A thrill ripped through her stomach and chest, forcing all conscious thought to a liquid bolt that shot through her veins

Talvas! He stood with his back to her, dragging his soggy tunic over his head, followed swiftly by his undershirt. He began to dry himself with the rough linen square that Geoffrey held out to him. Emmeline watched, transfixed by the beautiful physique before her. Fully clothed, Talvas made an imposing figure, but stripped to the waist in her friend’s kitchen he was devastating! She traced the strong, indented column of his spine, banded on either side by well-honed plates of muscle: evidence of hard, physical labor. There was nothing soft about him, no inch of spare flesh. Emmeline’s eyes ran down his spine until she reached the point where his damp skin, gleaming in the firelight, indented and met the top of his braies.

She pushed her face into her hands, as if by trying to obscure the vision before her she could stamp out her reaction, scrub out these unwanted feelings!

The Damsel’s Defiance

Harlequin® Historical

Author Note

The inspiration for my story of Talvas and Emmeline originated from reading about a period in English history known as The Anarchy: a grueling civil war in the middle of the twelfth century between the empress Maud, daughter of King Henry I, and Stephen, her cousin.

Promised the English throne by her father, Maud was beaten to it by Stephen. History cites that Maud, who lived with her second husband in France, traveled to England some four years after Stephen became king. However, having researched her character, I like to think that she would have been more impatient to seize the throne as soon as her father died, and this gave me the background for my story.

In medieval times it was not unusual for widows to continue their husbands’ businesses, and here my character Emmeline fits in perfectly. Strong-willed and fiercely independent, she is determined to claw back her dead father’s business, effectively ruined by her husband.

Talvas also does not choose the conventional path. Despite being raised by noble parents, and trained in the chivalric ways of a knight, he prefers the wildness and unpredictability of the sea to a more sedate life as lord of the manor. Reckless and a risk-taker, he finds a life onboard a ship suits him perfectly.

MERIEL FULLER

The Damsel’s Defiance

Available from Harlequin® Historical and
MERIEL FULLER

Conquest Bride #782

The Damsel’s Defiance #264

MERIEL FULLER

lives in a quiet corner of rural Devon, England, with her husband and two children. Her early career was in advertising, with a bit of creative writing on the side. Now, with a family to look after, writing has become her passion. A keen interest in literature, the arts and history, particularly the early medieval period, makes writing historical novels a pleasure for Meriel. The Devon countryside, a landscape rich in medieval sites, holds many clues to the past and has made her research a special treat.

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

Barfleur, France—AD 1135

Emmeline pulled her thick woollen mantle more closely about her slim frame, shivering, checking that the voluminous hood covered her head adequately. Her mother had clucked her tongue disapprovingly at her daughter’s shimmering unbound hair, muttering something about the ‘whores of the dockside’ as Emmeline left the cottage. But Emmeline had not the time to care for such vanity, although she wished she had found the time to slip on an extra woollen chemise. She had to see whether La Belle Saumur had finally made it across the Channel.

The north-east wind coming in from the sea and up the mouth of the river to where she stood on the wooden revetment whistled under her hem-line and cut into her bones, causing her weak ankle to ache with more persistence than usual. She paid it little heed as she focused on her father’s ship. Her ship. La Belle Saumur lay some distance out to sea, beyond the point where the beacon stood marking the entrance to the river channel. Dieu merci! God had decided to spare her after all. A huge sense of relief burst through her: the ship represented her family’s livelihood, a means by which to stay free and independent of any master…or husband. She just wished her mother saw it that way, rather than trying to force her into a marriage that she neither needed nor wanted.

Squinting her eyes against the weak morning sun that had begun to push through the mist, she watched as two men on board lowered the anchor, testing the rope to make sure that it pulled taut into the water—La Belle Saumur had obviously just arrived. The big, square canvas sail flapped uselessly in the wind; the crew, having released the fore and aft stays, had not yet managed to roll the bulky sail up to the yard arm. The long hull rode low, indicating the amount of cargo on board, but the three or four lighter ships she had just dispatched from the slipway had now reached the vessel and were starting to unload. The tide was too low at this time of day for the heavily laden ship to enter the mouth of the river. The shipmaster, Captain Lecherche, would have to wait a few good hours before the vessel could be towed in to a safer, more sheltered harbour.

‘Mam’selle de Lonnieres, Mam’selle de Lonnieres!’ Geoffrey Beaufort, one of the more prosperous merchants of Barfleur, flung his arm up, waving at her from one of the lighter boats. As the vessel crunched up on to the shingle, he jumped out, his sturdy leather boots splashing in the shallows, to run up the planked slipway to greet her.

Emmeline hugged him, her fingers touching the sticky sea-salt of his cloak. ‘Praise God that you are safe. For the last few days I have had some horrible reports of the weather in the Channel…’

‘Never fear, young mistress.’ Geoffrey frowned at the exhaustion around the maid’s bright green eyes. ‘You shouldn’t worry so much. You look tired.’

‘La Belle Saumur is all we have, all I have,’ she replied simply, self-consciously drawing her hood more firmly about her blond head.

‘Your shipmaster and his crew are the best and most experienced around.’

She nodded. ‘And for that reason I continue to hire them. Only them.’ She bit her lip suddenly. ‘I was worried, Geoffrey. You are more than a week late back from England.’

The merchant clutched a pudgy hand to his chest. ‘And for that you will have to forgive me, Emmeline. I couldn’t resist staying on for the market fair at Winchester. ’Tis only once a year and a shame to miss it. Such excellent quality of cloth to be purchased there! It will sell well here and at a good price, too.’ He caught her slight frown. ‘Worry not, young lady, I will pay you for the extra time; your shipmaster made sure of it.’ He grinned wryly, his cracked lips stretching thin. ‘Just look at how much I managed to bring back. And I sold all the wine.’ Emmeline glanced down to where the lighter was unloading. It took three men to lift the huge sacks of cloth out of the vessel and into the waiting cart.

‘And you broke the wine casks down, Geoffrey. I can see from the weight of the cargo how low the ship rides in the water. They must be in pieces so you could get that much in the hold.’

‘I will cover the cost.’

Emmeline nodded readily in agreement. At the moment, she could scarcely afford to cover the cost of putting the wine casks back together again, a complicated job at the best of times and normally the responsibility of the ship’s owner.

‘Wait, I have something for you, mam’selle.’ Geoffrey beamed. ‘A message from your sister.’

Emmeline frowned, nibbling at the fullness of her bottom lip as Geoffrey fumbled in a leather bag that hung from his waist belt. It was rare for her elder sister to make any contact with her family in Barfleur, appearing instead to want to sever all ties with her humble past and to build a new life in England with a rich nobleman. The few missives Emmeline had received contained news of great wealth, of vast lands and castles and of the doting concern of her husband Lord Edgar. In the early days, just after Rose had died, Emmeline had felt ashamed at her sister’s behaviour, but now, the feeling had dwindled to a dull fleeting sadness.

As Geoffrey handed her the tightly rolled parchment, Emmeline’s fingers shook as she untied the red ribbon, unrolling the paper so it flapped in the wind. Securing it as best she could, with one hand at the top, one hand at the bottom to stop the paper curling in on itself, she quickly read the contents. Her heart went cold as she scanned her sister’s hastily scrawled words: I live in fear. Please help me. I have made a terrible mistake. Please forgive me.

Emmeline closed her eyes.

Her sister’s words danced before her mind’s eye: the writing jerky and ill formed, a message seemingly scrawled in haste and desperation, her sister’s anguish apparent on the page. It formed a marked contrast to the last time Emmeline had seen Sylvie, dressed in her expensive finery, standing in the doorway of the cottage in Barfleur. She had been defiant then, arrogant and proud, uncaring as to what her family thought of her, uncaring that she had left her baby daughter Rose in their care. She had craved a life of luxury and nobody was going to stand in her way.

‘Something’s amiss,’ Emmeline said slowly, opening her eyes to stare at Geoffrey, distraught.

‘Not bad news, I hope?’ Geoffrey frowned, studying Emmeline’s anxious look.

‘She’s in some kind of trouble,’ Emmeline replied, shakily. ‘When did you last see her?’

‘I was fortunate to spend a night at Waldeath, as a guest of your sister and her husband, Lord Edgar.’

‘How was she? Is she in good health?’

Geoffrey spread his hands wide, unsure of his words. ‘She appeared a little jittery, but—’

‘—’tis always the way with her.’ Emmeline finished for him with a helpful smile, immediately putting him at his ease. Sylvie was well-known for her highly strung, skittish behaviour. ‘Thank you for carrying the message, Geoffrey.’ She tucked the crackling parchment into the embroidered pouch that hung from her girdle. A vague sense of unease swept her body, her mind already trying to work out how she could reach Sylvie.

‘I shouldn’t worry too much, Emmeline,’ Geoffrey patted her arm. ‘Her husband appeared to dote on her.’

‘If La Belle Saumur can manage one last crossing before the winter storms set in, then I will visit her in England,’ Emmeline said. But Geoffrey didn’t hear. His gaze was diverted by a brightly coloured family group moving toward him across the jetty. The high-pitched, gleeful cries of the small children merged with the screeching of the seagulls above them.

‘Ah, there is Marie…and the children!’ Geoffrey beamed in delight as his family emerged from the jumble of warehouses set back from the river’s edge. Emmeline’s soft mouth lifted at the sight of her friend. Almost the same height as her husband, Marie carried her thin frame gracefully, despite having three small children clinging to her skirts. Beside her, Emmeline was almost half a head shorter, her creamy skin and blond hair contrasting strongly with Marie’s ebony locks and darker skin. Emmeline often cursed the more rounded curves of her own figure, despite the constant admiration from her mother. She had found it difficult to do business in the world of men, when all they would do was stare at her body rather than listening to her words. Luckily, most of the merchants who chartered her ship were old friends of her father, using La Belle Saumur out of loyalty with the assurance of a safe crossing and an experienced crew. Younger merchants tended to charter the newer, faster ships that were being built farther along the coast at Caen and Dieppe.

‘I swear they have grown in the few weeks that I have been away!’ Geoffrey exclaimed, lifting and swinging his children around in turn, to the sound of excited giggles. ‘What are you feeding them, madame?’ He planted a fond kiss on his wife’s cheek. Emmeline felt slightly uncomfortable at the joyous reunion, or was it the faint prickle of regret? She sighed. Despite being unable to draw any similarity between the happy family before her and the bitter memory of her own marriage to Giffard de Lonnieres, she knew that such a wonderful picture would never be part of her life.

Forced into marriage after the death of her father, Anselm, Emmeline had stood by as Giffard inherited her family’s shipping business, watched him make mistakes and lose money through bad deals. She’d learned not to challenge him, even though he’d driven the business nearly into the ground. It had been a blessed relief when he had been killed in a hunting accident, and Emmeline, as his widow, had won the right to run the business. She had vowed to make it successful once more, making it her whole life, despite her mother’s repeated nagging to make herself more attractive to the opposite sex. She could never tell her mother what Giffard had done to her behind closed doors. The petty humiliations, the constant verbal abuse, the pinches and the sideways kicks, until the day he had pushed her down the stairs. She shook her head, trying to dispel the memory.

‘So, we worried for nothing, eh, petite amie?’ Marie drew Emmeline into a hug. ‘What the sea puts us through!’ Her tone was confident, but Emmeline noticed the way she gripped her husband’s tubby fingers.

Geoffrey had turned his attention back to the unloading of the ship. ‘I need to get to the warehouse,’ he announced. ‘Those men are unloading faster than I thought and I need to count the sacks in…make sure nothing’s damaged.’ He caught Emmeline’s eye. ‘As I’m sure they will not be.’ He took in her pale face, her sensitive skin reddened by the cold, whipping wind. ‘Why not break your fast with us, Emmeline? I’m sure Marie has something good prepared.’ He cast a benevolent smile toward his wife.

Emmeline shook her head. ‘’Tis kind of you, my friend, but I need to wait for Captain Lecherche; I must pay the crew.’

‘But, Emmeline,’ Marie protested, ‘they will be hours yet; you’ll freeze to death on this jetty. Come on, I haven’t seen you for ages.’ As the shivering air whipped around the hem of her woollen bliaut, chasing underneath the hem-line and up her icy legs, Emmeline was sorely tempted to change her mind.

‘Tell the crew where you will be; Captain Lecherche will come and find you when they’ve finished,’ Geoffrey added. Eyes watering against the cold, Emmeline looked toward the warehouses lining the riverfront harbour. Geoffrey’s warehouse, the largest and most imposing with vaulted under-arches leading to a ground-floor store, also housed his family’s living accommodation, a comfortable abode that was always welcoming.

‘I’ll come, my friends, just for a few moments.’ Emmeline laughed at their persuasiveness. ‘But I’ll catch you up…look, I can see Captain Lecherche on deck. He’ll be across in a moment. Let me speak with him, then come to you directly. I promise.’

Long muscular legs braced against the gentle rolling of the ship, Lord Talvas of Boulogne stared impatiently at the small harbour. Coming into Barfleur meant a journey on horseback north to visit his parents in Boulogne, a much more substantial port, which would have been his chosen destination if he had been on board his own ship. Too bad that the sail had ripped from top to bottom on the previous crossing, a lengthy repair that had forced him to seek passage on the next available ship to France before the winter storms prevented him. His intention was to spend Yuletide with his parents and check on his lands in France before returning to his preferred country, England. He didn’t like to stay too long in France; the country held too many painful memories for him. Yet Stephen, his sister’s husband, on hearing of his proposed journey to Boulogne, had asked Talvas to visit the Empress Maud, to check on the Empress Maud, at her estate in Torigny. The woman was kin to both of them and a well-known troublemaker, being the only daughter of the current king, Henry I. It would not be above a sennight before he could escape this God-forsaken country! Gripping the wooden guard-rail with lean, tanned fingers, Talvas prepared to swing his legs over and climb down into one of the lighter boats.

As the sun rose, the port began to wake up. Some of the fishing boats that had been out since the early hours were starting to return, the heaps of fish in their hulls gleaming slickly. They would unload farther upstream, directly beside the market, bumping and scraping their wooden hulls together as they jostled for the best position to pull up on the beach.

As Emmeline rolled back and forth on her toes in an effort to warm her feet, the massive cross-beam of the one crane at Barfleur began to swing round behind her, lifting the oak wine casks from two hulks that had tied up at the jetty. The barrels were so huge that only three could be fitted lengthways into the little boats. The two men at the one end of the crane grunted with exertion as they pulled down on the rope hanging from the end of the cross-beam to heave the wine cask from the rounded hull. Once the cask was level with the timber jetty where Emmeline stood, the familiar creaking began, the noise of the vertical wooden post pivoting in its stone turning-hole to swing the cask up and into the waiting cart.

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.

‘I can’t understand this illness, Robert,’ she addressed her thin, gaunt half-brother who stood looking out of the narrow slit window. ‘He seemed so fit and healthy this morning, out in the forest.’

Robert turned from his lengthy perusal of the forest below, the bare bones of the treetops frilling out in the direction of Barfleur. A couple of winters older than Maud, he shared the same chestnut hair as his sibling, wearing it very short as was the Norman fashion. As the Earl of Gloucester, his clothes befitted his high rank. Woven from the finest merino wool, his light green braies hugged his long legs, cross-gartered with leather strips from knee to ankle until they met his thick leather boots. The heat of the room had made him throw off his dark brown overtunic, and now he stood in just his fine linen shirt, glowing white against the gleaming damp grey of the stone walls. He had left his cloak and sword downstairs in the great hall, as he helped half carry, half drag his sick father up the three flights of circular stairs to the King’s chamber in the east tower.

‘’Tis an uncommon fever, I agree.’ Robert agreed. ‘But there’s nothing we can do, Maud. The physician said as much.’

Their father had taken ill while they had been out hunting earlier that morning. Robert had been about to give chase to a stag and had turned toward Henry to wave him on. He had been shocked by his father’s pallour; the King appeared dizzy and unable to focus. In the time it had taken Robert to throw himself from his horse and go to his father’s aid, Henry had begun to topple from his saddle, falling into a deep unconsciousness.

‘So we wait for him to die.’ Maud’s words echoed starkly around the circular walls of the tower chamber. Despite her concern for her father, she had managed to change from her hunting clothes into a softer gown, one of light red that complimented her ample curves. Her small frame, a petiteness she had inherited from her mother, the Anglo-Saxon queen Edith, had not quite recovered from giving birth to her second son. The side-lacings of her dress were pulled a little too tightly over her bulging tummy to compensate.

Against the dark pelt of the bedspread, Maud’s heavy rings glinted in the firelight. On his earlier visit the physician had insisted that the fire be piled up high, building up a heat to try and drive the fever out. Within the ornate stone fireplace that dominated the curving chamber wall, the logs crackled and spat, casting out a warm orange glow. Raising herself from the stool, Maud leaned over her father to kiss him.

‘Remember your promise, Father, remember your promise to me,’ she whispered. A snort from the window drew her attention. Her dark brows drew together into a frown.

‘As if you’d let him forget it!’ Robert smirked, one side of his mouth curling up scornfully. ‘Haven’t you had enough oaths sworn in your honour already?’

‘I just need to hear him say it!’ replied Maud, irritated.

‘All the bishops, abbots and earls have said it already, Maud,’ Robert reminded her. ‘First at the Christmas court and then again at the Easter court. What more could you want? They have all agreed that on our father’s death you will succeed him as Queen of both England and Normandy.’

‘Don’t get cross with me, Robert, I couldn’t bear it.’ Maud looked over Robert. ‘It should really be you who succeeds.’

Robert threw her a wry smile. ‘My illegitimacy prevents me ever becoming King, Sister. The nobility would never allow it.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I’m happy enough. I have Gloucester and a rich wife.’ A wife who I prefer to leave at home, he thought, thinking of all the comely wenches he had encountered at Torigny.

‘Aye, a wife who you never see because you are always acting as my escort.’

‘The King trusts me with your life. You know that.’

‘And I thank you for it, Robert. You are more of a husband to me than Geoffrey. Why my father ever arranged such a marriage for me, with such a lackwit, I shall always wonder.’

‘It was your father’s greatest wish that you should marry Geoffrey of Anjou.’

‘A man eleven years younger than me. What a joke!’ Maud fiddled with the knot on the braid that held back the embroidered curtain around the bed. ‘First he marries me to the German Emperor, a man old enough to be my father…’

‘You were too young at twelve….’

‘I was old enough for marriage, Robert, but not to someone I could scarce understand, someone so old. Why, it was like lying with—’

Robert held up his hand, silencing her. ‘Spare me the details, Maud. I know how difficult it was for you.’

Maud chose not to answer, her fingers still fidgeting with the curtain braid. ‘God in Heaven, when will the servants learn to tie these things properly? I’ve told them enough times!’ She threw back the material impatiently and rose from the stool, throwing out her skirts around her, shaking out the creases. ‘Oh, Robert, I hate this infernal waiting!’ She stretched her arms into the air, trying to relieve the anxious tension in her shoulders. ‘Should we not go out hunting again, rather than staring at him, waiting for him to…to leave us?’

Robert crossed the wide elm boards to reach her, to take her shoulders. Under his fingers he felt her anxiety as she crossed her arms defensively over her chest. He knew the ambition she harboured, the ambition, above all else, to be Queen of her own country. She had an infinite sense of what she felt to be right and would not tolerate easily those who contradicted her.

Maud stared at the still figure in the bed, tracing the familiar lines of her father’s face. Despite his ruthless ambition, he had been a good father to her, teaching all he could about the affairs of the land. His instruction had increased significantly on the accidental death of her brother, William, his only legitimate male heir. From that day on, he vowed his daughter Maud would inherit his realm on his death.

She gazed at the taut panels of white skin that pulled over the bones of his face. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. She couldn’t see their colour from where she stood, but knew them to be a deep hazel, flecked with green. Eyes that had laughed with her, eyes that had cried with her. His lips were narrow, a bluish colour. She listened for the faint whistle of breath, a rasp of air. Nothing. She raised her hands to cover her face. If she didn’t see her father dead, then it might not be real.

‘He’s gone, Robert. He’s gone. Look, he breathes not.’ Almost as if she couldn’t bear the reality, she drifted toward the arrow slit window, wrapping her arms even more tightly around her torso. Robert moved over to bed, crossed himself, before closing his father’s eyes with gentle tapered fingers.

The iron latch clicked softly on the oak door, and Hugh, Archbishop of Rouen and the King’s confidant, entered.

‘Good timing,’ Robert muttered wryly. ‘You should have been here.’

Hugh walked over to the bed and looked down at the waxy mask of his sovereign. ‘May he rest in peace.’

‘You’re a bit late to take his last confession, my lord,’ Robert said, careful to keep any criticism from his voice.

‘I have already heard his confession, Earl Robert,’ Hugh announced, a hint of pomposity edging into his tone. His eyes were bright in a pillow of flesh. ‘And in case you’re wondering, I have already granted him absolution and extreme unction. He was ready to go, God rest his soul.’

Maud turned from the window, brown eyes questioning. ‘My lord, did my father say anything about…?’

‘About?’ Hugh looked puzzled.

‘About my becoming Queen, my lord Archbishop. Surely he said something about it to you?’

Hugh was already shaking his head. ‘Nay, my lady. He did not say anything to that effect, only that he wanted to be buried in Reading Cathedral alongside your mother. But then it was difficult for him to speak.’

‘Are you sure?’ Maud’s voice heightened to a squeak. She moved toward the portly Archbishop, eyes alight with suspicion. Hugh held his ground.

‘Aye, my lady. I am quite sure. I have sat with your father this morn, while you changed, and heard everything he had to say. He said nothing about his successor. I assumed it would be Stephen.’

Maud hissed, a sharp intake of breath. ‘Nay, you could not be more wrong, my Lord. My cousin Stephen, Count of Blois? He couldn’t possibly be King.’

‘He is, was, your father’s favourite nephew. You and he were like brother and sister when you were growing up.’

Maud shook her head, bearing down on Hugh like a terrier. The Archbishop took a step back. ‘But I am the rightful heir, my lord Archbishop. Everyone in England knows that. God in Heaven, everyone in England has sworn to that!’

‘It would be unusual for the English nobility to accept a woman as Queen…’ the Archbishop rubbed his chin thoughtfully ‘…especially considering your marriage to the Count of Anjou.’

‘What has my marriage got to do with it?’ snapped Maud.

‘Anjou has always been an enemy of England and Normandy. Let’s face it, your father and your husband have not been on speaking terms recently.’

‘A minor issue, my lord. My father arranged my marriage to Geoffrey in the first place, seeking to achieve peace between Normandy and Anjou.’

‘And to some extent he has succeeded,’ Hugh agreed. ‘But I can’t see the English barons accepting an Angevin count on the throne of England.’

‘He won’t be on the throne. I will!’ Maud’s colour heightened in anger. ‘Praise Mary, am I to spend my day surrounded by fools?’

Robert stepped forward. ‘Hugh, I really think that—’

‘Don’t interfere, Robert, I am dealing with this!’ Maud shoved her rounded body in front of her half-brother. ‘Listen, my lord Archbishop—’ she jabbed him in the chest with a pointed finger ‘—contrary to what you know, or what you think you know, I am to be Queen of England and Normandy. My father wanted it, and he made sure all his barons and bishops knew it. And I don’t want anyone to hear of his death until I arrive in England with my father’s body. Do you understand?’

Hugh nodded, the folds of his double chin quivering. ‘I understand completely, my lady.’ He threw a sideways look at Robert, before addressing Maud once more. ‘Er, may I sit with your father until your ladies come?’

‘Granted. Robert will make sure you have everything you need.’ A thin wail reached her ears; Maud grimaced in irritation. ‘I suppose I’d better see how the children are faring.’ She sighed, turning to Robert. ‘And you’d better secure us a passage to England. As soon as possible.’

Beyond the granite town walls of Barfleur, beyond the marshlands, the forest spread out for miles and miles, a thick green cloak of vegetation, rising high over jagged granite outcrops only to plunge low into the deep valleys cut by fast-flowing rivers. Through the towering beeches and spreading oaks, their bare branches starkly delineated against the grey, lowering sky, Emmeline’s horse picked its way along a narrow, muddy trail alongside the River Argon.

