alive, he would not have dared.

      Emma lifted her chin. ‘It is none of your business what I am or what I do.’ Azor still had her boxed in. Laying a hand on his chest, she gave him a shove. ‘Please let me pass. I was having a private conversation with Hélène, and you interrupted us.’

      Azor snorted, but in the flare of the torches it seemed his expression had softened. ‘The Lady Emma I used to know would have died rather than consort with the likes of Hélène.’

      Conscious of Hélène hovering like a guardian angel behind Azor, Emma bit her lip. ‘Hélène is a friend, a true and loyal friend when many have deserted me.’

      ‘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, СКАЧАТЬ