An Honourable Rogue. Carol Townend

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      ‘I’d rather not; there’s never much rest to be had for a minstrel in the hall of a castle.’

      Forgetting he could not see her in the dark, Rozenn nodded. She knew how it was—he would be constantly in demand at the castle, as a musician, a singer, a drinking companion and… No, she would not think about that. It warmed her to think that Ben could relax in her house, but then, they had been friends for ever.

      ‘Of course. You don’t need to ask.’ The words had slipped out before she had time to question the wisdom of letting Ben—a man with the most appalling reputation— stay in her house now that her husband had died. Moving past him, Rozenn led the way into the private family room. Fumbling for a taper, she lit a candle and mocked him. ‘Do enter, kind sir.’

      ‘My thanks, little flower.’

      Ben fetched the things he had tossed through the shutter and, as the light strengthened, Rozenn recognised his lute bag among them. She ought to, having stitched it herself years ago. It was the first and the last thing she had ever made in leather, and by the time she had finished it, she had gone through two thimbles and her fingers were pricked to the bone. Never again, she had sworn, vowing to stick to fabric thereafter.

      Ben tossed his cloak on to a stool and frowned at her empty bed. In the candlelight she could see that his hair was cut in the fashion favoured by the Normans—shaved short at the back. It was longer at the front though, so long that his dark fringe flopped into his eyes. With an impatient gesture, he shoved it back.

      He has been running, Rozenn reminded herself, deliberately turning her attention to his clothes to stop herself staring at his face, like just another of his lovestruck women. But even a furtive glance had told her that Benedict Silvester remained more handsome than a man ought to be. It wasn’t fair, but Mikaela was right, those dark looks, especially his eyes and the way they appeared to soften when they regarded one, were almost irresistible. His face was leaner than it had been; it was no longer the face of a boy, but that of a man coming into his prime. He needed a shave and this gave him a faintly disreputable air that hinted of danger, but typically, since it was Ben, this was not unattractive. His looks were as much his stock in trade as was his talent with a lute.

      Shaking her head, Rozenn forced her attention to his clothes, assessing them with the eyes of a woman used to judging the quality at a glance. Under that unremarkable cloak that was surely too dowdy for Ben and far too hot for a night like tonight, they were showy. This was more like it, this was the Ben she knew. Ben’s clothes had always been fit for a prince—they were the clothes of a man who earned his bread by entertaining noblemen. And, a little voice added waspishly, by pleasing noblewomen too. The candlelight shone on a tunic that was a rich kingfisher blue. It had the sheen and drape of silk. Both the tunic and the belt at Ben’s waist flattered his form—wide shoulders, slim waist. A silver buckle glinted. Ben’s chausses were of fine grey linen, and the leg bindings matched the blue of his tunic. His boots…

      ‘Rose…’ he was looking around, apparently puzzled ‘…where’s Per?’

      Rozenn took a deep breath and looked into Ben’s eyes and wished the night was not so hot and airless; it was very hard to breathe.

      ‘Oh, Ben, there is so much to tell you…’

      Thus it was that Ben found himself sitting at Rozenn’s board, tasting rich red wine and chicken pie while he pretended her news was new to him.

      Ben listened while Rozenn talked about Per’s death, about how swiftly the sickness had taken him, about how she had tried to nurse him, all to no avail. He watched the sadness enter her eyes, shoved aside his empty plate, and reached for her hand.

      ‘You’d come to care for him very much, hadn’t you?’

      Rose’s hair was unravelling from its braid, a glossy, dark mass of curls. She bent her head and wound it loosely at the nape of her neck. Her voice, when she spoke, was muffled. ‘Naturally, I cared for him. He was my husband.’

      ‘Rozenn…’ gently Ben turned her face back to his, and reclaimed her hand ‘…there’s more, isn’t there?’

      She sighed. ‘Per had debts.’

      Knowing how punctilious Rose was and how shamed she must have felt, Ben made his voice light. ‘Don’t we all?’

      ‘Ben, I’m not talking about the odd penny here and there, but substantial amounts. After the funeral, half the town came knocking on the door, demanding payment.’ She gave him a rueful smile and Ben caught his first glimpse of her dimples. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? I chose Per because I wanted—no, needed—security, and he turns out to owe money to the world and his wife. I tell you, if I ever catch so much as a glimpse of a tally stick again, I’ll jump on the next horse I can find and gallop out of the Duchy.’

      Ben smiled. ‘They have tally sticks in Normandy too, chérie.’ He rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand. Her fingers were clinging to his as though she’d never let go. Her breasts were something of a distraction, rising and falling as they were, under that flimsy nightgown. Rose thinks of me as a brother, he reminded himself, and kept his eyes fixed firmly on her face. It struck him that her dimples were surprisingly kissable and her mouth too looked inviting…

      No. No. What was he thinking? Abruptly he released her hand and reached for his wine-cup. This was Rose, who openly admitted she wanted stability, the security he could never give her. Thank God, she seemed unaware of the temporarily lustful direction his thoughts had taken.

      He indicated the money pouch at his belt. ‘I’ve a few deniers with me, if that will help, ma belle. Don’t mention it to Countess Muriel, but I was in Rennes recently with Duke Hoël. He paid handsomely to hear Turold’s new “Song of Roland”.’

      When she nodded, Ben knew he did not have to expand. Rose might not know of his secret work for the Duke, but it was common knowledge that while Duke Hoël was titular Duke of Brittany, many of the barons, Count Remond of Quimperlé included, merely paid lip- service to his authority. The nobles made, and broke, other alliances every day. Deals were struck with Bretons, with Normans, with anyone—nothing mattered but that the arrangement gave a temporary advantage. Frankish noblemen had about as much honour as court whores.

      Rozenn laid her fingers on his arm. It was the lightest of touches, the friendliest of touches, but it had muscles clenching in Ben’s belly, sensual muscles that had no business clenching when she touched him. He frowned.

      ‘That’s sweet, Ben, but not necessary. Fortunately Mark Quémeneur offered a reasonable price for most of Per’s stock. I hope to sell the rest on market day.’

      Sweet. Now there was a novelty. ‘So you can settle Per’s debts?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I am glad of that. Rose?’

      ‘Mmm?’ She smothered a yawn.

      ‘If you ever did need me—for anything—you only have to ask. I am—’ he raised her hand to his lips ‘—yours to command.’

      Her brown eyes danced, her dimples winked at him. ‘I know that, but you’re not often around to ask, are you?’

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