She rode steadily, relaxing her body into the calm, rocking gait of her roan mare, her strong, delicate fingers controlling the reins with confidence. Despite her obvious unhappiness at Emmeline’s journey, Felice had known better than to try and dissuade her from approaching the Empress; she had encountered her daughter’s stubborn nature on too many occasions to know that she would persuade her otherwise. But her father, Anselm, God rest his soul, would have approved, of that Emmeline was certain. He had always been a man of action, never sitting around passively, waiting for things to happen. Ducking her head to avoid a low-hanging branch, she smiled softly to herself, knowing full well that he would not have endorsed her travelling alone. A shuddering breath took her by surprise; after all these years she still missed his steadying presence, his gentle teaching: a calming contrast to her more nervous, excitable mother.

As she rode, lulled by the persistent rushing of the river to her left, dark, rain-filled clouds began to fill the sky, dimming the forest beneath. Glancing up apprehensively, she kicked her heels into the warm flanks of the mare; she had no intention of being soaked to the skin. And then, as the wind grew stronger, against the frantic creaking of the bare branches above her head, she heard another sound. Jerking on the reins, she tipped her head to one side, trying to locate the noise. A chink of metal carried on the sharp breeze, the distinctive click of a bridle, then the murmur of voices approaching.

Heart crashing against her ribs, she threw one leg frontways across the horse’s neck, jumping to the ground in a swirl of grey skirts, favouring her good leg as she landed. Casting about frantically for a place to hide, she plunged upwards, scrambling up the steep slope that edged the track, trying to drag the roan into the trees as fast as she was able. Brambles ripped at her bliaut, her cloak, clawing at the cloth, preventing forward movement, scratching her face and snagging in her linen veil as her hood fell back. She stretched her hands out blindly and her fingers chafed against a jutting outcrop of granite: a huge piece of rock, at least the height and width of two men. Almost crying with relief, she pulled herself and the horse behind it. Twisting back to lean against the cool, hard rock, she tried to control her rapid breathing, a rising sense of panic in her chest. Only now did she begin to question the foolishness of travelling without an escort.

The voices, low and masculine, drew closer. Turning stealthily in her hiding place, her horse tucked out of sight behind her, Emmeline couldn’t resist a peek around the craggy edge. She had only just been in time. Around the corner came a pair of gleaming chestnuts…

Nay…it couldn’t be!

She recognised the insufferable Lord Talvas immediately. He rode up front, his bearing arrogant and imperious, a searching, questioning look upon his face. Had he heard her? His squire, Guillame, rode behind, his flaxen hair forming a stark contrast to the raven locks of his master. Emmeline shuddered, blood coursing through her veins. The black haze of beard that had obscured his features on the quayside had been shaved and now…She stared in amazement at the beautiful man below her. High cheekbones cast a faint shadow at the sides of his face, giving him a hungry, predatory look, offset by a square jaw. The narrow line of his top lip was complemented by a full bottom lip that curved seductively upwards at the corners.

A thrill of sensation flamed her skin, and she flung herself back into the shadowed security of the rock, pressing her forehead into the damp grittiness of the stone, inhaling the earthy, musty smell. She scrabbled for sanity. A strange fluidity had invaded her limbs, a flooding weakness that left her stunned. Talvas had changed his clothes—now there was no question that he was highly born. His tunic, the densely woven cloth slit from knee to waist at each side for ease of riding, was of sage green wool, intricately embroidered in gold at the cuffs and around the slashed neck. The sleeves of his darker green surcoat reached only to his elbows, showing off the longer, more richly decorated sleeves of his tunic. His short, blue cloak billowed out from his strong, wide shoulders, lined with fox fur and fastened at the neck with a jewelled brooch.

As the riders passed below, one of the horses whinnied softly, and her own horse nickered in reply, dropping its head down and pawing at the rustling leaves on the ground. Every muscle in Emmeline’s body clenched tight with awareness, with fear. She dared not move; maybe the men would not hear.

But Talvas was already pulling on the reins, lifting himself easily in the saddle, twisting sinuously around with his hand on his sword hilt, trying to locate the sound. Guillame drew his sword with a silken hiss.

‘Who goes there?’ Talvas shouted roughly. The low timbre of his clear voice echoed in the valley. ‘Show yourselves or we’ll root you out!’

Perspiration gathered in her palms: she had no wish to be pursued like hunting quarry. She knew they would outrun her within moments. ‘’Tis I, Emmeline de Lonnieres.’ Her voice emerged as a pathetic squeak, and she cursed herself for it. She began to climb down, slipping and sliding through the dense vegetation. Talvas flipped an irritated glance back at his squire, who raised his shaggy blond eyebrows.

‘The woman on the quayside,’ Guillame murmured, sheathing his sword and dismounting.

‘Don’t remind me,’ Talvas grimaced as he followed the maid’s descent with a resigned air. Trust his luck to tangle with this harridan once again! But as she burst out on to the track, her horse pushing up behind her, threatening to topple her over, he had to work hard not to laugh out loud. Brambles clung to the delicate cloth of her veil, the thin wool of her cloak; brambles, no doubt, that had caused the nasty-looking scratch on the bloom of her rounded cheek. Her forehead appeared to have some sort of dark-grey grit embedded in it.

‘And where are the others?’ Talvas demanded, crossing his arms across the pommel and leaning forward.

‘The others?’ She frowned, her huge green eyes perplexed. Against the richness of the men’s garb, her grey worsted bliaut appeared shabby, yet it had been the best of her meagre collection of garments when she had dressed that morning. Her underdress, of dark brown, was of slighter better quality, but only the tight sleeves were visible, emerging from the long, drooping sleeves of the bliaut.

Talvas’s eyes lit with blue fire. ‘Don’t tangle with me, mistress!’ he chastised her. ‘Where is your escort?’

‘I don’t have one.’ Emmeline shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. The cold mud of the track began to seep through her thin leather soles.

Talvas raised his eyes heavenward. ‘She doesn’t have one,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Now why don’t I find that hard to believe?’

Emmeline caught the high level of condemnation in his tone. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ she replied, defensively.

‘Then why were you hiding up there?’ His booted foot in the shining metal stirrup was on a level with her shoulder as he bent down suddenly, tugging at a bramble caught in her linen veil. She bit her lip slightly, trying to resist the urge to back away, to run. His fingers brushed against her cheek, cool and determined. Flushing under his touch, she refused to meet his eyes, letting out a tiny sigh of relief when he suddenly threw the bramble into the river. ‘Answer me, mistress,’ he demanded softly.

‘You could have been friend or foe.’ She concentrated on the scuffed toe of his leather boot.

‘Exactly.’ Talvas slapped the reins from side to side as his horse grew restless. ‘Have you any idea of the dangers in travelling alone? God in Heaven, woman, even I am sensible enough to take an escort!’ He nodded briefly at Guillame to demonstrate his point.

‘I can take care of myself.’

Talvas swept his azure gaze over the small, slight figure, deliberately allowing his eyes to travel disparagingly from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. ‘Given what I have seen of you already, mam’selle, I sincerely doubt it,’ he responded indifferently. Sweet Jesu, why should he even care? He should just leave her here alone, and to hell with the consequences! ‘Where are you headed?’

She hesitated, reluctant to divulge her destination. Behind Talvas’s head, profiled in stark detail against the steel-grey clouds, the green tops of a clump of fir trees swayed violently, shaken by the force of the gusting wind. From the top of a nearby beech tree, nude of leaves, a batch of crows rose loudly, screeching.

‘You keep us waiting, mam’selle.’ Talvas glowered at her mute, shuttered expression. Insolent chit! He’d witnessed better manners from his deckhands. He stared at her, a petite virago bristling with hostility, her stunning eyes flashing green-emerald. This reaction to him was unusual. Usually the fairer sex wished to know him better, but he always refused to let down his emotional guard. It suited him favourably, to have this little witch hate him so.

She stepped back without thinking, her heels hitting the solid rock that bordered the track. Talvas wore the expression of a man who would wait all day for the correct answer: the harsh line of his mouth, the rapier glint of his eye—all denoted a character who would not give up easily.

Emmeline sighed. ‘I travel to Torigny.’ She hunched into the meagre wool of her cloak, annoyed with herself.

‘Torigny, as we are.’ The wind ruffled the sleek darkness of his hair. ‘How strange that we should find ourselves upon the same route. You must allow us to escort you.’

But she was already shaking her head. ‘Nay, my lord. I would only hold you up. Let me go on my way and have nothing more to do with me.’ Mother of Mary! Would she never be free of him? Her right ankle was beginning to ache unbearably.

He waggled a finger at her. ‘Nay, mam’selle. Despite the fact that you are clearly one of the most insufferable, pigheaded women I have ever had the misfortune to meet, I have a duty toward you.’

She closed her eyes. Maybe this was all just a bad dream.

‘Aye, mam’selle.’ His words bore a thread of steel. ‘As knights we have a duty toward unaccompanied women. Especially young widows whose new-found independence has obviously gone to their heads.’

Reeling at his words, she clung to her horse’s neck to balance herself. ‘How do you know I’m a widow?’ Her voice sounded high and sharp in the damp air.

‘A lucky guess.’ He chuckled. ‘What did you do to the poor man? Cut him to shreds with your tongue?’ He and Guillame guffawed loudly.

Emmeline pursed her lips together, fury welling in her slender body. ‘Knights of the realm indeed!’ she scoffed. ‘I don’t believe a word of it! And I don’t have to put up with this treatment…this boorish behaviour! Let me pass!’ She tried to shove Lord Talvas’s massive black stallion out of the way with her body weight. He grabbed hold of her upper arm, hauling against the flank of the horse.

‘If it’s pretty manners and fine ways you’re after, then you’ll not find them with me,’ he growled. ‘But, aye, I completed my training, and swore my allegiance to the chivalric code, for what it’s worth. And you, mistress, are wasting our time with idle chitchat.’ Without warning, he swung low and grabbed her round the waist, lifting her in one easy movement to dump her on her horse. ‘You’re coming with us, and that’s an order.’

Chapter Four

Still rankling from Lord Talvas’s boorish treatment of her, Emmeline urged her mare forward. Fixing her gaze on the gentle, undulating motion of the horse’s neck, she tried to steady her breathing. How dare he pick her up like a sack of grain and throw her into the saddle? How dare he? His arrogant demeanour brought memories of her husband, Giffard, to mind. She would do well to remember what happened in that marriage, living through two years of taunting, verbal abuse, slaps and pinches. She endured it for her mother’s sake, as Giffard had brought money to the family, money that cushioned them through the first lean months after her father’s death. But Giffard drank, and began to drink more heavily as she avoided his advances until, one day, he had pushed her down the stairs. Emmeline had broken her ankle in the fall, but he’d kept her prisoner in the house for several days while she lay at his mercy, in agony. The bone had set awkwardly, leaving her with a permanent limp.

Fortune had been on her side, for less than a sennight later, hunters had carried Giffard’s dead body into the kitchen and laid him out with a deference he did not deserve. From that day on, she had vowed never to be controlled again, not by anyone. This man, Lord Talvas, this hulking stranger who towered over her, who glared at her with eyes of cornflower-blue, behaved exactly as Giffard had done. She could scarce remember the last time a man had touched her, yet this oaf seemed to make a habit of manhandling her, almost as if to prove his physical strength. High-handed, domineering, he was a man used to being in charge. And yet…and yet there the resemblance ended. Physically, there was no comparison. Giffard had been short, much the same height as herself, his torso running easily to fat as he approached forty winters, his massive hands continually clenched into hamlike fists. For a long time after his death, her nights were haunted by his white fleshy jowls, the sickening smell of cider brandy. She winced at the memory, dragging herself back into the present, the muddy track, the hissing sibilance of the river beside them, the great forests looming up to her right. She wouldn’t go back to that horrible time, a time when she had cowed under Giffard’s beefy fists, spent countless evenings scarcely able to move for the bruises on her body, lived in fear for her own life. She would not let it happen.

Emmeline followed Lord Talvas, bound up in her silent thoughts, while Guillame brought up the rear, the narrow track compelling the group to ride in single file. Above them the grey clouds gathered heavily, every now and again a few spots of rain falling. Emmeline prayed fervently they would reach Torigny before the heavens opened, conscious of the thin material of her cloak. She reminded herself once more why she undertook such a journey: not just for herself and the coin, but for her sister. Sylvie, who she had laughed and played with as a child; her sister, who was now in terrible trouble.

As Talvas rode in front, he dipped his head to duck beneath a low-hanging branch, rainwater springing from the soaked leaves to spangle his shoulders with shining droplets. Emmeline idly studied the muscular cords of his strong neck, just visible under the brim of his hat, before wrenching her gaze away from the broad set of his shoulders to focus on the rolling rump of his horse. How could this man, a man she had met just yesterday, have insinuated himself so completely into her life?

Having ridden for an hour or so, the group rounded a bend in the track and came upon a shallow bank of pebbles that ran down into the river. Talvas threw up his arm to stop the horses, turning in his saddle to address them.

‘Let’s stop here. The horses need to drink.’

‘And I need something to eat,’ Guillame added, nudging his horse forwards over the open patch of grass to the water’s edge. Dismounting, he undid the heavy iron buckle on the flat leather bag that lay across his horse’s rump to draw out two cloth packages. ‘Looks like the innkeeper’s wife packed us a good lunch, my lord.’ He threw one of the packets over Talvas, who caught it deftly. Emmeline urged her mare to the river’s edge, feeling at odds with the easy camaraderie of these men. Although she did business with the merchants, she normally avoided all male company, and now a wave of self-consciousness consumed her. As she released the reins, Talvas appeared at her side, his broad shoulders on a level with her thigh.

‘Can I be of assistance?’ he asked formally. Blue eyes held green.

She stared at him in surprise, unused to accepting help from men. ‘Well…I…’ she stumbled over the words, acutely aware of his nearness, his heart-stopping, saturnine face. ‘Nay, I can manage.’ She jumped down hurriedly, lest he should put his hands upon her again. Talvas tilted his head to one side, observing her with a mocking smile.

As her feet hit the ground at a strange angle, Emmeline knew instantly that she had rushed the dismount. Pain shot through her weak ankle, causing her to stumble onto one knee.

‘Steady,’ Talvas murmured. Swiftly, he grabbed her beneath her elbows to help her to her feet. ‘What ails thee, mistress? Are you hurt?’ He bent down and lifted the hem of her bliaut to reveal slim calves encased in brown knitted stockings.

Emmeline bit her lip, trying to shove his hand away. ‘Get your hands off me,’ she said angrily. ‘How dare you! I’m perfectly well, I just landed awkwardly, that’s all!’ She hated his concern, resented his nearness. He smelt of the sea; that fresh, briny tang that made her think of wide open spaces, of surf crashing onto pebbles.

Guillame had spread his cloak upon the ground, and was now opening the muslin packages to reveal floury rounds of bread, creamy cheese and chicken legs. Emmeline’s mouth watered as she eyed the succulent food.

‘Did you think to bring any sustenance?’ Talvas asked, dropping her hem back into place. ‘Or do you wish to share ours?’ He watched the flush in her cheeks subside gradually. How she hated his touch!

Emmeline had already detached the satchel from the back of her horse. ‘I have sufficient, thank you.’

‘Then sit.’ Talvas gestured toward Guillame’s cloak.

She hesitated, reluctant to walk under his searing regard, knowing he would see her limp.

‘Go on, then,’ he urged, ‘Guillame doesn’t bite.’ he stepped over to his horse, unstrapping his leather drinking flagon with deft fingers. Quickly, she lunged forward, almost falling onto the cloak in her haste to reach it before he turned round. Guillame, munching steadily on a chicken leg, seemed absorbed in his own thoughts and her ungainly advance passed without notice.

‘So, what business takes you to Torigny?’ Talvas asked conversationally as he settled himself on his own cloak beneath a large oak and began to unwrap the white muslin package. Stretching out his long legs before him, strong muscled legs encased in fawn-coloured wool and cross-gartered with leather strapping from ankle to knee, he threw her a questioning glance.

‘My own,’ she shot back, her fingers fiddling with the stiff clasp on her leather satchel, avoiding his bright searching eyes. The pain in her ankle had subsided to a dull ache; her diaphragm relaxed as she began to breathe more easily.

Talvas laughed, a booming, generous sound, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling with humour. He shook his head in disbelief at her reticence. ‘Then let us guess,’ he said. Leaning back against the wide, nubbled bark of the tree trunk, he folded his arms, raising his eyebrows slightly in mock challenge. ‘Now, Guillame, before us we have a most unusual maid, a maid who appears to abide by her own laws, without thought to her own safety, or propriety…’

Emmeline drew herself up, about to protest, but Talvas raised a flat palm to silence her. ‘A moment, mistress, let me finish.’

‘She owns her own merchant ship, her life is on the quayside with the merchants and the deckhands, yet she travels, unaccompanied, inland. For what, pray tell?’

‘To visit a relative?’ suggested Guillame, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread.

‘Or to visit someone she has never met before?’ drawled Talvas. He tipped his head back, a feral glint in his blue eyes, and smiled.

‘You know!’ She narrowed her eyes. How she disliked the way he played games with her!

‘I guessed, and your reaction has just confirmed it,’ he replied lazily.

A rose-tinted flush spread over her cheeks. ‘I overhead your squire say that the Empress needed a ship and I thought—’

‘You thought you’d made some easy coin,’ he snapped back.

Emmeline glowered at him. He made her plan sound mercenary and underhanded, as if she were trying to trick the Empress! ‘I thought, maybe, that we could help each other,’ she tried to explain, before ducking her head to concentrate on extracting an apple from her satchel.

Talvas angled his head back to drink deeply from his leather flagon. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he passed the vessel to Guillame, before pinning her with brilliant accusing eyes. Greedy little wench! They were all the same, these women; behind their beauty lay black, avaricious hearts—grasping, money-grabbing characters who would stop at nothing to achieve what they desired. Gold was the only thing that seemed to make them happy; not the other things in life, like love, or trust, or friendship. He watched Emmeline’s small white teeth take a neat bite out of her apple, tracing the fine bones in her fingers down to the fragile wrist encased in serviceable brown cloth.

She had left him because of money, the maid he had intended to marry all those years ago. Her ambition was evident from the start, from the moment he had first witnessed her fair beauty at his parents’ home in Boulogne, but his own stupidity blinded him to her true character. Employed as a lady’s maid to his mother, that maid had set about seducing him, and he, at eighteen winters, had been utterly captivated. Ignoring the worried frowns of his parents as they witnessed the constancy of his wooing, he chased after her slender figure, the bright gold of her hair, her quick smile. Their betrothal had been a time of great celebration, of festivity, especially as she carried his child, and they had agreed to formally marry when he won his spurs, his knighthood.

Talvas drew a deep, uneasy breath, feeling the air hitch in his throat. And then they had argued. Despite his parents’ wealth, he was determined to make his own fortune in life, in building and owning ships. She would not agree, wanting him to take the estates and coin that his parents offered him. Suddenly, two weeks after his daughter was born, she broke the betrothal, leaving him for a rich English nobleman, taking his newborn daughter with her. He had never seen them again. He cursed under his breath. The sharp wits and fair looks of Mam’selle de Lonnieres reminded him of that maid, of that girl from long ago who had ripped his life apart and torn it to shreds.

The sea had become his mistress, the wildness and unpredictability suiting his restless, adventurous spirit. He would take risks, uncaring as to the consequences, preferring the challenges of the sea to the domestic luxuries of home life. Women became faceless; mostly he ignored their company, except for physical solace—couplings that meant nothing to him. It mattered not; it helped him forget. No woman would ever make a fool of him again.

‘Talvas?’ Guillame’s voice broke into his thoughts over the constant rushing of the river. ‘Do you think we need to move on?’ He threw a look at the lowering sky.

‘Aye, let’s go.’ Talvas sprang to his feet, annoyed with himself for dwelling in the past. That time in his life was over, finished; he would do well to forget it completely. ‘Mam’selle de Lonnieres, have you eaten enough?’ his voice barked at her.

Emmeline threw her apple core over her shoulder and into the river. The stale bread that formed the remainder of her meal would stay firmly hidden in her bag. She had no intention of bringing out such humble fare when the men’s meal had been so lavish. But Talvas swept up her bag from the ground, turning it upside down and shaking it.

‘Is that it?’ he demanded, as Emmeline’s horrified stare riveted on the lump of bread, crumbs spattering out onto the dark red linen of Guillame’s cloak, forlorn evidence of her lack of nourishment. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m not hungry,’ she explained, a dull flush staining her face as she grabbed the bread, ashamed, and held it against her. ‘Please don’t…’ pity me, she wanted to say, but the words would not come.

‘You’d better eat that on the way, mam’selle. I don’t want you falling off your horse with hunger. We’ve still a way to go.’ Talvas chucked the satchel back into her lap, scooping his cloak from the ground and striding over to where his horse waited patiently.

Guillame was already leading her roan over to where she sat; now, he helped her up with an easy smile and boosted her into the saddle.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured gratefully. ‘You have better manners than your master.’

Guillame’s large hazel eyes assessed her gently. ‘Don’t judge him too harshly, mam’selle. He means well.’ He patted the neck of her mare.

‘Guillame, get a move on,’ Talvas shouted over. ‘Stop fussing over the maid!’ Sprinting over to Talvas, Guillame jumped into his saddle, pulling on his reins to steady his horse. Shielded from Emmeline by Talvas, he looked askance at his master.

Talvas frowned. ‘I know that look, Guillame—what ails thee?’

Guillame acknowledged Emmeline with a slight incline of his head. ‘That maid…’

‘What of her…?’

‘I didn’t see it before, but just then, up close, well, she looks remarkably like…’

‘Do not speak that name, Guillame. Never speak it!’

Emmeline’s eyes widened in amazement as she stared up at the castle of Torigny. It rose, fortresslike, from the surrounding forest vegetation, stretching above the tree tops to perch high on a craggy granite outcrop. Built directly onto the jagged contours of the rock, the smooth, slick face of the grey, angular walls glistened with a smattering of rain. The metallic gleam of the sentries’ chain-mail could just be seen through the deep crenellations at the top of each of the four towers. The red flags, the symbol of the Empress and her husband, Count Geoffrey of Anjou, fluttered vividly from the top of the towers, spots of brilliant colour in the bleakness. Behind the castle, behind this impressive symbol of power, the village of Torigny straggled out behind along a ridge in the gathering gloom, a jumbled collection of cottages and huts, woodsmoke already beginning to stream from the holes in the thatched roofs.

Emmeline drew a deep, teetering breath, her horse slowing to a stop as if sensing her trepidation as they approached. The persistent drizzle had finally worked its way through the fabric of her cloak and now crept, damp and clammy, through the soft material of her bliaut.

‘How do we get in?’ she called ahead to Talvas, viewing the towering promontory before them.

‘We must ride around to the front gate, through the town,’ Talvas explained. Pulling on his reins slightly, his leather saddle creaked as he turned toward her, his horse’s pace slackening. ‘There’s no access from this side.’ In the dusky half light, she could scarcely decipher his features, just the brilliant flash of his cerulean eyes and the suggestion of a smile. Emmeline shivered, her muscles aching from the long ride. Talvas caught her movement. ‘Having second thoughts?’ he murmured quietly. ‘’Tis formidable, is it not? Like its owner.’

‘Are you trying to scare me?’ Emmeline replied firmly, ignoring the fiery leap of fear in her veins. She lifted her arm to rub the back of her neck, trying to ease the tension.

‘Nay, mam’selle, just trying to prepare you. Come, we must continue if we are to arrive before darkness falls completely.’ Emmeline kicked her horse into a gentle walk, reluctantly acknowledging her private relief at their escort. She sincerely doubted that her courage would have pushed her to enter such a castle on her own.

Once through the town, the small party started to ride up the steep ramp to the castle entrance, until their horses’ shod hooves began to slip on the greasy cobbles.

‘Let’s dismount,’ Talvas suggested, his cloak flowing out as he swung his leg over the horse’s rump. ‘The going will be easier.’ Emmeline nodded, aware of the precipitous drop on either side of the slope; there was a distinct possibility of plunging into the undergrowth far below. Before them, two sentries stood guard at the outer gatehouse, the metallic skin of their full armour shining against the bright red of their surcoats emblazoned with the royal arms of King Henry. The two gold lions stood out against the background of red, one lion representing England, one representing Normandy. Both guards stood immediately to attention when they recognised Lord Talvas, remaining still until he and Emmeline had passed under the heavy portcullis before raising a hand in greeting to Guillame.

