An Honourable Rogue. Carol Townend

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      Two years, it had been two years. And now with the current unrest reaching into every corner of the Duchy, no lesser person than Duke Hoël himself had commanded that Ben put aside his quarrel with Rose’s brother. So far everything was going according to plan. Adam had done his bit, and Rose had received her summons to England. It was time for Ben to make amends with her if the second part of his plan was to stand any chance of success.

      A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. As ever he must be careful. Rose knew him well and she was not stupid. But he had rehearsed his part, he would even affect surprise when she told him of Per’s death. If she caught wind of the fact that she was being manipulated, she would kill him.

      The tavern door creaked. Yellow light spilled onto the quayside, and the silhouette of a man with a broken nose loomed in the doorway. Ben turned, slipped into a dark alley between two rows of wooden houses, and began running swiftly uphill towards Hauteville.

      Chapter Two

      The second time the door latch rattled on Witches’ Night, Rozenn’s breath froze. It had to be well past midnight, Mikaela and her friends would have made their way home from Saint Columban’s long before this. Rising from her bed, Rose groped through the dark and bumped a knee against a stool. Grabbing it, she held it aloft and edged her way through the shop.

      Heart pounding, she put an ear to the front door. Breathing—surely that was someone breathing on the other side? No, no, she was imagining things. Mikaela’s talk of witches and evil spirits had set her off. It was only the wind rustling through the flowers in the garland.

      When the latch clicked, she leaped backwards, gripsping the stool leg for all she was worth. She prayed the bolt would hold.

      A shout in the street. Footsteps. Several people running and, since they were making no attempt to be covert, they had to be Count Remond’s men. The chilling rasp of steel being drawn.

      ‘Christ!’ This from the other side of her door. The door latch clacked back into place. More running.

      ‘That way!’

      ‘He went that way!’

      A scuffle, a grunt, and the disturbance moved off.

      Rozenn remembered to breathe.

      Lowering the stool, she leaned her head on the door and waited for her heartbeat to settle. It must have been a thief, and the count’s men had likely scared him off— she hoped they had caught him. Some distance away, a dog barked. Yes, they were moving away.

      Even here in Hauteville, Rozenn thought ruefully, a woman alone was not safe. Perhaps Countess Muriel was right, perhaps she should take up residence in the castle until she left. There was plenty of room in the solar with the other ladies. But, no, Rozenn did not want to sleep with them. She saw disdain and pity in their eyes every time her name was mentioned. Rose, the girl who was left outside a tavern and given to Ivona Wymark to bring up. It was true that Ivona’s care of her had been good, she had treated Rose as well as she had treated Adam, but the pity and the disdain remained. Rose did not wish the other ladies’ eyes to be the last thing she saw before she fell asleep at night.

      She was padding back to bed, the wooden stool dangling from her hand, when something thudded against one of the shutters. Someone let out a grunt. Her heart thumped.

      Oh, God, the thief was back! He, whoever he was, must have found out that she was a widow and had singled her out as defenceless. Well, she would show him…

      Renewing her grip on the stool, Rozenn faced the shutter.

      Wood creaked. Another grunt. The darkness seemed to shift, and a whisper of warm air across her skin warned her that the shutter was being forced. A sliver of silver flashed as a dagger slipped through from outside. Metal scraped on wood. The latch gave with a pop, and moonlight streamed in.

      A black shape took form; it thrust an object through the opening and dropped it carefully on the floor. Other objects followed. He was trying to be quiet.

      Taking a shaky breath, Rozenn raised the stool. She was trembling all over and every instinct was screaming at her to run, but the back door of the house was bolted fast, and by the time she reached it and struggled with the bolts, the intruder would be upon her. Whoever he was, she must face him here.

      The draught of warm air increased. Breath frozen, she heard movement. A dark shadow shifted…

      There!

      No, there!

      Breathing…

       Behind her!

      About to whirl about, strong arms caught her by the waist, her hair was nudged aside and a warm kiss was pressed to the nape of her neck.

      ‘Guess,’ came the soft murmur. ‘Guess who it is.’

      The relief—she knew the voice after one word— weakened her knees. Dropping the stool with a crash, Rozenn gripped the arms wound about her middle. She didn’t have to see the long fingers that moved to cover hers; she didn’t have to feel the calluses the lute-strings had formed on the pads of his fingertips; she didn’t have to look into his brown eyes and see those tiny grey and green flecks to know who was holding her pressed so closely to him.

      ‘Ben!’ Her voice cracked, and to distract him from reading too much into that, for his hearing was subtle and he knew her so well he could read all of her moods, she thumped at his forearm. He winced, but she ignored this and let her body relax against his. ‘You fool, Benedict Silvester, you scared me half to death.’

      Another warm kiss was pressed into her neck. Since it had been so long since he’d sought her out, and she really was very fond of him, Rozenn did not object.

      ‘Sorry, little flower, but I was in something of a hurry. No time to send out the heralds.’

      Twisting round, she grasped his shoulders. ‘Some poor cuckold of a husband after you, I expect,’ she said lightly. It was too dark to read his expression, but he stepped back.

      ‘Ah, Rose, you cut me to the quick. Always you think the worst of me.’

      ‘Isn’t there reason?’

      Silence. Then, gently, ‘Rose, I won’t stay if I’m not welcome.’

      Impulsively, guiltily, she found his hand in the dark and lifted it to her cheek. ‘No, Ben, I am sorry, you are welcome. It has been too long.’ She softened her tone. ‘My house is yours. Treat it as your home.’

      ‘I don’t have a home, chérie,’ Ben said, adopting what she termed his flirtatious voice. He carried her hand to his heart. ‘But if I did, you would be its flickering flame, toasting a man’s toes on a winter’s night.’

      Rozenn shook her head, smiling at him through the dark. ‘You’re a rogue, Benedict Silvester, to try to flatter me. Haven’t you learnt I’m proof against your wiles?’

      ‘I live in hope, I live in hope. Rose?’

      ‘Mmm?’

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