‘Talvas, my Lord Talvas!’ A gaunt, elegantly dressed noble strode forward across the bustling inner courtyard as eager servants ran to take their horses.

‘Earl Robert!’ Talvas’s face set with an immediate wariness as he swept the hat from his head and ran a hand through his ebony locks. ‘I had no idea that you would be at Torigny.’ His hair gleamed in the flickering light thrown by a rush torch held by Earl Robert’s servant.

‘Wherever you find the Empress, you will normally find me,’ Earl Robert replied.

‘Then your loyalty as a brother is to be admired,’ said Talvas, formally.

‘And about to be sorely tested.’ Earl Robert frowned, his interested gaze skimming Emmeline’s neat figure, the sweet pale face almost hidden in the voluminous folds of her hood. ‘I know the knight—’ Earl Robert indicated Guillame ‘—but does the maid belong to you? She’s a beauty.’

Emmeline flushed hotly in the darkness, immediately annoyed by her extreme reaction. Talvas scanned her face and body slowly, deliberately. ‘Nay, my lord, we met on the journey from Barfleur. Mam’selle de Lonnieres seeks an audience with the Empress on a particular business matter.’

Earl Robert scowled, the withered lines of his face stern and forbidding. ‘’Twill be difficult,’ he muttered, almost to himself. Suddenly he grabbed Talvas’s arm. ‘I need to speak to you…alone.’ The two men huddled into a corner of the courtyard, deep in the shadows. The torch bearer was ordered to stay by Emmeline, throwing a circle of light over her trim figure as she shifted uncertainly on the spot, conscious of servants rushing about her, intent on some chore or another. Guillame had already left, helping the servants with their horses.

Emmeline stared grimly down at the hem of her bliaut, the fabric spattered and stiff with mud from the journey. Saturated with rainwater, her cloak hung heavily from her slim shoulders, as if weighted down with boulders. In her haste to reach Torigny, she had given no thought to her impending appearance before the Empress, or to how she would look, or to what words she would choose. Bubbles of doubt peppered the surface of her consciousness. What in the name of Mary had she been thinking? She was in no fit state to meet the daughter of the King! But then, if she possessed the one thing the Empress needed, would it matter how she appeared?

Her eyes traced the shadowed breadth of Talvas as he emerged through the gloom, his mouth set in a forbidding line.

‘It is not convenient for you to see the Empress,’ he announced brusquely, ‘but you can stay the night here, and return to Barfleur on the morrow.’

‘Not convenient?’ she squawked, her eyes wide with incredulity. Her body sagged a little with exhaustion. ‘But surely if she knew I was offering my ship, she would wish to see me?’

‘Hush, keep your voice down!’ Talvas clamped a warning hand around her forearm, his piercing eyes glinting dangerously in the darkness.

‘Nay, I will not!’ She rolled her right shoulder in annoyance, trying to shake off his hold. ‘I haven’t come all this way to be fobbed off like this!’ Without thinking, she poked a slender finger into the middle of his chest.

He grabbed her hand and held it fast against the rich wool of his tunic, hauling her nearer to his muscular frame. ‘It is not convenient,’ he repeated under his breath. Under the amber torchlight, his eyes faded to a pale aquamarine.

She dragged her hand from his loose grip. Reluctantly, he allowed her soft fingers to slide against his palm, a palm hard and calloused from years of handling ropes at sea. He looked down at the top of her head, at the simple circlet of filigreed gold holding her veil securely in place, despite the wayward curls sneaking out around her pale forehead. She was breathtaking, he thought suddenly, noting the heightened flush along her cheekbones. A coil of unsteadiness rose within him; a rare whisper of feeling that danced precariously through his chest. Who was this maid to make him feel so, to ignite these emotions so long buried, emotions locked tight within his heart?

‘I said, “I haven’t come all this way to be fobbed off like this!” I will see her!’ Emmeline’s sharp tones kicked him out of his reverie. ‘Mother of Mary, anyone would think that you didn’t want it to happen!’ Her green eyes accused him under the flare of light.

I don’t, Talvas thought, I don’t want you going anywhere near the Empress. For the Earl had just told him that the King was dead, and that Maud wanted to return to England as soon as possible with her father’s body. And he knew why. To claim the throne for herself. And as his loyalty lay with Stephen, his brother-in-law, and the favoured claimant to the throne, he would do everything in his power to stop her crossing the water.

‘If she knew about my ship, then I’m sure she would see me!’ Emmeline announced deliberately in a loud voice, aware that the Earl Robert stood in the corner of the yard, murmuring something to a servant.

‘God, woman, your infernal outspokenness will be the doom of us all!’ Talvas said angrily, engulfing her shoulders with the wide sweep of his arm and starting to steer her toward the main door of the castle.

‘Lord Talvas, hold for a moment!’ The Earl strode over to them. ‘Did this maid just mention something about a ship?’

‘Nay!’ His grip tightened around her shoulders.

‘Aye!’ Emmeline flashed a triumphant look at a scowling Talvas. ‘I heard that the Empress needs to reach England, and I own a ship, anchored in Barfleur.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Lord Talvas? I think this young lady will be very useful to us. Very useful indeed.’

Earl Robert led the way to a thick oak-planked door set into the stonework of one of the four circular towers. Rush torches slung into iron brackets on either side of the doorway illuminated the entrance before they were plunged into darkness on the stairs. Fortunately a rope had been fixed onto the outside curve of the tower and Emmeline reached for it thankfully, using it as a support and a guide. She concentrated hard on maintaining her footing on the damp steps, the weakness of her right leg making her climb difficult. Above her, the heavy footfall of Earl Robert marked his direction, but of Lord Talvas behind her…no sound. She knew he was angry with her, but why? All she wanted was this chance to travel to England to visit her sister and make some money at the same time. How did it possibly affect him?

She gasped reflexively as her toe scraped the edge of the next step, grinding pain arching through her ankle as she grappled to regain her tremulous balance. Do not fall! Do not fall! To show weakness before these men would be the ultimate humiliation—she did not want their help, and she certainly did not want their pity.

‘Steady, mam’selle. The treads are uneven here.’ Talvas’s firm hand cupped her elbow as she righted herself, intensely aware of his large body on the step beneath her, warming her back, encircling her jittered senses with its immovable presence. Emmeline bit her lip. How easy it would be to fall back into his strength, to ask for help, to be cocooned in the muscled ropes of his arms. But she wouldn’t do it. She would never give in; her inner strength was enough to let her do this on her own. Her time with Giffard had made certain of that.

‘Don’t trouble yourself on my account, my lord,’ she whispered down to him. ‘Besides, I have the distinct impression that you would prefer me to fall in a heap at the bottom of the steps.’

‘Don’t tempt me, mam’selle.’ She jumped as his low voice curled into her ear, and shook her elbow to release his grip, resenting his controlling touch on her. The vehemence of her movement made him chuckle, and she turned to face him, lips set in an angry line.

‘Why do you resent it so much?’ she flashed at him. ‘’Tis but a simple business transaction that is no concern of yours!’

‘You may come to rue your outspokenness, mam’selle.’

‘You’re just trying to scare me. Why are you here anyway? I thought your plan was to travel on to Boulogne.’

He grinned. ‘So anxious to be rid of me, mam’selle? I thought you enjoyed my company. Nay, Guillame and I do not choose to ride at night.’

‘Then on the morrow we will go our separate ways?’ Her voice held an edge of relief. She had realised with shock that the difference in step heights meant her eyes were on a level with his mouth. The wide, generous lines of his mouth.

‘We shall see, mam’selle. We shall see.’

Her head swam as she felt herself drawn to the tangy smell of him, the glitter of his eyes, the lean, sardonic angles of his face. His hands settled on her neat waist, thumbs roaming outwards to encompass the delicacy of her ribcage. Strings of heat pirouetted from the light pressure of his fingers, streaking across her body into a web of desire. Words of protest formed in her mind, only to burst like bubbles in the growing, churning turmoil that was her chest; her body melted. The rapid pulse of her own breathing echoed in her head as his face leaned into hers…

‘Make haste, my lord Talvas!’ The Earl’s voice rapped down the spiral steps, sloshing over her like cold water. ‘Now is not the time for idle chit-chat!’

‘Nor anything else, my lord!’ Only the thin tremor in Emmeline’s whispered tone belied her befuddled state. Incensed at her own stupidity, she pushed furiously at his hands to find they had already dropped away, leaving her sides cold.

‘My intention was only to steady you, mam’selle.’ The guttural rasp of his voice startled her by its terseness. She flounced around and began to climb the stair once more. In the clammy half light, Talvas watched her move away, his eye travelling over the alluring lines of her petite figure, the seductive sway of her skirts. As she had faced him on the stair, the sheer beauty of her delicate features had caught him unawares, carried him back to a time before responsibility, a time before his ill-fated betrothal. For one beautiful moment, she had made him forget who he was. The luminous energy in her face, the feistiness of her nature: all attracted him with a force he was unprepared for, a powerful enchantment that for the sake of his sanity, he had to resist. And resist her he would.

Chapter Five

After the darkness of the stairs, the light in the royal solar made her blink in surprise. Emmeline stared around her, astounded by the beauty of the room. Sumptuous tapestries adorned the stone walls, the skill of the workmanship evident in their fine, colourful detail. Furs piled high on the four-poster bed, elaborate curtains tied back during the day and a crowd of thick yellow candles, secured into heavy ironwork candle-stands, spilled fat globules of wax over their sides. Over by the narrow window embrasure, shuttered against the evening draughts, a baby and a little boy of about two winters played on a rug with one of the ladies-in-waiting.

The Empress Maud sat in a carved oak chair in the middle of the chamber, head on one side, listening to one of her ladies playing the harp. Her eyes, red and puffy as if she had been crying, were closed as the sweet notes permeated the room, but one of her ladies bent down to murmur in her ear, alerting her to the visitors. Maud tilted her head, opening her eyes wide to direct an irritable hazel stare toward the threshold. The annoyance slipped from her features as she realised the identity of the guests.

‘Earl Robert.’ She stretched her hand toward her half-brother, white fingers alive with heavy, glittering rings. Earl Robert moved his long frame forwards, knelt and kissed the royal hand. The Empress’s gaze flew over Emmeline’s head to Talvas. ‘And Lord Talvas!’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘Come, come nearer, my lord. I have not had the pleasure of your company for some months!’ Talvas covered the distance in one stride, before dropping to one knee to kiss the pale flesh of the Empress’s fingers.

‘To be in your presence is an honour, my lady,’ Talvas greeted her formally. ‘I am only sorry we have come at such a sad time for you.’

The Empress’s eyes sprang to the Earl, then back to Talvas. ‘The Earl told you the news.’ Her eyes watered slightly.

Still on the threshold, hidden from the Empress’s view by the broad backs of the two men, Emmeline listened to the exchange with interest, aware of an undercurrent of tension within the room. The ladies-in-waiting, scattered like bright jewels around the chamber, appeared to be immersed in their various tasks, but Emmeline sensed their ears were fixed to the Empress’s every word. As she shifted stealthily from one foot to the other, trying to relieve the pressure of standing on her weak ankle, the Empress noticed her.

‘And who might you be?’ The Empress raised her arm, encased in a tight sleeve of the finest merino wool, to point imperiously at Emmeline. A slight sneer pulled at her lip as she looked toward Earl Robert for an explanation. Acutely conscious that all eyes in the chamber were upon her, Emmeline lifted her chin and took a pace forward.

‘I am Mam’selle de Lonnieres, my lady.’ Her voice echoed clearly around the chamber, and she cursed herself for appearing too bold. To her surprise, the Empress clapped her hands together, a smile lighting her round face as she turned to Earl Robert in excitement.

‘Aha! You have secured a passage to England, have you not?’

‘I have done nothing,’ Robert admitted, moving to stand close by the Empress’s chair, his hand on her shoulder. His pale gaze raked Emmeline’s slender figure, his mouth twisting with derision as he noted the roughness of her garments. ‘I overheard her say to Lord Talvas that she owned a ship.’

‘Then Fortune smiles upon us,’ said Maud, leaning forward. ‘Come closer, maid, that I may look upon you.’ She gestured with one heavily bejewelled hand.

Emmeline took two paces forward, curtsying as low as she dared. Maud seized her fingers excitedly, dragging her upwards. ‘When can the ship be ready?’

‘The ship is ready now,’ Emmeline explained. ‘It is only a matter of finding crew…and a captain. As the winter storms are upon us, it may be difficult to find willing hands…it may take more coin to persuade them.’

Talvas snorted behind her.

‘Coin I have plenty of.’ The Empress waved her hand dismissively in the air. ‘But we must travel as soon as possible.’

‘It would be advisable to wait until spring, my lady,’ Talvas countered, his voice emerging deep and low from somewhere behind Emmeline.

The Empress screwed up her brown-button gaze with distaste. ‘I can’t wait ’til spring, Talvas! Are you out of your mind? I need to travel to England now!’ Maud half rose from her chair, clearly agitated, her mouth compressed to a thin white line, before she collapsed back into the seat. At the window embrasure, the youngest child started to grizzle. ‘God in Heaven! Will that child never be quiet?’ Maud drew a hand across her forehead. ‘Am I to have no peace in my own chamber?’ Clutching one fist around the arm of the chair, she turned back to Emmeline. ‘Now, how much gold do you think you will need to be ready to sail in two days’ time?’

Emmeline held back from naming a figure. ‘There is another condition.’ She shifted uncomfortably under the Earl’s constant perusal, a coil of uneasiness snaking through her insides.

‘Name it,’ Maud said.

‘I wish to travel to England with you.’

The Empress gave a narrow, tight-lipped smile. ‘In truth, maid, I would be glad of your company. Most of my ladies are useless at travelling, and I would prefer it if they stayed with the children. You can come as my lady’s maid.’

‘I would prefer to come as your equal.’

Shocked, Maud leaned back abruptly in her chair. A hush fell over the room, as if the walls held their breath. A muscle jerked in the Earl’s sunken cheek.

‘You are bold for a maid,’ the Empress answered slowly, her mouth stretching to a terse smile. ‘But I admire your spirit.’ She shifted her regard to her half-brother, who hung over her chair like a shadow. ‘I like this girl, Robert.’

‘I like her, too,’ he responded. An uneven menace punched his tone. His fingers clenched around the top carving along the chair back, and he looked as if he could scarce restrain himself from openly licking his lips.

Maud switched her beady eyes back to Emmeline, the finely spun silk of her veil glistening in the candlelight. ‘Take care that you do not overstep the mark with me, young maid. I am not known for my kind nature.’ Her brown eyes narrowed. ‘Now, I can offer you twenty gold coins for your ship.’

Emmeline schooled her features to remain blank, to show no reaction to the offer. She had hoped to gain a little more. Slowly, she folded her arms over her chest, mimicking negotiation patterns of old. ‘I will need more than that to persuade Captain Lecherche and his crew. Let us say thirty.’ By naming a far higher price she hoped they would meet somewhere in the middle.

Earl Robert frowned, and bent over to whisper into Maud’s ear. Maud nodded, then shrugged. ‘We are somewhat at your mercy, mam’selle. But remember, as royalty I could have you thrown into the dungeon for insubordination and seize the ship in my father’s name. You are fortunate that I like you. Shall we agree on twenty-five?’

‘I will do it for nothing,’ Talvas moved to stand beside Emmeline.

Her head whipped round as his melodious tones broke her concentration. Fury plucked at her veins as she glared at the rounded curve of his muscular shoulder, the strong cords of his neck. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ she hissed, clutching at his forearm. Her mind struggled to comprehend his thinking.

He ignored her, his eyes on the Empress.

Maud clapped her hands, laughing. ‘Dear Talvas, of course! You can captain the ship…’

‘And I have a willing crew,’ he added drily.

‘I still need twenty-five for the hire of the ship’ gabbled Emmeline, aware that the deal was nearly lost. She wanted to kill Talvas!

‘Don’t push your luck, mam’selle,’ Talvas murmured. He brushed her clasping fingers away from his forearm. His words dropped over her like a steel net, as if he pulled on an invisible mesh, halting her speech.

The Empress folded her arms over her ample bosom, a faint glow of satisfaction on her face. She murmured to the Earl, before leaning back in her chair, exhausted, and closing her eyes.

Robert laced his fingers before him. ‘We can give you fifteen gold coins for the ship, mam’selle. Take it or leave it.’

She had to take it.

Emmeline scrubbed her slim white arms viciously with a soft linen washcloth, still fuming at Talvas’s offer to the Empress. How dare he interfere with her plans? He had effectively robbed her of ten gold coins, damn him! Ten gold coins…money that would have bought her mother and her much needed food over the lean winter months when La Belle Saumur would be unused, dragged high up on the beach for safety. But at least with the fifteen coins they would not starve and she still had managed to secure her own passage to England.

‘Shall I wash your hair now, mistress?’ Maud had sent one of her own maids, the docile Beatrice, to attend to Emmeline before the evening’s feasting.

‘Pardon…? Oh, I’m sorry, Beatrice. Aye, go ahead.’ As Beatrice poured a delicious stream of warm water over her loosened hair and down her back, Emmeline flexed the strained muscles in the back of her neck, rolling her shoulders forward to try and relieve the stiffness. Sighing, she tried to allow the heat of the water to steady her frazzled nerves, to temper her annoyance, to try to forget that man! But as she tipped her head back and Beatrice began to soap her scalp, vivid scenes of the day began to play exhaustingly in her mind; images that inevitably, inexorably, led to a pair of bright, disapproving eyes.

The wrought-iron door latch clicked upwards.

Emmeline’s eyes lifted to those of the servant, as her fingers drifted through the layer of sweet-smelling rose petals scattered on the surface of the water. ‘I don’t deserve this attention,’ she murmured.

‘No, you most certainly don’t.’ Talvas’s familiar tones cut across the chamber. Beatrice’s mouth widened to a large ‘O’. Emmeline criss-crossed her arms across her bosom. ‘Get out!’ she cried through gritted teeth, sinking down into the water, hoping—nay, praying that he couldn’t see over the high level of the wooden bath tub.

‘I came to see if you needed an escort to the great hall.’ Folding his arms high on his chest, Talvas leant against the stone wall. It amused him to see this virago at a loss as to how to deal with him, especially when she had no clothes on. The gleam of her pearly white shoulder hooked his glance, peeking above the edge of the tub. Beatrice flustered around, trying to find a towel to cover Emmeline, knocking her shin against an elaborately carved oak coffer in her haste.

‘I have no need of you ever again,’ Emmeline bit out, anger beginning to take precedence over the embarrassment of her nakedness. He couldn’t see very much from where he stood, of that she was certain. ‘You have caused enough trouble already. How dare you interfere with my plans?’

‘I was just trying to save the Empress some money,’ he replied. ‘You drive a hard bargain, mistress.’

‘I normally do.’ She whipped her head around, eyes sparking with anger. ‘At least I do when my plans aren’t scuppered by some infernal man!’

Talvas grinned, the corners of his mouth turning up to make his face seem much younger than his years. ‘So glad that you hold such a high opinion of me,’ he countered. ‘But with thirty gold coins the Empress could have raised a whole fleet of ships to cross the Channel.’ His tone sounded laconic, amused.

‘She would have paid it—’ Emmeline seethed ‘—if you hadn’t interfered.’

‘Does it really mean that much to you?’ The green depths of his eyes drilled into her. ‘The money, I mean.’

Incredulity washed over her face. ‘Are you completely mad? Of course it does! How else do you think my mother and I have enough to live on?’ She tore her gaze from him and studied the surface of the water, water that was rapidly losing its heat. Jiggling her legs, the ripples pooling away from her knees and lapping the wooden sides, she tried to warm up. ‘Now get out.’

Talvas smiled. ‘When I’m good and ready.’

Emmeline drew her knees up to her chest, looping her hands around them. She would rather freeze to death than give him the satisfaction of watching her climb from the bath. ‘Why did you offer to captain the ship?’

‘To annoy you.’

She ignored him. ‘Surely you planned to travel to Boulogne?’

‘It matters not to me whether I stay here or return to England.’ Talvas shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘I have castles and lands in both.’

‘And you condemn me for trying to squeeze an extra ten gold coins from the Empress!’ she flung back at him, green eyes blazing. He obviously had no idea what it was like to live from hand to mouth, to worry each day where the next meal was coming from. She shook her head. ‘Why not choose to stay here? I will find another captain.’

‘So desperate to be rid of me, mam’selle? Nay, I will travel to England.’ The tempting upper curve of her breast snared his gaze, just visible after she turned her head.

‘Unluckily for me.’ Her fingers scrabbled for the towel that Beatrice held out to her, wrapping it around her shoulders and rising in one movement so that the towel’s soft folds covered her nakedness.

Talvas’s breath caught. Her hair, darkened by the water, straggled out in ripples over the rough gathers of the towel, falling to her hips from the pale shimmer of her face. ‘What’s the matter, mam’selle?’ His voice spiralled sarcastically into her ear. ‘Suddenly regretting your generosity to the Empress now that I’ll be at the helm?’

‘It wasn’t supposed to be generosity,’ she spat back. ‘She was supposed to pay well for the privilege.’

‘You still have fifteen gold coins,’ he replied. The humour dropped from his face. ‘Your greed will get the better of you one day.’

She wrapped the towel more tightly around her, her face flushing. He made her transaction with the Empress sound underhand and dishonest. ‘I have done nothing to be ashamed of.’ She drew herself up, conscious that Beatrice had retreated to a far corner of the room. ‘I realise that high-born nobles such as yourself would not dirty your lily-white hands with “trade”, but the rest of us have to earn a living. How dare you judge me!’

Rocking back on his heels, Talvas stared at her vivid, animated features, her wide, determined eyes and knew himself to be chastised. In that moment he witnessed the raw tenacity and courage within the graceful lines of her face. The loosely woven folds of linen gathered around her shoulders to frame the delicate column of her neck, the pale colour of the fabric emphasising the heightened pink of her cheeks, the flashing emerald of her eyes. From deep within him, the beating lump that was his heart, a lump devoid of all feeling and emotion, softened imperceptibly.

‘I stand corrected,’ he demurred, grudgingly admiring her verve.

‘Beatrice can escort me to the great hall,’ she continued haughtily. ‘Now leave us be.’

‘As you wish.’ He ducked his midnight locks into a bow, before sweeping one last look over the tempting sight before him.

As the door closed behind him, her lungs expelled a huge gust of air. Grasping the edge of the tub, the wood slipping beneath her fingers, she stepped out cautiously, mindful of her leg. Before she had time to catch the chill of the air, Beatrice had enveloped her in another large linen square and led her to a low stool in front of the fire.

‘That man,’ Emmeline said, almost to herself, but shaking her head at Beatrice.

‘He’s very handsome,’ the maid replied.

‘More like very irritating.’ Emmeline sat down smartly on the low stool as Beatrice began to run an ivory comb through her long tresses. When she had finished, the girl moved over to the oak coffer and, opening it, began to rummage through a rippling pile of clothes, before triumphantly holding up two richly decorated garments with a satisfied smile.

‘Here, my lady, these should suit.’

Emmeline shifted her gaze, gasping. ‘Nay, Beatrice, they are too good for the likes of me. I shall wear my own clothes.’ She pulled her own threadbare linen chemise over her nakedness before the servant had time to argue and glanced around for her coarse woollen underdress.

Dismay clouded Beatrice’s soft, rounded features. ‘I took the liberty of sending your garments to be washed. Mam’selle, they were caked in mud. Did I do wrong?’

Emmeline shook her head quickly, anxious to erase the forlorn look on the servant’s face. ‘Nay, nay, forgive me, Beatrice. I’m not used to being looked after. Please, dress me as you wish.’

Smiling, Beatrice dropped a loose undertunic of light green wool over Emmeline’s head. The customary tight sleeves accentuated the slenderness of her arms, the fragility of her wrists. Emmeline gaped in astonishment as Beatrice produced the overgown, a magnificent garment wrought of the finest pale gold silk. A thread of darker gold had been used to embroider a complicated pattern around the deep slashed ‘V’ of the neck and the hem-line. The same pattern decorated the wide, hanging sleeves, the points of which almost touched the ground. As Beatrice laced the sides of the dress, tugging the rich fabric into her slender curves, a sense of imprisonment fell over Emmeline. Her whole body yearned to jump up, yank away the restrictive garments and ride like mad from the confining walls of this castle, back to her home, her ship, back to where she was safe. Yet nobody threatened her directly unless…unless she counted Lord Talvas. In his presence her sense of vulnerability increased, a feeling of balancing along a very narrow ledge where her destiny was uncertain. She didn’t feel secure around him—the man unnerved her, threw her off course. It wasn’t just the castle she had to get away from, it was him.

‘Mam’selle, your bag.’ Emmeline took the embroidered pouch gratefully, her thumb idly tracing over the familiar raised stitches that decorated the surface of the material, before she slipped her girdle through the two loops on top of the pouch. She twisted impatiently on the stool as Beatrice looped and braided the shining golden mass of her hair before securing a delicate silk veil to the top of her head with a circlet of filigreed silver. Long pins, topped with amethyst, held the veil in place.

‘Oh, my lady…’ Beatrice clapped a hand to her mouth as she viewed her work ‘…you are a beauty.’

Emmeline frowned at the compliment, jumping up from the stool, attempting to smooth down the skirts that flowed out gently from her slender frame.

‘’Tis pretty,’ she acknowledged, ‘but I have no call for garments such as these. Now, as you have finished, mayhaps you could tell me the direction of the great hall?’

Guillame gently led Talvas’s snorting destrier into the shadowed quiet of the vast stables of Torigny. The fresh, clean scent of hay mingled with the strong smell of horse sweat and manure; countless grooms, some not above six winters and shivering in their ragged clothes, ran hither and thither attending the many needs of the horses. Easing the large weight of the horse to one side by hefting his bulky shoulder into the animal’s flank, Guillame managed to secure the animal with a piece of flax rope to the iron loop set into the wall alongside the manger. He had managed to beg a half bucket of oats from the kitchen stores, knowing that the constant lengthy journeys from Torigny to the coast had taken its toll on the animals, both on Talvas’s powerful warhorse and his own nimble courser.

Noting with content that both horses munched happily, Guillame began to work at the caked-on mud from the destrier’s coat, using a stiff-bristled brush that he had found hanging from a peg in the stable wall. It was difficult to see if his work made any difference; the stables were lit by a single torch, prudently slung in a bracket on the outside of the wide doorway, to prevent any stray spark landing on the hay. Relaxing into the rhythm of the work, Guillame jumped as Talvas stepped into the stable.

‘You astonish me, Guillame.’ A thread of irritability laced Talvas’s tone as he studied his squire’s industry. ‘Why not let one of the grooms do that?’

Guillame smiled. ‘Nay, I prefer to do it. I know these animals.’ He paused in the repetitive strokes of the brush, aware that Talvas had not sought him out for idle chit-chat. ‘How was the Empress?’

Talvas grimaced, moving into the dimness of the stables, his gaze darting quickly along the many stalls to check that they were alone. All the grooms seemed to have disappeared, no doubt keen not to miss the evening’s feasting. ‘That stupid chit,’ he said, finally, ‘I should have left her on the road!’ He thumped his fist against one of the wooden uprights that supported the stable roof.

‘I assume you refer to Mam’selle de Lonnieres?’ Guillame confirmed quietly, smiling to himself as he resumed his brushing. He was used to Talvas’s ways; as young boys they had trained as knights together under the auspices of Talvas’s father, Count Eustace of Boulogne, and had remained friends ever since.

‘Who else?’ Talvas replied, exasperated. ‘Who else could thwart our plans so?’

‘In what way?’

‘She has only agreed to loan her ship to transport the Empress back to England. Christ in Heaven! It’s the last thing that we want! The last thing that Stephen wants!’ He bashed his fist against the upright once more.

Guillame frowned. ‘It’s my fault. I should not have spoken of the Empress so openly on the quayside.’

‘You weren’t to know it would lead to this.’ Talvas rubbed his chin distractedly. ‘I had to offer to captain the vessel. Now Maud has made up her mind to travel to England, Stephen would want me to keep an eye on her. Maud seems to trust me at the moment.’

‘Do you think the Empress will do anything?’

‘She says the journey is to bury her father in England. Who knows what she might do otherwise? She keeps her secrets to herself.’ Talvas stared at the horses for a moment. ‘Christ, who could believe such an unassuming chit could cause so much mayhem!’

‘The Empress?’ Guillame teased.

‘Mam’selle de Lonnieres!’ Talvas raised his eyebrows in exasperation.

‘It’s been a long time since a woman moved you in such a way,’ Guillame stated calmly.

‘Moved me to want to strangle her, you mean!’ Talvas grinned, a flash of even white teeth in the gloom that made his face seem younger. ‘She is infuriating, I’ll grant her that! Maud is adamant she is travelling…so we must travel with her.’

Holding her expensive gown high above the damp flagstones, Emmeline trod quietly in her borrowed shoes of soft leather. The rush torch in her left hand spattered, spitting loose cinders, filling the air with the smell of rancid animal fat. Sounds of the feasting carried through the rank air: occasional bursts of laughter, the sweet notes of harp and lyre. Lifting her head, she tried to decipher the direction of the sound. The castle seemed to be an interminable labyrinth of dark, narrow passages, each twisting and looping back on themselves to confuse the unsuspecting visitor. As she descended a narrow stairwell, the sounds faded and she stopped abruptly, intending to retrace her steps.

‘Good evening, mistress.’

Emmeline whipped round in shock as the low, grating tones of Earl Robert fell upon her. His thin, spindly frame stood at the top of the narrow steps, blocking her exit. His mean little eyes roved her small frame greedily, sucking in the details of her exquisite attire. ‘I see Beatrice managed to find you some suitable garments.’ He dropped down one step. ‘Most suitable.’ An edge of excitement stained his tone. Emmeline curled her fingers into her palms, willing her heart to slow down.

‘It was most kind of her,’ Emmeline replied blandly.

‘They really suit you very well.’ The Earl descended the last two steps, raising bony fingers to touch her cheek. Emmeline wrested her head back, almost knocking it on the wooden door behind her. ‘To walk around the castle on your own is dangerous. Let me escort you to the great hall.’ A false inflection marked his tone; he intended nothing of the kind.

‘I must go.’ A scratching fear lined her throat.

‘I think not, my lady. Your beauty draws me and I would have a slice of it.’

‘Nay…nay!’ She backed away, only to have the iron rivets of a door press into her back. ‘Let me pass, my lord.’

‘Not until I have a kiss…and a promise.’ He smiled suggestively at her, openly staring at the curving swell of her breasts. ‘Come, mistress, no one would know.’

‘I will tell your sister, the Empress!’ she threatened.

‘Hah! Do you think she really cares about the likes of you! All she wants is your ship, and she will stop at nothing to reach England! Besides, she would not deprive me of the occasional dalliance.’

Emmeline stared at his gaunt, raw-boned expression, watched the anger fleck his eyes. God in Heaven, the man was exactly as Giffard had been.

‘Yield, my lady, otherwise I may not be able to answer for my actions.’ She caught the stale scent of his breath as he whispered in her ear. ‘I could break you with one blow—is that the way you want to play it?’

‘I don’t want to play at all!’ Emmeline thrust the burning torch into the Earl’s face. Howling in pain, he staggered to one side, hands covering his eyes as Emmeline sprung up the steps, the smell of burning hair acrid in her nostrils.

‘I will have you, you little bitch!’ he screamed after her.

With no torch, Emmeline ran blindly, swiftly, albeit with a peculiar, loping style. She pushed herself on, stumbling around corners, tripping over uneven flagstones, desperate to find some kind of light to run toward. But everywhere was pitch-black. Fear knocked at her chest as Earl Robert’s outraged bellows pursued her down the corridor, closely followed by his pounding footsteps.

‘Oof!’ She ran straight into a hard, unyielding body. Sweet Jesu! How had she been so wrong as to her direction? Surely Earl Robert had been behind her? Immediately she began to struggle, to hit out against the broad frame that held her close, lifted her, carried her easily toward a side-chamber. She kicked his shins with her toes, wriggling and writhing, but to no avail. The door thudded behind her.

‘Nay…nay…you will not touch me!’ she yelled. ‘I am Emmeline de Lonnieres, not some base-born serving wench!’

‘Then stop behaving like one!’ a cool voice poured into her ear. ‘And stop shouting! Your cries will lead him straight to you!’ She slumped, quivering with relief. It was Talvas, Talvas who held her firmly by the shoulders, keeping her upright.

‘I—’

‘Hush!’ The single word unfurled round her like a balm. Great arms of unbreakable power girdled tight around her back and chest as Earl Robert blundered along the passageway outside, his progress marked by guttural curses and heavy breathing. And then…nothing. The silence grew in the small room, a powerful, expectant silence, swollen with tension.

With his arms still cradling the diminutive maid, Talvas was acutely conscious of her soft body melding to his chest, the rose perfume of her hair rising in the air around him. The need to crush her feminine curves to his muscular length, to bury his face in the glistening coils of her hair, flooded his senses; his reaction made him angry. His arms dropped.

‘Thank you.’ The delicate lilt of her voice filled the icy darkness, seeking him out.

‘’Tis no matter.’

‘I was trying to find the great hall.’ She felt the need to explain, to give him reasons.

‘On your own.’ His voice snaked out from the shadows, inflexible with scorn. ‘I thought you said Beatrice would escort you?’

‘I just said that to get you out of the chamber. I have no need of Beatrice to lead me from one side of the castle to the other.’

‘I should have insisted,’ he murmured in the darkness.

‘Why would you?’ she threw back, surprised. ‘You are not my protector.’ Nay, he was not. Then why his desire to be at her side, to shield her from harm, to watch over her? ‘It was a simple enough task, my lord, one I could easily do on my own.’

‘And if I hadn’t come along?’ Talvas stepped closer to her sylphlike frame, enticingly shadowed in the half light. He wanted to shake her, force her to admit her vulnerability, her stupidity. ‘What would have happened, mam’selle?’

A hot tide of humiliation washed her skin. ‘I owe you no explanation, my lord,’ she replied tartly. ‘It’s enough that I got away from him. Now, shall we go?’

‘What would have happened, mistress?’ His repeated question ground into her. The heat from his breath stirred her veil; he stood too close!

‘I know not.’

‘Don’t play me for a fool, mistress. He would have dragged you into a nearby chamber, thrown up your skirts and—’

‘Stop! I don’t want to hear it!’

‘Because it’s the truth?’ His intoxicating scent of leather, overlaid with a tang of the sea, wrapped around her. A strange kindling sensation sputtered and flared along her veins. What was happening to her?

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she whispered. A tremulous fluidity entered her limbs, threatening to buckle her. Her heart raced. He stood but a handspan away, but she still couldn’t see his face.

‘Because, mam’selle, you are a danger to yourself. You’re a woman, you haven’t the physical strength to fight in a man’s world.’ His fingers itched to curve around her small body, the memory of her slender frame rising gracefully from the bathtub jarring his memory.

‘I’ve been doing it since my father died.’ The amulet at her throat cooled her heated skin.

‘Do you want me to prove it?’ As if under a spell, his fingers touched the velvet bloom of her cheek.

‘I…’ The words died in her mouth as his large hands cupped the perfect oval of her face and lifted her mouth to his. His firm lips brushed over hers—a fleeting, seductive graze that slammed flames of desire straight to her heart. That was all that he had intended, the briefest kiss to teach her a lesson, to expose her vulnerability. Yet from the moment his lips met hers, an overwhelming desire to crush her light frame to his, to feast himself on her delicious curves, to utterly vanquish her, threatened to break down his own hard-won defences.

He pulled away.

Bereft at the loss of his touch, Emmeline stared at his shadow, confused, angry. How could she have let him touch her like that? Hadn’t she learned anything from being in that hateful marriage with Giffard? All men wanted to control, to curb, to possess. She wanted none of that. Hot, angry tears welled in her eyes as she fumbled along the wall for the door latch; she had to get out, to go. Her fingers found the latch at the same time as his did; their fingers locked, his cool and strong, hers warm and yielding. She wrenched her hand away as if stung.

‘Don’t you ever, ever, do that again,’ she whispered, a shuddering eddy marking her voice.

He yanked the door open. The light, filtering down the passageway from the great hall, threw his features into strong relief. It was if they had been carved from stone: his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes hard and angry.

‘’ Tis a promise.’

Chapter Six

The greasy smell of roasted hog thickened the air of the great hall, mingling with the honeyed scent of strong mead and eye-smarting wood smoke. From time to time a huge billow of smoke belched out from the fireplace set into the thick wall stones, filling the space with a warm fog that lent the scene a dreamlike quality. Chatter and laughter spilled from the long trestle tables, trestles crowded with people whose livelihoods depended on the castle and its lands. Young knights who had sworn fealty to the Empress’s husband, the Count of Anjou, jostled for space with the peasants who tilled the soil.

Maud surveyed the scene with a haughty glance from her superior position at the top table, her mouth compressed to a thin line. Now and again, she muttered a few words to Robert who sat to her right, bending his head solicitously to her every word, a livid red patch marking his cheek. Nausea rose in Emmeline’s belly as she viewed the Earl from the far end of the table, the memory of his horrible words pursuing her down the corridor like a promise. She wondered how he had explained the mark on his face—would it jeopardise her chance of travelling with Maud?

On her left, Talvas speared a piece of meat with his short hunting knife, the jewelled hilt sparkling in the candlelight. Since their hushed encounter in the antechamber, since he had all but dragged her into the hall, he had uttered not one word to her, his expression icy and withdrawn.

‘What happened between you and him?’ The roughness of his tone made her jump as he stabbed his gleaming knife point in the direction of Earl Robert.

‘I thrust a flaming torch into his face,’ she replied simply, shifting away from him as the curve of his elbow brushed her sleeve.

Talvas raised his eyebrows. ‘Did you not consider what the consequences might be before attacking a member of the nobility?’

She baulked at the censoriousness in his tone. ‘You have no right to criticise me!’ she hissed. ‘What did you expect me to do, roll over and take it?’ The tanned, lean angles of his face remained impassive, blank. ‘It was the only way.’ A note of desperation crept into her voice. ‘He wouldn’t let me pass…he…’ Her fingers shook. How could she tell him her reaction to the Earl had been instinctive, a conditioned reflex honed from her few years of marriage? She stared miserably at the congealing lumps of beef stew on her platter.

‘The way he regards you…I like it not.’ The abruptness in his voice surprised her, as did its content. She shrugged her shoulders, anxiety fizzing along her veins. Her fingers traced the gap between the oaken planks that made up the top table.

‘He makes me afeard,’ she admitted in a breathless rush. There! She’d said it. Let him laugh if he must.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Talvas replied. ‘I’m somewhat afeard of him myself!’

Astonished, Emmeline trailed her gaze along the tall, brawny length of him, the bulk of his shoulders, the width of his chest. ‘You…? How can you possibly…?’ she stopped, a brief smile curving her lips. ‘You don’t have to humour me! I’m sure I’ll be able to handle him the next time.’

‘There won’t be a next time,’ Talvas replied, marvelling at the way her smile lit up her whole face, the look of an angel. ‘Either Guillame or myself will sleep before your chamber door tonight.’

‘There’s no need—’ she began, but he stopped her speech with a shake of his head.

‘Enough talking, mam’selle. Now eat up, for we leave for Barfleur early on the morrow, and I do not tolerate tardiness.’

‘I’ll be ready,’ she promised softly, relief etching her voice.

Emmeline jerked awake, blood hurtling through her veins in panic. Frowning, she sat up abruptly, trying to catch the tail end of her nightmare, but the wisps of detail fled before her conscious mind could snare them. Pushing back her long hair matted in front of her eyes, she stared blankly into the dimness of her own chamber, her gaze seeking and then tracing over the familiar shapes around her. As her eyes adjusted to the half light, she threw back the bed furs, the bearskin pelt slipping under her fingers like velvet, and swung her feet carefully to the floor. Her right ankle ached in the cool draught that swirled about the oak planks and she grabbed a fur from the bed to throw over the thin linen of her nightgown. Tip-toeing toward the window, finding her way by instinct rather than by sight, she opened one of the wooden shutters and looked out.

The chilly night air flowed briskly over her face, refreshing her skin, allowing her to compose her senses. Talvas and Guillame had escorted her back to Barfleur during the day, a journey of furious pace with little conversation. It had been as much as Emmeline could do to keep up with the incessant pace of the men, sensing their irritation as she slowed them up with the plodding steps of the grey palfrey. Now Talvas and Guillame lodged at the inn along the waterfront. Talvas had bid her good-night with a stern glint in his eye, promising to collect her in the morning to begin the process of loading the Empress and her party onto the ship.

She realised now the contents of the vivid dream that had awoken her, the dream of her father’s death, an unforgettable repetition of the night his ship went down. She had been fifteen at the time, and standing on the shore with her proud mother and Sylvie, watching her father’s latest masterpiece, Le Poisson, depart from Barfleur. On board had been a good number of Norman and English nobles, happy and exuberant after another victory against the French king. Emmeline had watched the numerous barrels of wine ferried on board, no doubt to be drunk in celebration of the victory. Not one hour later, the same casks had bobbed amongst the mangled wreckage after the drunken crew had steered the vessel onto the treacherous rocks outside the harbour. All lives had been lost. Emmeline and her family could only watch in horror as the screams of the drowning men echoed over the noise of the crashing waves. She jammed her fists to her ears, trying to erase the memory of those terrible, tortured screams.

Through the black, angular shadows of the town buildings, Emmeline stared out bleakly, catching the icy glint of the sea in the full moonlight. She couldn’t see the broad hulk of La Belle Saumur, but she knew the vessel would be in the sheltered waters of the harbour, bobbing at anchor. Knowing that sleep would continue to evade her, Emmeline closed the iron latch on the shutters firmly. She had to go out there, to familiarise herself with the vessel once more if she were to travel to England. She hadn’t been on board since her father’s death. It was a job she needed to do alone, and if she went now, it would be possible.

Rummaging in her wooden chest, she found some of her father’s old clothes piled at the bottom; braies of a dull grey colour, a linen undershirt crumpled from disuse and a ragged woollen tunic, smelling slightly of damp. She dragged these items quickly over her head. Her own sturdy boots, and a wide leather hat clamped over her tightly braided hair and secured under her chin with a thin strap, completed the outfit.

Heaving one of the smaller rowing boats down off the shingle to the single curling line of white froth at the sea’s edge, Emmeline wondered at the sanity of her idea. The weakness in her ankle made her movements unsteady and slow, her leather-shod feet slipping and sliding over the round pebbles as she inched the boat downwards. The smooth, glassy surface of the water should have made her feel less worried about her mission: in the flooding moonlight, the wind was a mere breath and La Belle Saumur appeared much closer than she had originally envisaged. But her hands still shuddered with effort as she gave the boat one last mighty push, at the same time throwing herself onto the seat and wedging the oars into the oar-locks. Her shove had created enough forward momentum to start her off and now she dipped the paddles in and hauled with all the strength she could muster.

Emmeline rowed steadily, the rhythmic dipping and splashing of the oars lulling her, the competent stretching of the muscles in her shoulders and back making her revel in the power of her own body. Now and again, she turned to look at the great, brooding sides of La Belle Saumur lumbering out of the gloom behind her, assessing her direction.

The rowing boat bumped gently against the side of the ship, and Emmeline grabbed at the frayed end of the rope ladder that dangled over the side to pull herself in. Securing her boat to an iron ring, corroded and flaky with orange rust and bolted to the ship’s side, she drew in the heavy oars and laid them securely in the bottom of the boat. Above her, the curved hull loomed. The rope ladder, manufactured from the finest Irish flax, slapped encouragingly against the side, urging her on. Chest pounding, jaw locked with steadfast determination, she launched herself at the ladder. Through the leather of her boots, the flexible rungs bit into the tender arches of her feet as she hauled her slender frame up with difficulty, rolling over the wooden guard-rail to drop quietly on to the deck.

Emmeline stopped, hot from the exertion. Since her foot had been damaged, she often had to work far harder to be able to do anything physical. Curse Giffard! Curse that man who had been her husband! Her rapid breathing boomed in her ears, blocking out all other sound. Her heart pounded and she grasped the guard-rail to steady herself, to catch her breath. She rubbed at the soft worn wood under her fingers. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to concentrate on the imperceptible rocking of the ship, the slight creaking of the timbers as the vessel moved against the swell. She opened her eyes to look around the once-familiar details of the ship, a ship that before her father’s death had been like a second home to her. How she had missed this! The curl and slap of the waves against the keel; the lowered main mast laid across the deck with the canvas sails furled neatly and tied up to the crossbar; the faint smell of wine spilt long ago in the hold. Here she had come as a child, helping her father or his captain and crew coil the ropes into neat piles, or listen to her father talk with the captain over his meticulous, hand-drawn charts about the weather, or the sea state, or of magical lands far away. Lost in memories, she fingered the amulet at her neck.

A tiny noise, a scratching, caught her attention, almost imperceptible against the familiar background sound, but definitely there. Hesitating, fear holding her to the spot, Emmeline scanned the deck, eyes scouring in panic for clues to its origin. The stark moonlight highlighted the depths of every corner, every shadow, making it easy to see. The noise came again—a small click, then a muffled curse and the sound of something falling. Emmeline’s hands flew to her mouth, effectively subduing the bubbling scream that threatened to emerge. Nausea punched like a fist into her stomach, a spill of dread snaking through her limbs, unbalancing her, unnerving her. The tales that Captain Lecherche continually plied her with, tales of thieves and robbers plundering ships along this coastline, suddenly seemed horribly real. Evil men with no thought on their minds but to steal lucrative cargo; human life would hold no meaning for them. But surely Captain Lecherche would have made certain that all the cargo had been unloaded? It was unusual for him to have left anything of value on board.

Emmeline could see now that the hatch, in the middle of the ship, stood open. Someone moved about down below, and now approached the wooden ladder to come up on deck! Without conscious thought, adrenalin firing her steps, she staggered across and kicked the slatted doorway shut with her good foot, scarcely aware of the smothered oath below as she moved lopsidedly back along the deck, stepping instinctively between the lines of ropes. The hatch door crashed open behind her, just as the moon moved behind a cloud to throw the ship into dim shadow. Her heart lurched as she searched frantically for the top of the rope ladder, but the sudden darkness made the task almost impossible.

‘Come here, you little varmint!’ a man’s voice bellowed behind her, deep and gruff. A prickling sweat broke out over Emmeline’s skin. Heavy feet thudded behind her, covering the short distance between stern and bow with speed. She would not be caught by this trespasser, this lowly thief who would think nothing of slitting her throat from ear to ear! A hand touched her shoulder and then…

‘Merde!’ The man crashed to the ground behind her. Praise be to God that some ropes had been left lying about. In a twinkling, before her pursuer had time to rise, Emmeline swung herself over the side of the ship and jumped, feet first, into the freezing black sea.

As the water closed over her head, she praised her seafaring father for teaching her to swim from an early age. Kicking her feet out in a strong scissor motion, she pushed to the surface carefully, unwilling to give away her position. Dashing the stinging salt water from her eyes, she trod water, trying to gain her bearings. La Belle Saumur bobbed some fifteen feet beyond her right shoulder. But where was he? Emmeline swam gently into the lee of the ship, a shadowed place where the newly emerged moonlight wouldn’t touch her. The rowing boat must be further along: she needed to reach it and strike out for shore, away from that giant hulk of a man who would surely kill her! Her chest constricting with the coldness of the water, Emmeline worked her way along the dark hull, touching her fingers to the side of the ship every now and again as she swam. It was difficult to see clearly, so much so that she almost squeaked in surprise as her outstretched hand grazed the side of her rowing boat. Sighing with relief, aware that the cold water had started to affect the mobility of her limbs, she reached up to the oarlock with her fingers.

‘Got you!’ Large fingers fumbled against her own, seeking to take a firmer grip. Mother of Mary! Why hadn’t she seen her pursuer climb into the rowing boat? Panic flamed her mind; wrenching back violently, she struck away into a powerful backstroke. She heard a muffled curse, the creak of the iron ring as the rope was released. Realising she had to get out of sight, she tucked her body into a neat dive, wriggling her feet to shed her cumbersome water-filled boots. Her only option was to swim to shore; it was close enough for her to hear the waves crashing onto the beach and she was a strong swimmer. With Fortune, it would be difficult for him to see her, a small figure obscured by the darkness of the water, as long as she didn’t turn around so he could catch the paleness of her face.

Her legs kicked vigorously against the weight of the waves; the buoyancy of the water imbued her with a strength and agility she couldn’t hope to possess on land. Whenever she swam, she felt whole again, transported to an idyllic time before her marriage to Giffard, before her father’s death. Despite the stinging cold, she revelled in the sheer fluidity of her body. Fear that her pursuer might be directly behind her lent her speed, her supple arms drawing her slender frame silently through the water with a practised, streamlined stroke. The few lights of Barfleur drew her, fronted by the lace frill of waves nestling the shore that pulled at her, beckoned her. And then a sound, a sense of something dark and relentless looming up behind, and then a hand on her back, grasping, bunching the tunic into the curve of her spine. God in Heaven! He had caught her! Her feet flailed and thrashed uselessly at the water, trying to lever herself away from the punishing grip. Hot tears sprang beneath her lashes as, against her best efforts, she felt herself being hauled, slowly and inexorably, into the boat. The fight drained from her limbs, the adrenalin that had spurred her on now replaced by a debilitating exhaustion. Sodden and weak, Emmeline slumped face down on the bottom of the rowing boat, breathing heavily, refusing to open her eyes, refusing to acknowledge what she already knew. The man in the boat was Talvas of Boulogne.

She should have been relieved; at least this man wouldn’t cut her throat. But her courage shrivelled; the urge to throw herself to the inky depths once more threatened to overwhelm her. Powerful hands grabbed her shoulders, turning her over roughly, knocking her head against the wooden bottom of the boat.

‘Come on, sit up!’ The harsh cadence of his voice bit into her as he shoved her to a seated position. As the moon came out once more from behind the swirling cloud, Emmeline’s delicate features were revealed. He sucked his breath in sharply. She had lost her hat in the jump to the sea, and now her braids clung to her scalp. As his gaze raked her frozen face, the proud set of her neat head, the slash of his dark brows drew together at the sight of her, shivering uncontrollably. For a moment he forgot where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, transfixed by the sight of this dishevelled water sprite, by the sight of the water-darkened braids tumbling over her shoulders, the pearl-like gleam of her neck against the stark white of the linen chemise. The deep ‘V’ of the chemise gaped at her throat, hinting at the sensual curves beneath as the wet material clung to her slight figure, highlighting the soft curves of her breasts. His groin tightened; he cursed under his breath, surprised at the physicality of his reaction to her. Not since…nay, he would not, could not think of that woman now!

‘Mayhap you would like to tell me what you are doing?’ he said softly, letting out his breath in a low whistle. ‘It’s not every day I pull a mermaid from the sea.’

‘It’s not every day I jump into it!’ she retorted, wishing that she was anywhere but here. ‘W-w-what in the name of Mary are you doing here?’

‘Maybe I should ask you the same question?’ Talvas responded. ‘You, mam’selle, have an uncanny knack of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’ How dare he! He made it sound that it was all her fault that he was on her ship. Setting her mouth in a mutinous line, she refused to acknowledge her relief at seeing Talvas as opposed to some gap-toothed, snarling criminal with a knife in his hand.

‘I own that ship,’ she spluttered angrily, ‘and have a perfect right to be on it. You, however, have no such right!’

‘You misunderstand me, mam’selle,’ he replied slowly, as if talking to a dim-witted child. ‘Only a fool would have jumped into waters such as these.’ He began to row to shore with practised efficiency.

‘I’m no fool,’ she responded automatically, vaguely aware that she had lost all sensation in her feet. The oars dipped and plashed rhythmically.

‘Then why do such a thing?’ His tone smoothed over her like velvet, neither critical nor concerned. ‘The temperature is enough to finish a full-grown man, let alone a chit of a girl like you.’

‘I thought you were going to kill me! I thought you were a thief, a robber, or worse!’

‘And you didn’t stop to find out?’

‘I didn’t want to wait around and have my throat cut!’ Emmeline shook uncontrollably now, her teeth chattering loudly together. Hunching her limbs into the core of her body, she tried to warm herself. Talvas caught her movement.

‘You were in the water for too long,’ he muttered, almost to himself.

‘Through no fault of my own,’ she retorted. ‘I would never have jumped in, never swum away if you hadn’t been on board my ship. What were you doing there?’

He shrugged his massive shoulders, the wind riffling his short dark curls as he turned his head to assess his direction. ‘Just looking around.’ She sensed rather than saw the intense ferocity in his eyes as he stared at her. ‘I admit, I mistook you for a trespasser.’

Within moments, the boat had crunched up on to the shingle, and Talvas sprung out in a single, easy movement. With her cumbersome garments clogged around her, Emmeline tried to rise, too, impatiently throwing off Talvas’s cloak in a bid to move.

‘Nay, you must keep it on.’ He picked it up and draped it around her shoulders, before lifting her out of the boat. She fought to gain her balance on the slippery pebbles, aware that he still held on to her upper arm. ‘It is imperative that you take off your wet clothes. I’ll take you back to Geoffrey and Marie’s house.’

She nodded, not wanting to return to her own house at this hour. Lifting her head briefly to assess the distance between her and the line of warehouses along the waterfront, her body sagged slightly at the interminable extent she would have to walk in her present state. Talvas watched impassively as she sought to find a foothold on the treacherous pebbles. Her leg ached unbearably and her reluctance to place her full weight upon it made her hesitate.

‘Here, take my hand,’ he offered, somewhat impatiently.

‘I just need a moment,’ she snapped. ‘You go on, I can make my own way.’

‘What ails thee, mistress?’ he asked, suddenly. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’

‘Nay, it’s naught…a slight cramp in my leg,’ she lied. The last thing she wanted was his piercing scrutiny, his arrogant mockery of her disability. Suddenly he was at her side, hauling her slim frame up against the muscular length of his tall body, supporting her with one hand under her upper arm, helping her up the shingle.

‘Your mother might have something to say about your nocturnal activities,’ he replied, leading the way across the waterfront to the dark, shuttered houses.

‘Why? She takes no responsibility for my actions,’ she shot back, struggling to keep her breathing steady, her limbs wrung out with exhaustion.

‘Then it’s about time someone did.’ He laughed. ‘You, mam’selle, are a permanent liability.’

Chapter Seven

Geoffrey and Marie were aghast to be woken at such an early hour by the shaking, dripping figure of their friend and the tall, commanding figure of Lord Talvas of Boulogne. As Emmeline’s saturated garments trailed dark speckles of sea water onto the uneven flagstone floor, Geoffrey and Marie, faces alive with curiosity, sprang into action. Geoffrey poured two glasses of mead from the earthenware jug on the scrubbed oak table, pushing them into their hands as he apologised profusely for not having the means to warm it. Marie bustled to stir the banked-up fire into life, poking at the peat turfs to release a lick of flame from the glowing embers. Once established, Marie suspended a cauldron of water from the iron hook above the fire.

Limbs trembling violently from the exertion of her swim, Emmeline stared at her friend, the numbness of her mind trying to form some words of explanation. Why had Talvas been on the ship? The brooding presence of the man behind her made her nervous and confused. She wished he would leave so that she could enjoy the kind ministrations of her friends in peace.

‘Marie, I’m so sorry for all of this, for waking you so early…’ Emmeline took one stiff step forward, uncomfortable in her wet clothes. A raft of pain stung her right leg. Marie set back on her heels, her voluminous linen nightgown spilling around her on the floor, and turned toward her.

‘What happened?’

‘Your friend seems to have an unfortunate habit of landing herself in trouble,’ Talvas’s strident voice cut across the room, not allowing her time to reply. ‘I caught her on board La Belle Saumur and she jumped into the sea in order to escape me.’

‘You caught me on board!’ Emmeline repeated sarcastically, as Marie clapped a hand over her mouth in shock. ‘I have a perfect right to be on board my own ship. You, however, do not!’

Marie fixed her hazel eyes on Emmeline. ‘You jumped into the sea? God in Heaven!’ Emmeline shrugged her shoulders, jutting her chin upwards in a gesture of defiance. It wasn’t her fault! It had been the sanest thing to do in the circumstances.

From his position by the door, Talvas viewed the truculent profile of the woman he had just dragged out of the water. She was a fine example of a woman out of control, a woman who did exactly as she pleased because she had no one to answer to. Yet her unpredictability drew him as much as it puzzled him. As her clothes steamed slowly in the ambient warmth of the kitchen, he caught the faint scent of her perfume. An exotic smell, a hint of the Orient in its tone. Idly, his eyes followed the tangled dark blond strands of her hair down her slim back to where the ends brushed the rounded flare of her hips. She turned toward him suddenly, huge green eyes fringed with lashes of black velvet fixed upon his own. His groin jolted.

‘Well? I’m waiting for an explanation.’ Drooping with fatigue, Emmeline tried to pull herself up to full height, conscious of Talvas’s large frame dominating the cramped confines of the kitchen, his black hair, curling a little in the heat, almost brushing the ceiling. He made her feel small and constricted, his stifling presence surrounding her, enveloping her. Levering one massive shoulder against the door jamb, Talvas pushed himself into the room, draining the contents of his pewter mug and setting it on a nearby table. Emmeline watched him lick the last drops of the honeyed nectar from his wide, well-defined lips. He moved toward her, a looming shape lit by the flickering firelight; her mind swam. She swayed a little and groped for the edge of the table to give her some support. The cold in her bones seemed to have evaporated; it felt like her head had become detached from the icy wasteland that was her body.

‘I decided to look over the ship before we sail tomorrow,’ he explained.

‘In the middle of the night?’ Emmeline rapped out, green eyes flashing. ‘I don’t believe you, Lord Talvas. You’re up to something, I know it!’ His lean features seemed to blur and float before her eyes. She reached out an arm to grab hold of something, something to stop her falling…! Talvas caught her before she hit the floor, his thick arms enfolding her slender frame, as her pewter cup rolled to the floor, spilling its contents. Pressed up against his broad chest, conscious of his voice rumbling above her head, Emmeline wondered what had happened. Her mind seemed to have taken on a hazy, dreamlike quality and she wanted to sleep, sleep for a hundred days. She kept her face pressed into the warm chest, trying to garner some warmth from the body that held her.

Talvas, reluctantly relishing the feel of the soft, feminine curves against his own hard body, glared fixedly at the fireplace, irritated by his reaction to the maid’s closeness. Awareness jumped through his muscular frame like sparks from a falling log as Marie stepped forward quickly and pulled the clammy woollen tunic over Emmeline’s head. Beneath her masculine garments, the curving neckline of her white linen chemise pulled his eyes inexorably downwards, a neckline that emphasised the graceful column of her neck, the contoured hollow at her throat, the shadowed domain of her bosom. The maid’s head lolled back; he shifted position so that it rested comfortably upon his shoulder. Her long spiky lashes fanned down over her pale cheeks, emphasising the neat delicacy of her face. Desire punched him in the gut, an emotion so unexpected, so swift that his head yanked back in shock. Dragging his eyes upwards, he focused on Geoffrey who was climbing down the wooden stairs that led to the sleeping quarters. In his arms he carried a bundle of garments and a thick bed fur.

‘These should fit her,’ Geoffrey announced brightly.

‘Aye, they should,’ Marie said. ‘But I need to take off her chemise.’ She looked up at Talvas, who smiled grimly.

‘I will wait outside.’

Shutting the door forcefully behind him, Talvas stood for a moment, drawing the crisp, sea air into his lungs, squinting in the early morning light. The urge to bellow at the top of his voice seized him; he wanted to yell and shout, to punch someone. Ever since he had dragged that little sea nymph away from the falling crane, ever since she had lain sprawled beneath him, legs and arms splayed out on the jetty, he had experienced a raging desire to have her, to possess her! God in Heaven, he had only met the maid three days ago—had he so little control? The services of a whore were needed, needed to assuage this overwhelming desire! Hadn’t he learned anything from his past? His desolate gaze swept the shore line, picking up the heavy movements of the dockside workers in the first faint streaks of dawn, then following a small craft out to sea, his hands bunching into fists. Memories hurtled into his mind, too fast for him to prevent them.

He could have forgiven her for leaving him. His youthful ambition, his passion for the sea, had splintered the brief time they had had together and she, entranced by the lure of a rich lifestyle, had danced away. Yet he couldn’t forgive her for taking his child, to vanish with the babe so swiftly that sometimes it was as if he dreamed her existence. But he had held that warm, round baby in that first sennight together, feasted on the dark shock of hair, the pink waving fingers that curled so tightly around his own rough digits, listened to the lilting burble that wrapped his heart in utter contentment and love. Talvas stared out to sea, trying to quash the black thoughts that swirled about him. His chest constricted, immovable with guilt. He had tracked her down some months after her disappearance, only to discover that his baby daughter had died.

The oak door creaked behind him, and he turned toward Geoffrey, glad of the interruption to his thoughts. ‘How fares the maid?’ His face was shuttered, impassive.

The merchant smiled benevolently. ‘Marie’s dressed her, and we’ve settled her in front of the fire. She’s still out cold, though.’ Geoffrey looked puzzled. ‘Tell me, my lord…how far did she actually swim?’

Talvas looked out at La Belle Saumur riding gently on the calm water. ‘Just about the whole way.’

Geoffrey let out a low whistle beneath his teeth. ‘God’s teeth, I knew the girl could swim, but never such a distance!’

‘’Tis impressive…and unusual for a maid to swim at all,’ Talvas found himself commenting. Damn! He wasn’t interested in the girl!

‘Her father, Anselm, taught her. She’s been swimming since she was practically a baby!’ Geoffrey glanced pointedly at Talvas’s soaked overtunic. ‘My lord, you are wet through! Forgive me for not noticing! Can I offer you a change of clothes?’

Talvas grinned ruefully. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ He ducked his head beneath the thick oak lintel, following Geoffrey back inside.

A delicious sensation surrounded Emmeline, a blissful feeling of warmth. The downy pelt of a fur stroked the soft skin of her cheek as she gradually became aware of the comforting sounds and smells associated with domestic life: the low murmur of voices, the pouring of water, the yeasty smell of newly baked bread.

Uncertainty clouded her mind—one moment she had been arguing with that insufferable man, the next she had collapsed into his arms…senseless. Well, not quite. Her heart somersaulted strangely as she recalled the way his broad arms had held her light stature easily, remembering the enticing musky aroma of him, of leather and the sea.

Opening one eye a fraction, she wondered if he had left. Peering out surreptitiously from her cocoon of blankets and pelts, Emmeline saw Marie dividing the bread between large platters at the table, and Geoffrey was…

She gaped.

In a single heart-stopping moment, a thrill ripped through her stomach and chest, forcing all conscious thought to a liquid bolt that shot through her veins. Talvas! He stood with his back to her, dragging his soggy tunic over his head, followed swiftly by his undershirt. He began to dry himself with the rough linen square that Geoffrey held out to him. Emmeline watched, transfixed by the beautiful physique before her. Fully clothed, Talvas made an imposing figure, but stripped to the waist in her friend’s kitchen, he was devastating! She traced the strong indented column of his spine, banded on either side by well-honed plates of muscle: evidence of hard, physical labour. There was nothing soft about him, no inch of spare flesh. Emmeline’s eyes ran down his spine until she reached the point where his damp skin, gleaming in the firelight, indented and met the top of his braies.

Needles of desire shot through her and she tried to quash them, dampen them down; they were too dangerous, too wilful to be released! She pushed her face in her hands, as if by trying to obscure the vision before her, she could stamp out her reaction, to scrub out these unwanted feelings!

‘Ah, methinks the maid had come around.’ Talvas’s deep voice growled into the room as he whipped his head around, pulling the tunic down.

‘You don’t sound particularly happy about it!’ Emmeline launched into him immediately, acutely aware of her own vulnerability. Fighting the weakness in her limbs, she forced herself to sit up straighter. Wearing no shoes or stockings, her bare toes peeked out from beneath her hem-line and she wiggled them against the cold flagstones, trying to regain some sensation.

‘I’m not happy about you coming to England.’ he assessed her ruefully, his lean fingers buckling the leather belt that slung about his taut hips. ‘How can I trust you not to do something as stupid as that again?’

‘Surely it’s my choice,’ she responded. ‘Remember, I take responsibility for my actions.’

He grinned, a wide smile breaking his face easily. It made him seem younger, more approachable somehow. ‘I doubt you’d find anyone else offering.’

‘Besides, you may find me quite helpful,’ she added, primly, crossing her ankles to try and hide their nakedness. She wondered whether Marie had gone to find her some stockings and shoes.

‘Hmm…that remains to be seen.’ Talvas raked his fingers through the seal pelt of his hair.

‘Well, I’m coming and that’s final. I must visit my sister.’ Throwing back the fur as if to emphasise her point, Emmeline rose abruptly, too quickly. Too late she realised her unsteadiness as her right leg collapsed beneath her, failing to take her weight, and she fell back into the chair with a hushed moan.

Marie, setting new bread upon the table, bustled to her side, her hands fluttering around her with anxiety. But Talvas moved faster. Before she had time to push him away, to deflect his interest, he had hunkered down and tugged back the embroidered hem of her bliaut.

Time hung in the air, suspended for a moment.

Below Emmeline’s right knee, her calf descended into a welter of purple, reddish scars that marred and twisted into the smooth perfection of her white skin. Her right foot, although unmarked, seemed placed at an odd angle, warped.

‘God in Heaven!’ Talvas let out a low whistle, his azure eyes seeking hers. ‘How did you do this? Not this night, surely?’

She closed her eyes, defeated, shaking her head. ‘Nay, it’s an old wound.’ Her voice juddered with memory: the violent shove at her back, the rickety ladder that she had failed to grasp at before she landed in a heap at the bottom. Her husband’s face, his mouth wet with spittle, laughing manically down at her.

‘’Tis why you limp,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I should have realised.’ he caught her hand, the ridges and calluses of his fingers pressing into her silken palm, a grip of steel so light that it dared her to pull away.

She flushed hotly under his intense gaze, a blue so deep she thought she would drown in it. Yanking her hand from his, she reached down, throwing her skirts back over the offending leg. ‘I never think of it.’ The last thing she wanted was his pity, his concern.

‘How did you do it?’ he asked again, mildly curious, aware of the thick tension in the chamber. Geoffrey and Marie knew, he could be sure of that.

‘I fell,’ she explained in a monotone. ‘I was clumsy.’

Rising, he considered her closed expression, the scarcity of her explanation and wondered what she hid. The skin of her fingers was taut and white as her hands clenched rigidly around the arms of the chair. A muscle jumped in his cheek. Lying in the chair, she looked like a broken doll, laced into a lichen-green bliaut that flowed around her soft curves, her narrow waist. All her vivacity, all her tempestuous spirit and determination had faded to nothing, leaving her defeated, crushed. His bright blue eyes bored into hers, concerned, knowing there was nothing more he could do.

‘I’ll take my leave for now, mam’selle.’ He nodded down at her. ‘Be ready to sail on the morrow.’

Her eyes, bleak and hostile, barely acknowledged him. ‘I’ll be ready,’ she murmured, shifting her gaze to the fireplace. His customary arrogance had been replaced with a caring regard; she couldn’t bear it. She relished his hostility; it kept her safe, reminded her of her rigid boundaries—Giffard had taught her well.

‘Thank you for your kindness.’ Talvas bowed to Marie and strode over to Geoffrey standing by the door. The merchant smiled. ‘Have a good trip, my lord.’ He followed Talvas out into the bright morning air, his voice dropping to a low murmur. ‘Her husband, Giffard, did that to her.’

Seagulls screeching in their wheeling flight above her head, Emmeline followed the lumbering progress of the ox cart as it lurched over the rickety cobbles to the slipway. She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. There was too much! Already, the entire contents of one overloaded cart had been transferred to the lighter boats and ferried over to the waiting ship. And now, another, no doubt full of the Empress’s clothes! Absentmindedly, she chewed at the soft flesh of her bottom lip, causing it to redden at the onslaught.

‘There’s room enough, mam’selle.’ Talvas spoke as if he read her mind, his voice curling over her like smooth velvet. He stood beside her, a giant in the early morning light, his big body shielding her from the force of the wind driving in from the sea.

She lifted her chin to meet the sapphire brilliance of his eyes. ‘I…I thought you were on board.’ In truth, she had avoided his presence ever since Guillame had fetched her at first light. The niggling thought that he had seen the damage to her leg made her feel vulnerable before him, and that was the last thing she wished for.

His eyes flicked over her. From his position on La Belle Saumur he had seen her standing alone on the jetty, a determined, isolated figure, frowning with the responsibilities of loading the ship, hugging herself against the sharp wind. Snared by the scene, an unusual feeling had gripped him, tugged deep in his chest, propelling him to jump into one of the returning lighter boats to be at her side.

‘I was.’ He smiled, a generous curving of his mouth that caused her heart to flip. ‘But I thought you might need some help with the loading.’

‘Nay, but I might need some help with the unloading!’ Emmeline gestured at the heavily laden leather bags heaped on the shingle.

He laughed, teeth gleaming white. ‘Or you might need some help with him!’

Fear slicked her veins as she watched the Earl assist Maud from the ox cart, struggling to keep her emotions under control at the sight of his gaunt, sneering features.

‘I think he’s learned his lesson.’ The bitterness of her tone cut the air.

‘That may be so, but powerful men like him are not easily deterred.’ Surveying her closed, inscrutable expression, he wondered if the Earl reminded her of her husband.

Her forehead creased as she examined the tanned planes of his face. ‘Talvas, stop this.’

The vivid green of her eyes transfixed him. ‘Stop what?’ he ventured lightly.

Her hands fiddled with the dangling cloak ties that fell from her throat. ‘You’re treating me differently…because of…what you saw…my leg.’ The last two words emerged as a mumble. ‘Please don’t.’

He placed one finger beneath her chin, savouring the sweet heart shape of her face as he lifted it gently, compelling her to look at him. ‘Would you prefer it if I were nasty?’

‘Nay…but…’ How could she tell him it would make him easier to deal with?

He tilted his head to one side, awaiting her answer. Emmeline grimaced. ‘At a loss for words, mam’selle?’ he teased. ‘Surely not.’

‘Oh…go back and check on your crew,’ she said finally, exasperated. ‘I am familiar with the loading process. I really don’t need your help.’ Her veil blew over the lower half of her face in the breeze; she swept it back with an upraised hand. ‘But the Empress seems to have brought the entire contents of her wardrobe.’

‘A woman’s prerogative, I suppose,’ he remarked drily. ‘But the Empress has extra cargo; the reason why she must travel at this time of year.’ He indicated another ox cart moving slowly toward them; the nodding heads of the beasts ploughing steadily through the milling crowds. The citizens of Barfleur had turned out in their droves to glimpse the notorious Maud and now the jostling mass packed the length of the wooden revetment.

‘Not more stuff!’ she burst out, exasperated. ‘I must speak with her.’

She made to step forward, stopped only by Talvas’s firm grip on her forearm.

‘Stay for a moment,’ he commanded. ‘Did you never ask yourself why it was so important for her to travel across the Channel at such a dangerous time of the year?’

Emmeline studied the lean angles of his face, a sense of foreboding sliding to her gut. Talvas’s leather hat was pulled low over his face, casting his features in shadow, yet she could still see the sapphire gleam of his eyes.

‘Tell me,’ she demanded taking a step closer so that the rounded toes of her shoes almost touched the dark, sea-stained leather of his own boots. The scent of him swirled about her, a tangy, spicy aroma that threatened to unbalance her. He glanced at her face, a face pale and drawn from lack of sleep, yet unafraid as she waited for his answer.

‘Look.’ He took her arm, a gentle hold, yet firm enough so she could not pull away. Emmeline glanced along the wooden revetment to where four men lifted a long bundle, tightly wrapped in white strips of linen, from the ox cart. They staggered slightly under the weight, hoisting it onto their shoulders to negotiate the unsteady shingle down to the waiting boats.

‘A body!’ she gasped, incredulous. ‘Talvas, who is it?’

‘Maud’s father, the King. King Henry I.’

Emmeline clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘I had no idea,’ she murmured.

Talvas smiled ruefully. ‘Only a handful of people know. The Empress is keen to keep his death a secret, at least until she reaches England.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she wants to be Queen of all England and Normandy.’

‘But why the rush? Why risk the bad weather?’ Emmeline wriggled her toes in her thick winter boots. ‘Surely the crown belongs to her anyway? Why does she need to claim it in person?’

‘There are others who want it. The Empress’s cousin, Stephen, is a favourite among the people of England.’

‘No doubt, because he is a man,’ Emmeline replied drily.

Talvas inclined his head. ‘I will grant you that.’ The steel-blue of his eyes narrowed as he watched the lighter boat row out to the waiting ship. ‘But he is a good man, and true.’

‘You sound like you know him well.’

‘Aye, he is married to my younger sister, Matilda.’

Emmeline frowned. ‘Will you be forced to take sides?’ She followed the Empress’s slow, complaining progress down the shingle, idly wondering if the royal lady would be able to manoeuvre herself into one of the lighter boats without help.

‘It may come to that,’ Talvas replied enigmatically. He was not about to reveal that he had already done so. ‘But for the nonce, we must get this journey away with the high tide. Are you ready?’

Emmeline hesitated. The white crests of the waves pounded incessantly on the pebbles, transforming the dry stones to infinite varieties of glossy colour, before dragging out to sea with a loose crushing, sucking sound. Already a dark strip of wet stones appeared at the top of the beach; the tide was on the turn.

‘We must leave now,’ Talvas urged, catching at her elbow.

She fingered the amulet at her neck, feeling a prickle of apprehension. ‘There’s too much cargo,’ she stalled. ‘A small bag of garments would have sufficed for the Empress!’

Talvas smiled grimly. ‘A few extra clothes won’t sink us.’

‘Aye, but the weather might,’ Emmeline muttered. ‘The sea could claim us all.’ Petulantly, she kicked a small pebble with the toe of her shoe, watching it skitter along the jetty before dropping on to the beach.

‘Have some faith in my command, mam’selle,’ Talvas replied, the piercing blue of his eyes holding a faint smile. ‘I haven’t lost a ship yet.’

She met his gaze sharply. Not a trace of humility clouded his features. He obviously thought himself equal to the power of the elements, of Nature itself! ‘Those are bold words, my lord!’ Her delicate skin flushed with vexed irritation as she heard her own voice growing louder. ‘’Tis a huge risk to take a ship to sea at this time of year and well you know it! I need to make the journey, and so does the Empress, but you…you have no such necessity, so why put your life in jeopardy?’

Talvas shrugged his shoulders. His eyes snapped over her, unresponsive. For the briefest moment, she caught a flicker of…of what? Of emotion? Of pain? She couldn’t be certain. The monotone of his reply cut through her skin.

‘Because I have nothing to lose.’

Chapter Eight

Fingers curled over the smooth wood of the deck rail, Emmeline stared back over the churning waves to the distant figure of her mother standing on the foreshore. Behind her, the granite huddle of cottages and warehouses of Barfleur formed an impressive backdrop, a grey setting touched by the golden rays of sunlight. The pale fluttering fabric of her mother’s bliaut drew Emmeline’s gaze, held it fast. They had spent the previous afternoon together, packing a travelling bag of essentials, her mother white and tense at the prospect of her daughter’s journey. Tearful with the memory of losing her husband at sea, Felice had clung to her neck in a fierce embrace when Guillame had appeared on the threshold this morning.

‘The wind is fair, mam’selle.’ Talvas joined her at the rail, the dark blue cuffs of his overtunic falling back to reveal the tanned skin of his wrists. She jumped, nodding abruptly at his words, unexpected trickles of nervous excitement flowing through her limbs. Gritting her teeth against the unwanted sensation, she continued to watch the disappearing coastline of Barfleur. The deck undulated slowly beneath her soft, leather-soled shoes, the ship lurching over a lumpy sea, but past experience made her steady, feet set well apart to maintain her balance.

‘When was the last time you sailed, mam’selle?’ he asked.

She hunched over the rail, unwilling to reveal that she hadn’t sailed since her father’s death. Fear rippled in her chest. ‘Not for some time,’ she admitted, casting her eyes about to find something with which to deflect his interest. Her eyes flicked critically to the tell-tails, small strips of ribbon sewn at intervals down each side of the square sail. On one side, they hung down limply.

‘The sail is set badly,’ she announced, triumphant that she had discovered a flaw, throwing a disparaging look at the helmsman. ‘We are losing speed.’

‘The wind has just changed,’ Talvas replied patiently. ‘See, the helmsman adjusts the tiller now.’

‘I’ve not seen him before.’ Emmeline stared at the rough-faced helmsman, his huge fists hugging the smooth wood of the tiller handle. ‘Are you certain he knows his profession?’ The embroidered hem of her linen head-covering began to slip; she tossed it back over her shoulder in irritation.

‘I should hope so, for he is my own helmsman. I have travelled with him many times.’ Talvas smiled over at the man, who nodded a greeting. ‘I trust him with my life.’

‘And I am supposed to be content with that?’ The deliberately provoking words were uttered before she had time to think—what was it about this man that made her want to goad him, to needle him? Yet she was well aware that his behaviour had changed toward her, for, despite his arrogance, he could also be courteous and charming. She would be better served by avoiding him completely.

‘Surely that’s the highest possible recommendation?’ He lifted one dark eyebrow.

‘A recommendation from you! A man who “has nothing to lose”!’

Talvas laughed out loud, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling with joy. God, but she was argumentative! He wanted to stop her cherry-red mouth with a kiss to silence her, scoop her delicate body in his arms until she cried for mercy, begged for him…Merde! He shuddered, schooling his features back to a rigid mask, knowing he should close his eyes against the beauty of her wind-whipped rosy face, the tempting curve of her smooth cheek.

Emmeline cocked her head to one side, awaiting his answer.

Talvas tried to look stern. ‘You have the temerity of an old crone, mistress, with a tongue to match. Would that your father had taken a crop to you when it was needed!’

‘Don’t you dare speak in such a familiar way. You didn’t know my father; he would never have done such a thing!’ Her emerald eyes lit with anger.

‘Then maybe he should have, to stop that mouth of yours.’

Emmeline drew herself up to her full height. ‘How dare you speak to me so! You overstep the boundaries of good manners!’ She pushed at the solid wall of his chest.

‘As you do, mam’selle? You address me like a common peasant, not as a lord!’ She flushed slightly under his reprimand, knowing she deserved it. ‘What about your husband?’ Talvas continued. ‘Why did he not discipline you?’ he wanted to goad her, to provoke this wilful minx to full anger, to make her lose control, to tell him what had occurred in her past. ‘Surely he wouldn’t have let you behave as you do?’

Emmeline’s world tilted. The stiffness in her calf muscle mocked her, a constant reminder. How could he know about Giffard? Or was he just guessing? Nay, Giffard hadn’t let her do anything. One step out of line, and she had been punished. Curbed. Imprisoned. She didn’t want to remember, yet this man pushed her so, that the memories surfaced keenly, as if they had been yesterday.

Talvas studied her reaction with growing interest. It was as if he had thrown a bucket of icy water over her. The fire went from her eyes; her slim body drooped, folded in on itself. She wrapped her arms around her fine limbs, shaking slightly. When she spoke, her voice dripped ice. ‘My husband is dead.’ And good riddance to him, her tone implied.

‘Did you love him?’ he asked, unexpectedly.

She nibbled at a nail, her lashes black spikes on the flushed curve of her cheek. ‘Love him? Nay, my lord, love never came into it.’ Her tone chafed at him.

‘Then your father arranged the marriage?’

‘My father, God rest his soul, would have never approved of such a union. He would have never let me go to him.’ Her eyes darkened to deep leaf-green pools. ‘But we needed food on the table, Talvas, and Giffard provided it.’

At what cost? Talvas wondered. He moved his hand to cover hers where it rested on the rail, his strong fingers forming a brief touch, warm and reassuring. ‘Tell me,’ he urged, softly. The sapphire of his eyes burned with a dazzling light.

‘I cannot.’ For to talk about it would make it real again, the dreadful images of her past resurfacing with dreadful clarity. She would prefer to forget, to drown the memories in a pit of oblivion.

‘Geoffrey told me about your leg.’ His hand still clasped around hers. The calloused skin of his palm burned into her knuckles, charging her veins with a flickering vitality.

Emmeline dragged her fingers away, anger flaring. ‘He had no right!’ she blazed at him. ‘No right at all! God in Heaven, I knew it! I knew it from the way you are treating me! I don’t want your pity!’

She twisted away from him, across the deck, her hem-line swirling to reveal shapely ankles encased in knitted stockings. Her blond braid, hanging down the back of her cloak, swung out beneath her veil.

He seized the curling end of her plait, pulling her back round to him. Lean fingers curled around her heart-shaped chin, pulling her closer. His eyes traced the delicate veining of her throat, the quick pulsing of her skin just visible above the sweep of her veil that curved around her neck. His chest squeezed…pinpricks of desire peppering his heart, blood roiling. What in God’s name was happening to him? He prided himself on a strict self-control where women were concerned, a self-discipline commendable in monks and priests, let alone a man like himself without a faith to guide him, a man with normal desires.

‘Nay, mistress, you are mistaken. I don’t pity you at all.’ His voice held a dangerous, lilting eddy. ‘I desire you.’

Emmeline’s eyes popped open. The curtain covering the doorway of the wooden shelter cracked alarmingly, snapping in a gusting wind. Rain slapped at the tough canvas, with occasional drops spraying on to her skin. Snuggled into furs on the wide horsehair mattress, she realised suddenly that her body was not on the level, her toes much lower than her head. Emmeline had retreated to the makeshift shelter constructed in the bow of the ship on the excuse of keeping the Empress company; in truth, she needed to escape the peculiar tension that had arisen between herself and Talvas. When darkness had fallen, some hours earlier, Maud and Emmeline had buried themselves under the furs, Emmeline relishing the comfort of the horsehair mattress, whilst the Empress muttered and grumbled about the conditions of the voyage. The weather had been calm, a strong breeze speeding them toward the English coast. Now the ship was listing badly.

‘Emmeline, Emmeline!’ The Empress groaned miserably at her side. Her hand reached out to clutch at Emmeline’s sleeve.

‘What ails thee?’ Emmeline whispered back. Raising herself on to one elbow, she tried to discern Maud’s features through the pitch-black.

‘My stomach is bad.’ Maud groaned again. ‘I feel so sick.’

‘Let me feel your forehead.’ Emmeline reached out and touched Maud’s dry skin, heart leaping in fear at the heat she encountered. ‘You need some water, my lady, and a wet cloth to cool your fever. I would fetch it…and a light, as well.’

Dragging her cloak over her shoulders, she fumbled around for the unlit rush torch, intending to go out on deck to catch a flame from the charcoal brazier that was kept alight for the whole journey. She struggled to push back the heavy curtain, sodden with rainwater, eventually making her way through the doorway on her hands and knees.

As she pushed her face through the thick wet material, the rain poured over her skin in thick rivulets: freezing, stinging drops that forced her mind abruptly from befuddled sleep to stark, vivid survival instinct. Bracing herself against the side of the wooden frame to raise herself to her feet, clinging to the rough wood as the deck tossed and pitched, Emmeline squinted through the lashing rain…and gasped in shock.

The unlit torch slipped from her fingers. The deck was covered with bodies!

Fighting to comprehend what might have happened, thinking the crew to all be dead, she started to work her way toward them, and realised they were ill, their faces drawn and white, their bodies huddled tight into miserable balls. What in the name of Mary had happened? Glancing behind her, up to the tiller, her gaze sought frantically through the gloom for the helmsman. God forbid that there was no one steering the ship in these high seas!

He was there. Dieu merci!

His strong frame propped against the back stay, Talvas, his hands carved around the heavy wooden tiller, fought to keep the ship on an even keel. He saw her movement through the driving rain and shouted down to her, his voice booming over the relentless shriek of the wind, shaking his head vigorously.

‘Nay, stay down! ’Tis too dangerous!’ She caught the tail end of his words as they were whipped away by the violent gusts.

‘We’ll be over at this rate!’ She cried back, making to climb up to the tiller, which sat high on the stern. As she placed one nimble foot on the side rail to lever herself up, Talvas bent over to grab her arm, yanking her up in one flexible manoeuvre to place her beside him.

‘Are you out of your mind? I told you to stay down!’ he roared at her. He cursed as she stumbled against the pitching of the ship. ‘For Heaven’s sake, hang on to me!’ Grabbing fistfuls of his leather tunic, she gained her balance as he wrestled the tiller for control.

‘What ails the crew?’ she shouted up at him. He shook his head, not hearing her, then moved his head close to hers so she could yell in his ear. The wet strands of his hair brushed her lips as she leaned into him to repeat her words.

‘It was the meat—the meat in the stew must have been bad.’ His eyes glinted down at her, hair plastered to his head like seal skin. ‘Did you eat any?’

‘Nay!’ she shouted back. ‘I took only bread and cheese’

‘As I did. We were fortunate. Even Guillame is curled up in agony over there.’ he nodded over to the miserable bundle on the deck that was his squire. The deck lurched suddenly as a squall of icy rain blasted into her face.

‘Hang on properly! Put your arms right around me!’ Talvas ordered. ‘I don’t want to lose you!’ She swayed into the shelter of his flank, locking her arms around the leanness of his torso. He felt solid, a rock of dependability, of security, but one look into his eyes told her this was not so. His eyes sparked with the challenge of the storm, muscles flexing in his strong arms as he heaved at the tiller to do his will.

‘Holding our course is difficult.’ The deep voice in her ear made her jump at its closeness. ‘The mainsail has come away from the bar.’

Emmeline raised her eyes to the top of the square sail, examining the damage, blinking against the rain that drove incessantly against her vision. The sail was still in one piece, but the rope attaching it to the horizontal spar had come adrift. Despite the power of the wind, the vessel moved slowly, sluggishly, to the demands of the tiller, indicating the impact the damaged sail had on the overall speed of the ship. At this pace, another day or two would be added to the journey.

‘It needs to be fixed.’ Emmeline appealed to the determined set of his jaw.

Talvas rolled his eyes. ‘I realise that, mistress, but at the moment, we two are the only capable people aboard this ship.’ He gestured around at the groaning crew. ‘You are not strong enough to manage the tiller and I am too heavy to climb the mast.’

‘But I am not.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ His exhausted glance whipped over her.

‘I am light enough to climb the mast.’ Emmeline, her hands still fastened about his middle, tipped her head back so he could not fail to hear her words.

For a full moment, he scanned her pale face, a limpid pearl in the darkness, then threw his head back and laughed. Amidst the fury that raged around them, the continual lashing of the waves and the screaming of the wind, he appeared as a devil, at one with the fierce elements around them. The ripples of laughter coursed through his broad frame; she felt the power of his vitality through her arms that held tight against him.

‘I swear, mam’selle, you never cease to amaze me!’

She pulled at the sides of his leather jerkin, compelling him to look at her. ‘I’m serious, Talvas,’ she yelled up at him, pointing to the top of the sail. ‘See, only the rope has merely come away. It would be easy to mend.’

‘And you are proposing to fix it?’ he asked slowly, as if reluctant to hear her answer. He lifted his eyes from the horizon, studying her expression for a moment, trying to assess her conviction.

Emmeline peered up at him earnestly. ‘Aye, that I am. It’s a task I have often done for my father.’ His look of complete astonishment made her want to laugh out loud.

‘But you’re a woman! Nay, you stay down on the deck where I can keep an eye on you.’ he set his lips in a firm line, indicating the end of the discussion.

‘The journey will be twice as long, with the amount of speed we are losing through that gap in the sail,’ she continued persuasively. ‘And it’s not just the crew that are sick, the Empress has also been taken bad…We need to reach land quickly, so they do not worsen. We have no medicine or herbs aboard to treat them.’

The deck shuddered, creaking violently under the strain of negotiating the heaving sea, then dropped unexpectedly, rolling down a vast wave. Emmeline’s hold tightened around Talvas as her knees buckled under the pitching deck, as she fought to keep her balance without coming too close to the devastating leanness of his body.

‘Rest easy, mistress,’ he ordered tersely, his arm snaking around her back and shoulders, pulling her in with firm authority. ‘It’s devilish hard to keep one’s footing in these waters.’

‘Talvas, I have to go up. I have to fix that sail, or I may lose the ship.’

Talvas grimaced. Would the chit never let up? His parents, his knight’s training, all had raised him with the belief that women were delicate creatures to be cared for, cherished by men, their beauty and gentleness cushioned from the harsher realities of life. This woman defied every convention, revelling openly in her independence at every opportunity, challenging all his assumptions regarding the fairer sex. And yet who was he to command her? She did not belong to him, like a material possession; he was not her lord, to order her to do his bidding. He had no rights over her whatsoever.

‘Are you certain about this?’ he demanded suddenly. His eyes searched her face, the deceptive fragility of her figure.

The warmth of his muscle-bound shoulder cupped her back, searing the skin. She smiled up at him, knowing she had won, and nodded firmly. Moving out, reluctantly, from the protection of his arm, she began to untie the lacings of her cloak. Hanging on to his shoulder, she removed it, placing it in a wet, claggy bundle at his feet, then proceeded to release the side-lacings of her bliaut, drawing the dress over her head. Focused on her task, she remained unaware of Talvas’s increasingly bemused scrutiny. Against the squall, the close-fitting lines of her underdress clung to her damply, highlighting the tempting swell of her bosom, the soft flare of her hips.

‘Are you planning to climb up naked?’ Talvas threw her a lopsided smile, fighting the urge to embrace her, to tear that fine covering from her pearly skin. He turned his eyes sharply to the glimmering horizon as Emmeline bent down to fumble with the toggles that fastened her ankle-length leather shoes.

Emmeline laughed. ‘Nay, my lord, but it makes it easier to climb without these heavy garments. Rest assured, I shall be decent.’

‘Thank the Lord for that,’ he muttered under his breath. The slashed neck of her underdress gaped suggestively. Even in the darkness, he could make out the tempting curve of her bosom. ‘Bonne chance, petite.’ His words sounded stilted, untried. For a moment, their gazes locked, brilliant sapphire with sparkling emerald—it was as if he could see into her very soul.

As he watched her step tentatively toward the mast, a faltering roll to her gait, he felt powerless, unable to release his grip on the tiller, unable to climb the mast in her place. He had to have faith in her, had to trust her not to fall. He shook his head, trying to dispel the odd sentiment. Since when had he trusted a woman? He would do well to remember that the last time he had done so had been his undoing. This maid, with her fiery tongue and trim figure, had addled his brain, turned his senses!

Stretching high to anchor her fingers on to the rough fibre of the rope that coiled round and round the mast, Emmeline levered herself up, swinging her bare foot around to gain a foothold on the thick rope. She breathed deeply, forgetting the peril of her surroundings to concentrate on the task before her. The strength in her lithe body overcame the weakness in her leg, and she made steady, self-assured progress, her long, wet braid flying about her trim waist in the unceasing wind. The wooden mast was not high, the height of three men perhaps, so she gained the top easily. She would not look down at the roiling sea beneath, and did not care to look and see if Talvas might be watching her. Locking her legs around the mast, she braced herself so that both hands were free to reach out and grab the frayed ends of the rope and retie them around the crossbar. The muscles in her back flexed under the strain of holding her body as her cold, raw fingers fumbled to tie a knot and drag the sail back up to the horizontal. She pulled back to the mast, feeling the strength seep from her limbs as she watched the mended sail fill with wind. There! She had done it. Now all that remained was to climb down.

It was only now that she felt the iciness of the incessant rain soak her few remaining garments, the chill of the wind cutting in around her ankles. The deck loomed far away, an endless distance when all she wanted to do was sleep. The wet fabric of her underdress slapped at her naked ankles, her calves, sticking to her damp flesh and hampering her movements as she began to descend. She clung on desperately as the ship lurched and heaved—surely it had not been this difficult on the ascent? As she scrabbled for a foothold below, her fingers scraped along the coarse rope, slipping…‘Faites attention!’ A shout from below went unnoticed as she began to fall. The ship swung violently to the leeward side. She clutched out in desperation, the rope burning her hands but not allowing her to take hold as she fell through the shrieking, screeching air, arms flailing.

‘I have you!’ A familiar voice rasped in her ear as she hit a solid wall of flesh and felt thick arms come about her, holding her steady. She shivered with relief as her bare feet slid down to touch the deck. Through two thin layers of material, her chemise and her underdress, she felt the heat emanating from Talvas’s big body.

‘Here,’ he muttered, dragging his cloak from his shoulders to sweep it around her, one arm still about her waist. ‘The cloth is wet, but maybe will give you some warmth.’ The heaviness of his cloak threatened to unbalance her, but she revelled in the extra comfort.

‘I thank you, my lord.’

‘Nay, I should be thanking you, Emmeline.’ He placed a finger under her chin, tilting her head up to meet his admiring gaze. ‘You performed an amazing feat—see, we are at full speed now.’ He frowned at her, as if trying to work out some enigmatic puzzle. ‘I know of no other woman who would have done something so brave.’

Emmeline shrugged her shoulders. ‘I grew up with the sea. ’Tis of little matter to me.’ She tried to ignore the ache of the muscles across her back and shoulders.

He stared down at her, this little virago who tried to stand so tall before him, yet wilted with fatigue. Beneath the gaping sides of his cloak that she wore, the fine linen of her garments clung to the curve of her bosom, the flatness of her stomach. Her beauty drew him, irresistible. He ducked his head, his intention to place a kiss of thanks upon those rosebud lips. A butterfly touch, a brush of fleeting passion. As his lips grazed hers, a flare of desire kicked at him: he groaned, arms sweeping around her once more, pulling her soft curves into him as he savoured the taste of her. Emmeline swayed toward him, her legs unable to hold her, her body liquid. Her slender body cleaved toward his muscular frame as his arms tightened about her waist, one large hand splayed out over the delicate bones of her back. Need pulsed through her limbs, the kernel of her heart, a maelstrom of emotion that left her weak, helpless, clinging to him. The last shreds of reason melted away from her conscious thought; she entered a place that had hitherto been unknown to her. His lips spoke of a secret promise, a promise to sweep her away to a territory of uncharted waters—a magical place full of dreams and desires, a place of danger.

The kiss deepened, flowered with a devastating intensity that neither of them could control, firing sensation after sensation. As they clung to one another, two souls locked in unconscious passion, a huge wall of water crashed down over the ship.

Chapter Nine

The wide sweep of white shingle lay strewn with wreckage from La Belle Saumur; shards of timber, wrenched from their iron rivets, bobbed in the frothy surf. As the sky lightened, a night watchman from the harbour had alerted the villagers. They had stumbled from their cottages, bemused with sleep, to help pull the remainder of the ship securely on to the shore. Now the sun, peeking intermittently through the wraiths of mist, highlighted the scene of devastation: the broken ship, the crew huddled in borrowed blankets on the beach, either sleeping or talking quietly.

Emmeline sat on the pebbles, arms crossed tightly over her drawn-up knees. By some miracle, when the wave had crashed over the ship, the coast of England had been nearer than originally thought. The relentless waves, helped by a strong onshore breeze, had driven them landwards, too quickly for the crew to save the ship from being smashed against the shingle, but slow enough to get everyone safely to shore. They had splashed and spluttered their way through the shallows, the huge waves picking them up and flinging their wet dripping bodies on to the smooth round stones. She should have felt fortunate that her life…nay, all the lives on board were safe, but instead, a curious sense of loss plucked at her frayed nerves.

Her eyes stung, watering in the freshening breeze, her eyelashes gritty with dried salt. She rubbed at them, trying to dispel with the vigorous movement the memory of Talvas as he hefted her exhausted body up the beach, before going back to help the others struggle their way to shore.

‘Emmeline, do you feel all right? You weren’t hurt in any way?’

Emmeline turned her head, her hair falling about her shoulders in stiff tendrils. Maud sat beside her on the beach, her cloak drawn tightly around her. Despite their ordeal, the Empress’s embroidered linen veil still covered her head, although her golden circlet sat askew and her white, uneven skin was red from the piercing touch of the wind.

‘I am quite well, my lady, thank you!’ She threw the Empress a quick smile. ‘But I should be asking you…how are you after your sickness last night?’

‘Oh…that!’ Maud’s wide, florid features crinkled jovially. ‘I seem fully recovered…and even better now that I have reached England, albeit a little shocked by our ordeal last night.’ She gestured at the broken shards of the ship.

‘’Tis important to you.’ Emmeline sunk one hand into the wet pebbles beneath her, the sticky salt from the hard, curved surfaces coating her fingers.

‘Aye, maid, for I seek the crown of England now my father has died.’ Maud assessed Emmeline with her small, hazel eyes, sensing an ally. ‘It will be difficult, for although my father made the barons swear to my accession on his death, they are still men who will resent a woman on the throne.’

‘Men resent women doing a great deal of things,’ Emmeline replied carefully, aware of a growing admiration for the strong woman at her side. ‘Yet we can do those things just as well as they can, sometimes better.’

Maud laughed. ‘We are two of a kind, mistress, each fighting for our independence. Let’s hope we both succeed.’

‘I thought I had,’ Emmeline replied sadly. She cast her eye despondently over the shattered remains of her ship. Most of the hull was still intact, apart from a huge hole that gaped from the bow, caused when the ship had been battered continually against the shore.

‘I will cover the cost of the repairs,’ Maud said kindly. ‘I always reward people who help me.’ Her friendly words were laced with conspiracy. ‘But for the nonce, may I suggest that you find some more clothes?’

Emmeline looked down at herself, and blushed. The salt-encrusted underdress clung damply to her curves, revealing the elegant lines of her body.

‘Allow me.’ A husky voice cut through Emmeline’s embarrassment. The lilting tones furled around her, settling over her like a salve; her pulse quickened. Muscular legs steady on the steep, shifting pebbles, Talvas picked up his damp cloak from the shoreline and threw the heavy cloth around Emmeline, at once hiding her small frame from prying eyes. She clutched at the sides gratefully, pulling the soft wool across her bosom. Despite having been recently immersed in sea water, the material smelled of him, a rich scent of horse and woodsmoke. She peeked up at him, appreciating the gesture, wanting to thank him, but his attention had been diverted by a movement on the horizon.

‘Since when did you lose half your clothes?’ Maud asked curiously.

‘Since she climbed the mast and fixed the sail,’ Talvas cut in, a note of admiration in his voice. Emmeline looked at him, her expression fierce, eager to detect an element of condemnation in his tone. Dark stubble shadowed the lower part of his face, giving him a rakish, piratical look. Her gaze drifted to his mouth, wide and generous and…desirable. Her stomach knotted as the unwanted memory of their kiss on deck shunted vividly into her mind.

‘Your courage is to be commended, young lady,’ Maud spoke slowly. ‘You saved us all, you saved the life of your Queen.’

‘Don’t be too hasty, Maud.’ Earl Robert had clambered up the steeply shelving beach to join the conversation. He threw a lopsided, peculiar smile at Emmeline, his eyes lingering on the jade amulet that swung at her throat. Emmeline yanked at the cloak, annoyed at his observance. The sooner she could escape to her sister’s estate, the better!

‘I will not forget what you have done.’ Maud laid one hand on Emmeline’s sleeve, before shifting her eyes to Talvas. ‘Now, my lord, you know this country. Where in Heaven’s name are we?’

‘Fortune has smiled on us, my lady,’ he replied. Emmeline looked at him in consternation, then back at the fragments of ship that had been her livelihood, rigid with disappointment. Fortunate?

‘Surely you jest, my lord?’ She needed to be angry with him, to pick a fight with him, to stamp down on the bubbling excitement that threatened to overwhelm her every time his sapphire gaze touched her face, every time his broad frame moved nearer to her.

Talvas laughed out loud, sensing the maid’s resentment. ‘Aye, my lady, we are fortunate.’ He threw his arm northwards, away from the sea. ‘For not above two miles from here lies my own estate of Hawkeshayne. I have already dispatched Guillame to bring back horses and ox carts to transport us there.’

‘We are grateful for your hospitality, my lord,’ the Earl replied. ‘It will allow the Empress and myself to assemble our allies and make an advance on Winchester, to claim the treasury and thence the throne. Henry’s body will be taken on to the abbey at Reading where people can pay their last respects.’ The group fell silent for a moment as they watched the cumbersome progress of the linen-wrapped body, manhandled up the beach by three members of the crew.

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ Maud demanded. ‘I am eager to become Queen of England!’ She raised a small, pudgy hand. ‘Help me up, please, Emmeline, for my bones are stiff.’ Emmeline stretched a hand forward, but Talvas brushed her aside, his lean, tanned hand pulling the Empress to her feet. Emmeline fumed. She had been perfectly happy to help Maud, beginning to like the brusque, practical ways of the woman.

‘Then this is where I will take my leave.’ Emmeline touched Talvas’s arm briefly to gain his attention. He frowned, crossing his arms high over his broad chest, his stare frank and assessing. Emmeline swallowed, her throat dry from the saltwater. ‘If I could have the loan of a horse, I would ride to my sister’s estate, which is not some twenty miles from here.’

‘Dressed as you are?’ The stern castigation in his tone could not be ignored. The azure brilliance of his eyes scoured her state of undress, her wet curls strewn around her shoulders like that of a mermaid. ‘I think you might need to sort yourself out before you travel anywhere.’

‘Stay a while with us, Emmeline,’ Maud encouraged. ‘I would like the chance to know you better.’

As I would, thought Talvas. He had spent but a handful of days in the woman’s company, yet, in that small time, she had tipped his world upside-down. He had no wish to see her disappear so soon.

‘I…’ Her linen veil and overdress had been lost to the sea, but her hair could easily be put right with braids. She frowned.

‘Have you no sense, mistress? If you set out on the road like that, have you any idea what could happen to you?’ Emmeline’s face flamed, acutely conscious of Maud and Robert listening intently.

‘I can do as I choose,’ she replied mulishly. Why did he curb her so? He was not her protector!

‘Choice might not come into it when you’re wrenched from your horse and raped in the bushes,’ he returned roughly, a cruel twist to his mouth. She recoiled at the vulgarity of his words, knitting her fingers together over her stomach. He noted the defensive gesture and inwardly cursed his roughness.

‘Aye, you may flinch at my words, mam’selle, but you would do well to heed them. I speak the truth. Accept my hospitality, if only for one night. I can furnish you with an escort and outriders if it be your wish to visit your sister on the morrow.’

‘Why not let the maid go now?’ the Earl interrupted in a bored tone. ‘She has served her purpose.’ Besides, he might take to the road himself if this tempting little morsel was riding all alone!

Talvas lifted his shoulders—a gesture of dismissal. ‘I cannot forcibly hold her if she is intent on her purpose, but ’tis not wise to travel without an escort.’

‘Then lend me one now,’ She challenged, unwilling to give in so easily. She had no wish to travel to his home, to be with him any longer than she had to!

‘Impossible, mam’selle,’ he replied, deliberately keeping his tone disinterested. ‘Most of my men and their families live on their own farmsteads. It will take at least a day to summon them.’

She held fast on to his bright azure gaze, not wanting to accept his offer, not wanting to give in, to back down. It was childish, she knew, but her years of independence had made her so with men. The intense blue of his eyes goaded her. She adjusted her position on the shingle, lifting one foot, then the other; the round, clacking pebbles resettled around her toes.

‘It seems I have no choice,’ she responded, finally.

The tide was running out fast toward the sea as the bedraggled party picked their way on horseback along the cobbled road that edged the wide river estuary. The lowering water began to reveal a vast area of marshland and reedbed, crossed with a sinuous pattern of muddy rivulets. The smooth, polished-grey trunks of ancient beech trees lined the upper side of the roadway, the starkness of their branches stuck up like lightning forks beneath the leaden sky. Behind the slow-moving group, an ox cart lumbered carrying the few possessions that had been retrieved from La Belle Saumur, including the body of the late King Henry.

Rankling from Talvas’s coarse reprimand, Emmeline stared fixedly at her horse’s mane, paying little attention to her direction. If she had spirit enough, she should have stood up to Talvas and broken away from this party. She hated having to rely on him for hospitality, and, as she feared, her small bag had been lost in the storm, possibly more. But her timidity at his reaction held her back; she was in no doubt that he would unceremoniously drag her back, and no one would stop him. In truth, she had no knowledge as to the direction of her sister’s manor, only that it was to the east of the harbour where they had landed.

‘From your expression, I suspect you are still annoyed with me.’ Talvas pulled on his stallion’s reins to walk his horse beside her. The gleam of his hair, dark as a blackbird’s wing and tousled with sea water, lent him a boyish air. His blue eyes sparkled, teasing her, drawing her under his mesmeric spell. Emmeline jerked her gaze away, fingers attempting to pleat the unyielding leather of her reins in an effort to quell the memory of their last kiss. What in the name of Mary was happening to her?

‘Nay, not annoyed, my lord.’ She concentrated on the horizon, a pleasing aspect of rolling hills and woodland, gently sloping down to the river at the bottom of the wide valley. ‘I am eager to visit my sister, that is all.’ And to take myself away from you, she thought, before I do something I regret.

‘And tomorrow you shall,’ he replied amiably, ‘and we, too, will part as if we had never met.’

‘Life would have been more simple if we had not,’ she answered, not bothering to conceal the frankness in her tone.

‘But far less exciting,’ he replied, enigmatically. What in Heaven’s name did he mean by that?

‘And I might still have a ship.’ Her shoulders slumped forward slightly.

‘You still have a ship, my lady, albeit a little damaged. I will make arrangements to have her towed into the harbour later on today.’

‘You don’t have to humour me,’ She replied. ‘I saw the hole in her side.’

‘She is not lost, Emmeline.’ Talvas leaned down earnestly, the jewelled hilt of his sword winking in the sunlight that peeked from behind a thick cloud. ‘I have seen far worse damage than that.’

‘Don’t give me false hope, my lord.’ Yet a huge sense of relief rose in her chest.

‘I wouldn’t do that, my lady. I can see how much that ship means to you.’

‘The ship means everything to me,’ She answered him, her eyes scanning the taut, sculptured angles of his face. ‘She is my livelihood, and that of my family. If I lose her, I lose everything.’ She looked down at her hands, quickly, embarrassed by her sudden flow of words.

‘Your father designed the ship well. La Belle Saumur will survive.’ Talvas spoke softly, his booted toe grazing Emmeline’s hip as his horse stumbled on a loose stone. A faint blush stole across her cheeks at the contact. He pulled sharply on the reins, drawing the horse away.

‘I wish he had,’ Emmeline muttered, almost to herself. ‘Survived, I mean.’ She attempted to clarify her spoken thought.

‘I’m sorry. It must have been hard after his death.’

She clamped her lips together, willing the tears to stay back, not wanting to acknowledge the sympathy in his tone. The plaintive cry of a curlew rent the air, sending a shudder down her spine.

‘We managed,’ she replied eventually, trying to keep her tone neutral.

‘We managed,’ Talvas mimicked her words. Did he mock her? ‘How you make light of your situation, mam’selle. Why, it’s hard enough in this life for a woman to survive without a man at her side, let alone to run a merchant ship across the Channel.’

‘The Empress seems to survive admirably and she intends to run a country.’

Talvas gave a snort. ‘She has a retinue of servants in tow, catering to her every need. Look at how Earl Robert attends to her every word.’ he nodded his head in the direction of the cart in which the Empress rode. ‘You would do well to keep away from her, Emmeline.’ His voice held the dark thread of warning.

‘Why, now you tell me who my friends can be!’ she protested. ‘I like the Empress; I like her spirit!’

‘She sees the same qualities in you,’ Talvas murmured. ‘Just don’t become too close.’

‘I heed you, Talvas.’ Emmeline scanned his face, searching for an explanation to his mysterious words. ‘You warn me away from her because you don’t approve of a woman on the throne.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Did I say that?’

‘You resent any woman’s independence. You condemn her as you condemn me!’

Leaning over, with a creak of the saddle, he grabbed her reins, pulling her horse to a stop. ‘That’s not the truth, Emmeline and well you know it. You are different, unusual. Your behaviour kicks against the norm, but it cannot be censured. I realise that now. Your behaviour is to be praised.’

‘I did what anyone would have done, Talvas, to save the ship.’

‘That may be so, but it was still a daring feat.’

‘So can you now see that I can take care of myself, that I have no need of a man by my side?’ She wanted him to understand, to realise that her independence was of the utmost importance to her.

He laughed. ‘Nay, mistress. On that point, I would have to disagree. The way your body responds to me would seem to contradict your speech.’

Emmeline flushed uncomfortably at the shocking impact of his words, aware that the driver of the ox cart was just behind them. ‘You catch me unawares; take advantage of me,’ she whispered, shakily. ‘There’s little I can do to defend myself in those circumstances.’

‘Then I’ll make sure you are well prepared next time.’ His eyes glowed.

Her mind emptied at the audacity of his words, his sheer temerity, but before she could think of an appropriate riposte, something to put this irritating man in his place, Guillame rode alongside, his youthful face split into a grin. He flicked on the reins, turning his horse to fall into step alongside them.

‘Hawkeshayne awaits you, my lord. I have tumbled them out of their beds, and now they rush around in mad preparation.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ Talvas replied. ‘I myself am in dire need of a bath, as I’m sure the rest of us are.’ His eyes alighted briefly on Emmeline’s damp form.

Guillame nodded. ‘The cauldrons of water are set upon the fires as we speak, my lord.’ He glanced at Emmeline. ‘See, my lady, Hawkeshayne is not far now.’ He pointed along the river valley.

In the distance, emerging from the fluctuating river mists, Emmeline caught her first glimpse of Lord Talvas’s home. The soaring battlements of the castle stood on a natural promontory that jutted out into the wide estuary. Bounded on three sides by the river at high tide and marshy reedbeds at low tide, the only access lay to the east, over a long wooden bridge that linked the castle to a bundle of cottages and huts clustering at the river’s edge.

‘I assumed that your home was in Boulogne, my lord,’ Emmeline said, unable to contain an element of curiosity. Besides, she wanted to deflect any further questions from him regarding her own life. ‘I had no idea that you lived in England.’

‘William the Conqueror gave the estate to my grandfather, who fought alongside him at Hastings. My father gave it to me when my sister Matilda married William’s nephew, Stephen. I think he realised I would gain more use from it, preferring mastery of the sea to that of the sword.’

Emmeline nodded, acknowledging the rows of boats hauled up onto the shore line below as the horses turned onto and clattered over a wooden bridge. Soldiers garbed in surcoats of green and gold, the colours of Lord Talvas, stood to attention as they passed beneath the huge archway of the gatehouse. Emmeline caught a glimpse of the elaborate carvings of mythical beasts and birds decorating the upper recessed bands of stonework, the noise of her horse’s hooves echoing in the confined space, before emerging into the daylight of the outer bailey.

‘My lord, my lord, it’s so good to have you home again!’ A small, wiry man rushed up to Talvas.

‘It’s good to be home, albeit in such unexpected circumstances,’ Talvas pulled off his wide-brimmed leather hat, running his fingers through his hair. The sleek black waves clung to his head, emphasising the corded strength of his neck. Emmeline diverted her eyes to look around her. How strange to see so many men with such long hair, she thought. Despite the Norman invasion of England nearly seventy years previous, it seemed that some of the original Anglo-Saxons refused to adopt the Norman fashions. Most of the men here looked like barbarians!

Talvas dismounted in one easy movement. ‘How goes it, Waltheof?’ he handed his reins over to a servant, who led the horse away.

‘Chambers have been prepared for your guests,’ Waltheof replied. The emphasis on the final word indicated that he had full knowledge that royalty was amongst the party. ‘And here is Bronwen, who will attend the Empress.’ A tall, willowy girl stepped forward to the Empress and curtsied as Maud was helped from her horse. ‘A fire is lit in the great hall and food is already prepared,’ Waltheof continued, puffing his chest out a little in acknowledgement of his own efficiency.

Talvas placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘You have done well, Waltheof, in such a short time.’

Earl Robert approached Talvas, drawing him aside and indicating the ox cart. Talvas nodded. ‘I will provide an escort to the abbey in Reading. Let my men break their fast, and then they will be ready to go. Consider it done.’

Still sitting atop her horse, catching the drift of their murmured whispers, Emmeline seethed. So, he could provide knights to travel alongside a dead body, but he couldn’t perform the same service for her!

‘Still wanting to fly, my little bird?’ Talvas approached her in two great strides. ‘You seem a mite reluctant to dismount.’

‘I have no desire to stay here, and well you know it.’ She glared down at him, although in truth, she longed for a bath and a change of clean clothes. ‘You can provide an escort for a dead body immediately, but deny me the same!’

‘Such ingratitude!’ he replied, a teasing light entering his eyes. ‘You demand much, mam’selle. I have offered to mend your ship, and provide an escort for you on the morrow. Surely one more night is not too onerous?’

How could she tell him that she dreaded the magnetic pull of his presence, the lack of control in her own behaviour around him? He made her act in a way that perplexed and mystified her, spurring her to such wilful abandonment that she feared her own downfall. She nibbled at her bottom lip, uncertain, shaking her head. ‘I must get away from here. From you!’ In horror, she realised she had spoken the words aloud. His eyes darkened. His hand clamped around her horse’s bridle, drawing the animal, and herself, closer to him.

‘Why?’ A thread of steel entered his voice.

She shook her head, unable, unwilling to answer.

‘Are you afeard of what might happen?’ His voice poured over her, full of unspoken promise.

‘Afeard?’ she questioned, haltingly. She had to break this mood between them!

‘Afeard of me?’

Perched atop the horse, Emmeline drew her back up straight and faced him, openly hostile. ‘Afeard of you?’ she scoffed. ‘Nay, never, my lord!’

He grinned suddenly, a devilish taunting smile. The spiralling, mounting tension between them ruptured, suddenly. Relief flooded over her.

‘Dangerous words, mam’selle.’ Large hands reached up to encircle her slim waist, lifting her easily from the saddle. Clamped against his broad chest, his saturnine, laughing face just inches from her own, she regretted her previous taunt. He was too close! She struggled slightly, ineffectually, aware of the muscled bands of his chest pressing through the fragile material of her underdress, heating her skin. Her feet dangled uselessly above the cobbles.

‘Art thou afeard?’ he asked again, his arms locking tightly into the small of her back.

‘Put me down!’ she demanded fiercely.

‘Answer the question, my lady.’

‘I have told you “nay”!’ She glared at him, staring into the deep blue of his eyes, the sapphire whirlpool that threatened to drown her, to consume her. His lips moved downwards. ‘My lord, remember where you are!’ she begged him.

He cursed suddenly, dropping her abruptly on the ground, stepping back. The laughing expression dropped from his face, to be replaced by a blank mask. ‘Forgive me, mam’selle, I forget myself.’

‘You have no right to treat me so!’ She told him off, folding her arms defensively in front of her.

He grimaced. ‘You will be gone on the morrow—’ His voice sounded harsh ‘—then we will be rid of each other for ever.’

‘That can only be a blessing,’ she retorted. But her heart felt cold.

Chapter Ten

Emmeline emerged tentatively into the great hall, bathed, clothed in fresh dry garments and feeling infinitely revived. It was not long after the four o’clock bell, yet with the lowering skies, darkness had fallen early on this midwinter day. Huge rush torches slung into iron sconces lit up the high chamber in a blaze of light and a substantial fireplace threw out welcoming draughts of heat. Intricate tapestries woven in bright reds, blues and greens hung from the wooden rafters above to the stone flagstones below. A haze of woodsmoke hung over the room, where rows of laughing peasants, knights and servants crowded onto the trestle tables, banging and clattering with their platters and tankards. Emmeline wondered where she was expected to sit—up at the top table where she could see the Empress, Talvas and the Earl Robert seated already, or down in the mêleé amongst the lower-ranking knights and villagers who worked for the estate.

‘Come, my lady. Allow me to escort you.’

Emmeline turned to see the smiling profile of Guillame at her side. Despite having at least thirty winters, his features retained the rounded plumpness of someone far younger. Taking her arm courteously, he led her gracefully through the jumbled mêleé to help her into an empty place at the top table. Sitting beside her, he helped her to a choice selection of roasted meats, vegetables and poured wine into her goblet.

‘My thanks, Guillame.’ She turned to him gratefully.

‘My pleasure,’ he replied, seriously. ‘Remember, because of you, we are safe in England and not at the bottom of the sea.’

‘Only just. It was a miracle that no one was killed when the boat came to shore.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, mam’selle. We only reached the shore because we were able to steer properly with the repaired sail. You did well.’ His voice was full of admiration.

Emmeline’s stomach growled. Hearing it, Guillame smiled. ‘You must eat, mam’selle.’ The delicious scent of roast chicken tantalised her nostrils and she tucked in with relish, watching as the trestle tables were pushed to the sides of the hall below them.

‘Why are they doing that?’ She whispered to Guillame, who had just started his fourth chicken leg.

Guillame looked at her in amazement, the succulent meat poised en route to his mouth. ‘Why, now they have finished their meal, they will dance, my lady. We must have some entertainment on these long winter nights.’

As if on cue, the musicians in one corner, on lute, lyre and harp, struck up with a farandole. The sweet tempo of the delicate music filled the hall, enthusing everyone with a sense of occasion, of celebration. Their lord and master was home! Lord Talvas had returned! With delight, the peasants and knights milled about, trying to organise themselves for the first dance. Emmeline watched the smiling faces below, linking hands, forming a long chain that began to weave back and forth across the floor in time to the complicated rhythm of the music. So this is what life at a lord’s castle is like, she thought. Full of music and light and laughter and very different from the quiet, humble life she had lived with her mother; different from the austere, restricted life she had led with Giffard. Her feet tapped under the table to the beat of the music as she followed the dancing chain with her eyes. Soon, she became confused as the leader, a jovial man with a florid, sweaty face began to duck in and out of the connected arms of the chain, drawing the rest of the line with him.

‘’Tis a mystery to me, this dancing.’ She smiled at Guillame.

He appeared puzzled. ‘But you have danced before, my lady.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

Emmeline shook her head. ‘Nay, I’ve never had the—’ But her words were drowned out as the crowd began to roar. As the line twisted and turned the chant rose higher and higher above the sound of the music. ‘Talvas! Talvas!’ Emmeline looked along the length of the table toward Talvas. Her view was blocked by the Empress Maud sitting in a hefty oak chair.

‘Surely they don’t expect him to dance!’ She couldn’t imagine Talvas ever performing such a frivolous activity.

‘You’d be surprised, my lady.’ Guillame answered. He licked his lips free from the grease of the chicken, before using his eating knife to stab a piece of pork from a serving platter.

A great roar emerged as Talvas stood up, magnificent in a green and gold tunic that fitted the breadth of his wide shoulders like a second skin. The bleached linen of his chemise contrasted strongly with his tanned neck and face; the dark, upward slash of his brow lending him a fiendish air. And then he was at Emmeline’s side, his supple leather braies clinging to his brawny thighs, as he held out his hand to her. She stared at him aghast. Guillame nudged her. ‘Now is your chance to try, my lady,’ his ale-laced breath whispered in her ear.

‘I cannot,’ she whispered, eyeing Talvas with dismay. She would trip and stumble across the floor, embarrass him with her disability. The stiffness in her ankle would not allow her to perform the swift, graceful movements that a farandole demanded.

‘Come, my lady,’ Talvas said fiercely. The gleaming blue of his eyes challenged her. ‘Do not refuse me. The people wish to honour you for bringing me home safely.’ He lowered his voice, so only she could hear the smooth velvet of his tone. ‘I wish to honour you.’

Her heart flipped with untrammelled joy. ‘I…er…Talvas, my leg…?’ Huge green eyes appealed to his, tried to make him understand.

He smiled, the light of comprehension already in his eyes. ‘I had not forgotten, mistress.’ In two strides he stood beside her, grasping her hand and pulling her upright. The warmth of his breath tickled her ear. ‘And I will not let you fall.’

The sea of faces went wild as Talvas led her carefully down the steps to the lower level of the great hall, people cheering and clapping, parting respectfully before them as the music struck up once more.

‘Just follow me.’ Talvas looked down at her, a fleeting smile of reassurance. He held her left hand and a leering, pock-marked knight held on to her right with a sweaty grip. Emmeline mirrored Talvas’s movements with a grim determination, taking little steps round and round, in and out of the other dancers. As her step faltered with her weak leg, Talvas yanked her back up, so swiftly and assuredly that no one noticed. He seemed to sense the moment before she would stumble, the power of his body scooping her round as if she were weightless. Slowly, her confidence began to grow. He would not let her fall! The tense lines of concentration lifted from her face; her lips curved into a tentative smile. Emmeline relaxed into the sweet lilting melody, turning and turning into the rhythms of the music. The hall became a whirligig of colours, a sea of vibrant, laughing faces, her only constant, the assured steady pressure of Talvas’s hand, and occasional glimpse of his lean, angular features as she swept in his wake. The music sang into her veins as the crowd turned in a circle around them as they danced as a pair; her fingers linked with his as he laid an arm across the back of her shoulders, her left arm stretched across the flat muscle of his stomach to hold his left hand. She ceased to dwell on the intimacy of the situation, releasing herself to the vibrant chords of the music. After tomorrow, they would never see each other again.

He swung her around once more; her feet lifted in a swirl of brilliant green hem-line to reveal her shapely calves encased in pale silken hose, her small feet clad in borrowed shoes made from the finest leather. With his arm locked around her waist, and hers around his shoulders, his devilish face was merely inches from her own. She laughed with the joy of the dance, the effervescent vibrancy that coursed through her veins, that made her feel alive. He smiled back, a dark lock of hair falling boyishly across his forehead, unable to resist the sweetness of her expression. Locked into each other’s glances, neither realised that the music had ceased.

A deathly hush fell.

Maud had risen to her feet, her face a mask of unbridled fury, her body shaking with anger. ‘How could you do this to me!’ She screeched down from the top table. Fury screwed up her mouth as she spat the words out, pointing in condemnation toward Talvas. The long, trailing end of her sleeve swept across the table in the wake of her savage gesture, knocking over a goblet of wine. The liquid spattered and soaked into the white linen tablecloth. A peasant woman tittered nervously into the silence, before hurriedly smothering the sound with one hand over her mouth.

Talvas set Emmeline on her feet, his movements controlled and deliberate, one hand still in hers. He quirked one eyebrow in question toward the Empress, saying nothing, as if waiting for the Empress’s tirade to run its course.

‘You have betrayed me, you cur! You villainous beast!’ Maud flapped a single sheet of parchment at him, a gob of red sealing wax dragging at the bottom end. The young lad at her side appeared horrified by Maud’s reaction to the message he had delivered. He shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other, his face and cloak splattered with mud.

‘Mayhap you should tell me what I have done to offend you so, my lady,’ Talvas suggested in an unruffled tone. Despite his composed demeanour, the relaxed hold on her fingers, Emmeline sensed a winding spiral of tension mounting within him. The set of his shoulders straightened imperceptibly, his stance altered with a subtle movement—he prepared himself for a possible onslaught. An unbecoming puce colour flooded Maud’s face; she sat down abruptly as if her rage had robbed her of the power of speech. Earl Robert stepped forward.

‘Stephen was crowned King of England this morning,’ he explained, solemnly. A tiny sound, an expulsion of anger, emerged from Maud’s lips. ‘Your own brother-in-law, Talvas.’

‘I know who he is,’ Talvas replied, his tone level.

‘He has stolen the crown from me,’ Maud announced. ‘Robert sent this message to the Abbott at Sherborne, asking him to attend my coronation at Winchester, and this is the news we have back! I will not have it!’ She thumped the parchment that lay discarded on the table, like a spoilt child.

‘’Tis unfortunate, my lady,’ Talvas replied.

‘Unfortunate for you, my lord.’ The Empress rounded on him. ‘How did Stephen know that Henry was dead?’ A gasp rose amongst the assembled crowd as individuals turned to each other in astonishment. Of course, thought Emmeline, the King’s death had been kept a secret! The Empress continued. ‘How could Stephen have known?’ Her eyes narrowed to vicious slits. ‘Your only sister, Matilda, is married to Stephen. You must have sent a message, when I specifically stated that no one was to know! That throne is rightfully mine, and I intend to have it. But first I need to know who is on my side, and you, my lord Talvas, are most definitely a traitor. Guards, seize him!’

The command rang out across the room. No one moved. Incomprehension crossed Maud’s face; it was unusual for her orders not to be immediately followed.

‘My soldiers are loyal to me, my lady, and no one else,’ Talvas explained, his voice holding a rich seam of authority. ‘And you are mistaken in your wild assumption that I sent a message to Matilda. I do not, and never have, meddled in matters of the crown.’

‘Liar!’ Maud snarled, rudely. ‘I’ll have you run out of this castle, even if I have to do it myself.’

In two great strides, a blur of green and gold, Talvas reached the edge of the platform; in one powerful jump he stood over the Empress’s carved oak chair. He towered over her short, portly form; Maud had to tilt her head back to look up at him.

Mild irritation laced Talvas’s tone. ‘May I remind you, my lady, that this is my castle and these are my people. You have no authority in this place.’ A ripple of undisguised excitement flowed through the crowd. ‘With respect, I suggest that you leave, since it is you who has decided that I am your enemy.’

In the dark corner of the hall, something moved. Emmeline frowned. Was someone hiding there? She caught the gleam of a buckle, the vague outline of a shadowy form, and began to move forward instinctively, trying to discern the shape in the corner. Was Talvas in danger? His warning rang in her ears; Maud was strong-minded, but she was also sly, and would stop at nothing to rule England and Normandy.

Maud stood up, poking Talvas in the chest. ‘Listen to me. I will be Queen. And you will do as I say. I am content to use your castle for my own purpose; I will gather my forces here and march on Winchester at the earliest opportunity. That crown will be mine!’

‘Then you must fight me for it.’

The Empress slumped back in her chair once more, as if exhausted with the whole process and raised her right hand to her half-brother who stood on her other side. ‘Robert, deal with him.’

Talvas’s hand moved to the jewelled hilt of his sword as Robert stepped forward, holding both his hands up in a gesture of peace. At the same time, a great hulking oaf stepped out from the shadows.

Emmeline’s heart leapt into her mouth. Having moved silently over to the steps up to the dais, she spotted the threat first. ‘Talvas, watch your back!’ She yelled over to him, as the lout raised his mace. Talvas whipped his head round at the sound of her voice, momentarily disconcerted, then ducked. The mace hit the back of his skull with a glancing blow. His lean form pitched to the side, crumpled to the ground. Emmeline tried to reach him, but her way was blocked by Talvas’s attacker.

The hall was silent. Nobody moved.

‘What have you done?’ Emmeline whispered accusingly to Maud, pushing against two of the Queen’s soldiers who prevented her from mounting the dais.

‘Your concern for the man is touching, my dear—’ Maud’s eyes looked blank ‘—but I’d be careful about showing too much affection for such a traitor, or you might be joining him in the dungeon.’ Maud turned to her half-brother. ‘Have him carried below, Robert,’ She commanded, ‘and clear this ogling lot out of here. We have a country to win back.’

Emmeline paced the width of her chamber, the delicate embroidery edging the bottom of her linen chemise catching the light from the fire as she walked, and turned on the tip of her toes to tread the length of the room once more. In the confusion below—Talvas carried away senseless, the amassed crowd quickly dispersing lest they should be the Empress’s next victim—she had managed to slip away, praying that with their current concerns the Empress and the Earl would forget her very existence. But she needed to go! To leave this god-forsaken place!

Yet the image of Talvas being carried away, his body limp, repeatedly shuttled into her mind. Unconscious, it had taken three men, including the hulk who hit him over the head, to lug him away. Blood had dripped from the gash in his head, large spots staining the floorboards. Emmeline stopped by the window embrasure, staring out over the moon-soaked land. What should she do? Every instinct told her to leave this place but…but for one compelling reason to stay. If no one attended to Talvas’s wound, he would surely bleed to death! She could not let that happen. Despite his rough, overbearing ways, he had shown her kindness, more than kindness. She closed her eyes at the memory of his lean form pressed against her own, his lips upon hers in a fervent, heady kiss. It was if his soul had reached out and twined with hers, tangled so intricately that it had become impossible to separate the strands. She took a huge, shuddering breath, realisation coursing over her with astounding clarity. He would not die! She had to reach him and quickly! Pulling her bliaut carelessly over her chemise, leaving the side lacings trailing, she wrenched open her chamber door.

Talvas stood before her.

She blinked in surprise, then stretched her fingers out, as if he were an apparition.

Talvas grinned at her stunned reaction, putting one finger to his lips, warning her to be quiet. He moved silently into the bedchamber, setting the door quietly back into its thick, oak frame. The iron latch slid back into place with a small click.

‘Aye, it’s me, mistress.’ His low, husky tone curled around her.

‘But how…?’ Emmeline wrapped her arms about her, defensive in her concern for him, unwilling to show the relief that coursed in her veins.

His teeth gleamed white in the dimness of the room. ‘A secret passageway leads from the dungeons. It is well hidden.’ He chuckled. ‘That giant still thinks I’m in there. Now, where were you going?’

Going? She frowned.

‘You opened the chamber door, my lady,’ he prompted. ‘Where were you going, so late at night?’

‘I…er…well, I couldn’t let you bleed to death,’ she said, trying to add an element of brusqueness to her tone. ‘I was coming to see if you were recovered.’

‘They wouldn’t have let you anywhere near me,’ he replied. ‘But I’m gratified to know that you care.’

‘I don’t care!’ She flung back churlishly, unwilling to reveal her true feelings for him. ‘But any decent human being would have made sure that you didn’t bleed to death.’

‘Which was Maud’s intention, of that I’m certain,’ he returned drily. He put his fingers up to the back of his head, grimacing. ‘That man must have put his body weight against the blow, although your warning deflected the full force of it. For that I thank you.’

‘Let me look,’ she offered. ‘It may need stitches.’

He shook his head. ‘Nay, no time. Guillame saddles the horses as we speak. I must away to my sister and her husband in Winchester. Maud is in a dangerous mood; there’s no predicting what she may do. I must get to them before she does.’

‘You’ll be no help to your sister if you fall ill from an untreated wound,’ Emmeline admonished. ‘I can at least clean it, if you let me look.’ She moved to gather up a linen towel and jug of water from the elm chest in the corner. ‘Come and sit by the fire, so I can see the wound in more light.’

She noted the exhaustion that etched his roughly hewn face, all shadowed angles in the firelight, as he came forward and lowered his large frame onto a stool before the flames. Resting his elbows onto his wide-slung knees, he leaned forward, rubbing the flats of his palms over his face.

Emmeline moved to stand behind him, the thick, vigorous strands of his raven hair just inches from her breast. Against the sweet smell of the apple branches burning in the grate, she caught the musky aroma of him, a distinctive smell laced with the salt of the sea. Raising her fingertips to the back of his head, she gently parted the blood-clotted hair, biting her lip at the wide, seeping gash that she found. Lifting the wetted cloth, she began to clean the blood away from the wound, her fingers working methodically downwards. The softness of his hair brushed against the backs of her hands, sending a frisson of awareness to the very core of her.

‘It’s finished,’ she announced finally, exhaling slowly. Her fingertips tingled with the feel of him. She yearned to smooth her hands over the broadness of his shoulders, to hold him close to her, yet she stood back rapidly, awkwardly, knocking the wooden pail of bloodied water over the wide-planked floor.

‘Oh!’ she cried, staring at the gush of spreading water, then started forward, intending to mop it up with the linen towel in her hand.

A sinewy hand snaked round, snaring her wrist lightly. ‘Leave it!’ Talvas ordered hoarsely. The firelight highlighted the rugged outline of him as he drew her around, within the muscular ‘V’ of his thighs. ‘Nay, do not pull away,’ he said, aware of her resistance. ‘I must talk to you.’

Emmeline nodded, acutely conscious of the sturdy feel of his thighs on each side of her legs.

‘You need to come with me, with us. It’s too dangerous for you to stay here. The Empress has taken a shine to you; she will use you against me, for certain.’

‘But…but my own sister needs me,’ Emmeline replied, her head reeling at the unpredictability of the future. ‘I must travel to her on the morrow,’ she continued firmly. ‘Surely the Empress will let me leave?’

Talvas shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows the ways of a spoiled princess?’ he murmured. ‘Especially one as enraged as she. She has lost the one thing, the throne of England, the only thing that meant anything to her. Her craving for power is insatiable.’ His hands moved up to cup her shoulders; the warmth from his fingers seeped through the cloth of her bliaut, heating her chilly skin beneath. ‘Come, you’ll be safer with me.’

His words looped around her, luring her, reeling her in; the uneven seductiveness of their timbre igniting tiny sparks of desire deep within her belly. She didn’t feel safe with him at all. ‘Can we travel by way of my sister’s?’ She asked, hopefully.

‘Nay, it’s a different direction, it would slow us down. Once I reach Matilda, then maybe an escort can be found.’ An owl hooted, once, twice, outside. Talvas stood up so abruptly, she almost toppled backwards, but he maintained his grip on her shoulder, balancing her. ‘There’s Guillame now; are you with us, or nay?’

‘I’ll come.’

‘Good girl.’ Moving to the window embrasure, he slung one long leg over the sill to sit astride it. ‘Come,’ he urged, ‘I will let you down, and Guillame will catch your feet. It’s no great height.’

She wrapped her cloak around her anxiously, biting her lip. ‘Come on, Emmeline,’ he repeated sternly. ‘Why do you hold back so? Surely a girl who can climb a mast in churning seas has no fear of heights?’

Nay, I have no fear of heights, she thought, just a fear of you. Despite her disquiet, she moved to the window, threw both legs over the sill so that she faced outwards. Down below she caught the faint click of the horses’ harnesses. Talvas grabbed her hands. ‘Ease yourself down,’ he instructed. She shuffled her bottom forward and let herself fall vertical against the stonework. The pain of her body pulling against her arm sockets as she swung against the wall was excruciating.

‘I’m not sure…’ she began to say.

‘Guillame, catch her!’ Talvas ordered sharply, and let her wrists go. Emmeline’s mouth opened in shock, before Guillame’s sturdy arms caught her round the waist.

‘Well met, my lady,’ Guillame said politely, grinning as he shoved her up onto a waiting horse and vaulted into the saddled horse beside her. ‘Let’s go!’

‘But Lord Talvas…?’ She turned and looked up at the window, only to see him balance briefly, then jump, cloak billowing around him, straight into the saddle of the third horse. Digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, he wheeled the animal about.

‘Let’s go!’ he whispered.

Muffled shouts carried to their ears from the inner depths of the castle. Had Talvas’s escape been discovered? Emmeline didn’t want to wait to find out. Kicking her heels down lightly into the rounded flank of her mare, she followed the rump of Talvas’s horse into the swirling mist, the damp air curling the wispy tendrils that had come loose from her braid. They followed a muddy trail through the marshes, a trail that wove this way and that through the tussocky mounds of spiky grass. Emmeline heard the slick sound of water to her right, and guessed they moved north alongside the river, through the marsh beds that were exposed at low tide. It was difficult to see much: despite the moonlight, the mist wreathed and trailed about, touching her face with cold, vaporous fingers.

‘We need to walk,’ Talvas threw back suddenly. His piercing tone penetrated Emmeline’s exhausted brain, causing her to start. Her fingers seemed frozen onto the bridle. Had she fallen asleep? The mist was so thick now, she could scarce see her fingers in front of her face. She threw her leg over frontways and slithered awkwardly to the ground. The stiffness in her legs made her movements jerky, uncoordinated.

‘Keep up, mistress,’ Guillame prompted from behind. ‘Do not lose sight of Lord Talvas. He alone knows the way through the marshes.’ Emmeline caught the bridle of her horse beneath its chin, urging it forwards. She could still make out the swishing tail of Talvas’s stallion. Her leg ached from the exertion, but she ploughed doggedly on, taking longer and longer strides in an effort to keep up. They walked in single file, the mysterious mist moving like a thick, white swirling blanket before her, behind her, cloaking her in its clinging, seeping embrace.

And then she heard the hounds. Talvas heard the baying, too, checked his stride momentarily at the sound, then increased the pace. Nay, she wanted to shout out to him, slow down, but she didn’t for fear of alerting the soldiers who were now undoubtedly on their trail. The nose of Guillame’s horse nudged at her back.

‘Guillame, go before me,’ She whispered back. ‘I will come last. They are after you, not me.’ A doubtful look crossed his face. ‘Besides, you can reach Talvas and tell him to slow down a little, and wait for me.’ She smiled encouragingly. She had no intention of allowing either Talvas or Guillame to lose their freedom because of her inability to keep up. Guillame nodded, and slid himself and his horse past her on the narrow path. It seemed as if the mist were solid, she thought, as she marched resolutely behind Guillame. She kept her eyes fixed rigidly on the blue swirl of his cloak, her ears trained on the faint chinking sound of his bridle. With no one behind her, a cold, exposed feeling crept over her back, making her hunch her shoulders against any possible onslaught. As a raft of mist slunk between her and Guillame, she pushed herself forward. Fear slithered through her veins, her hand clammy on the leather strap as she suddenly realised she couldn’t see him anymore.

‘Guillame?’ she called softly. ‘Talvas?’ Her voice inched up a notch, a waver of panic shivering her tone. ‘Guillame?’ she called again, then sighed in relief as she bumped against him. ‘Thank God!’ she murmured. He had waited for her!

‘Thank you for waiting, Guillame,’ she said, clutching gratefully at his cloak. ‘I thought to have lost you!’

‘The pleasure is all mine, mistress.’ Earl Robert smiled nastily.

Chapter Eleven

The baying of the hounds grew fainter and fainter, until the eerie, ominous sound dissipated in the rain-filled air. Talvas dragged back on his reins, conscious that the pace had been fast, that the maid would surely need a rest by now. The swirling mists that had shielded them through the marshes now dropped away into the valley behind as the horses stepped up a narrow winding path.

‘Let’s rest awhile,’ Talvas said. His broad shoulder caught against a spindly low-hanging branch, springing droplets of rain from it as he turned in his saddle. His eye rested briefly on Guillame, riding the chestnut behind him, but of the pink-nosed grey palfrey and its gentle rider, no sign.

‘Where’s the maid?’

Silence resonated in the forest, swollen with implication. Guillame stared at him miserably, face white, his big shoulders hunched into his cloak.

‘Where’s the maid?’ Talvas demanded again. ‘I thought she rode before you?’ A bolt of panic sheered through him; his heart thumped. Throwing himself from the saddle, he marched back to Guillame’s side, blue eyes flashing fire, searching for an explanation.

‘She asked me to go before her,’ the younger man mumbled. ‘I thought it would be for the best, my lord. She was tiring, holding us back.’

‘You knew she was dropping behind? And you let her go? God’s teeth, man, what were you thinking? Why did you not tell me?’ Shame washed over him, bleak in its intensity. God in Heaven! He had persuaded her to come and she had trusted them, him, to lead her to safety!

‘How could you do it, Guillame? How could you let her slip away?’

Guillame dismounted swiftly; the two men faced each other.

‘I knew you would wait for her, and we would have been captured. She knew it, too, my lord. She wanted us to go on.’ Guilt wove through Guillame’s words.

Talvas strode back to his horse, springing into the saddle, heels digging into his stallion’s flank to wheel the animal round, to head down the path once more. ‘I must go back, I must fetch her.’ His mind filled with the sweetness of her face, the limpid delicacy of her skin, the gentleness of her fingers as she had attended to the wound on his head. Talvas squeezed his horse past Guillame, leaning back in the saddle as the animal descended the slope. ‘I can’t leave her there!’

‘The woman has turned your mind to mush,’ Guillame said curtly, grabbing the bridle of his horse to pull the animal aside. ‘Sire, think logically, I beg of you. If we travel to Winchester, we can fetch the soldiers we need to fight the Empress. Most of Stephen’s army is based there. What are the two of us on our own going to achieve? Certainly, we may extricate Mam’selle de Lonnieres if we go back, but surely it’s more prudent to return with an army of loyal men?’

Talvas hauled on his reins, trying to still his restless mount. Deep down, he knew his squire’s words made sense. Yet logic fought against another, far more powerful feeling that rose untrammelled, unbidden in his heart. A burgeoning awareness for Emmeline, stronger than anything he had ever experienced before. ‘Nay, Guillame, you travel on to Winchester alone, tell Stephen what has happened. I must go back.’

‘Don’t risk your own life for Mam’selle de Lonnieres,’ Guillame continued bluntly, sticking his toe into the stirrup, preparing to mount.

‘I owe her,’ Talvas replied. ‘She risked her neck on the ship, and warned me against a blow that would have killed me. I never asked her, or forced her, to do those things, yet she did them willingly, without complaint. It’s more than most people would do in a lifetime, yet in the space of a few days, she has shown more mettle than a normal man.’

Guillame shook his head. ‘Her beauty has addled your brain, your judgement. Have you forgotten where your loyalty lies?’

‘I am beholden to no one, Guillame, and well you know it. I choose to fight for Stephen because he is my sister’s husband and for no other reason.’ Talvas yanked smartly on the reins. ‘And every minute of this idle chatter puts Emmeline’s life in danger. I would go to her.’

Emmeline twisted her shoulder angrily, trying to shake off the Earl’s bruising grip. ‘Let go of me, you whoreson, you cur!’

Through the slipping, fluctuating mists, the Earl’s narrow mouth crooked downwards into a sneer. ‘Think you to fly me, wench?’ he laughed hollowly, his waxen features transforming into a self-satisfied smirk. He lifted his chin, his fingers pinching into the soft flesh of her shoulder. ‘Guards! Over here. Take this one back to the castle while I go after Lord Talvas. I do believe the dogs have picked up his scent.’

Emmeline’s fingers grabbed at the Earl’s cloak. ‘You’ll never catch him!’

‘It will be easy with these hounds; they are well trained, able to pick up the faintest trace of a man.’ He grinned, the skin on his cadaverous face stretched thin. ‘How ironic to think that I have turned his own dogs against him.’

‘You hunt him down like an animal.’ Emmeline’s eyes sparked fire, but fear curled in her veins.

‘A traitor deserves such treatment; when I bring him back, Maud will slit his throat for sure. He’s lost her the throne and for that she will not forgive easily.’

‘Lord Talvas is a man who would take neither side. I think you have him wrong.’

‘How touching,’ the Earl stated drily, casting her hands away from his cloak with distaste. ‘Think you to save your man with this petty wrangling, these witless arguments? Nay, lady, nothing can save your man now. I will bring him back and you can watch him die, and rue the day you ever met him. Guards, take her back!’

Earl Robert disappeared down the track, the hem of his cloak flapping wildly like the wings of a mad crow, pursuing the haunting echo of the hounds as their barking rose across the marshes. Two burly soldiers attached their meaty fists to her shoulders and marched her off in the direction of Hawkeshayne. As she stumbled over the loose stones, her thin leather soles sinking into the mud between, she forced her mind to think, to deduce a way out of her predicament. Talvas would not return; he’d be killed for certain if he did. Instinct and determination were her only allies now.

The swirling, bubbling noises to her left told her that the tide was rising in the river, and rising fast. With any luck, the Earl would lose the trail and become stuck thigh-deep in mud where the rising water would overtake him, she thought. Lifting her face to breathe in the fresh tangy air that swept up from the sea with the incoming tide, she noted the towering ramparts of Hawkeshayne looming out of the fog, the grey stones wreathed in mists of threadbare lace. It was now or never.

As they approached the wooden bridge that led to the gatehouse, she moaned suddenly, slumping forwards. ‘Ow!’ she complained. ‘My foot!’ Both guards dropped their hold immediately, the shorter of the two crouching down solicitously to try to discover the source of the pain. In a trice, she shoved at the guard still standing, then jabbed the chin of the guard hunched over her foot. As he toppled backwards, Emmeline leapt over his sprawling figure, aiming for the river, just a few steps away. At the bank, where the river ran deep and fast around the lower walls of the castle, she took a deep breath, then dived.

In the dark, in this mist, they had little chance of seeing her. Treading water in the lee of the castle, she dragged off her cloying veil, leaving it floating on the surface near the green, algae-covered walls, before striking out into midchannel with a strong, self-assured stroke, feeling the current drawing her upstream, pulling her to safety. As the water ran over her face, she tasted the salt on her lips, and wondered how long the current would be on her side before it turned to sweep her seawards. It was not long before her arms began to tire, the hem of her overdress beginning to wrap around her legs, hampering her movement. She twisted onto her back, resting, floating in the inky blackness, fingers of exhaustion creeping over her body. She found it difficult to judge her distance from Hawkeshayne, but she knew that if she didn’t stop now, she would surely drown. She struck out sideways, toward the edge of the river.

Moments later, her fingers scrabbled erratically at the bank, clutching uselessly into the wet, slippery mud, unable to find a handhold. It was awkward to move in the shallows; the high tide had begun to recede in the short time she had been in the water and now it had begun to expose the mudbanks at the river’s edge. Beneath the water, her knees sank into the thick, sticky gunge, but by sheer dint of effort, she crawled up the bank to fling her weary body finally onto dry, level earth. Rolling onto her back, she cast her eyes heavenward, to stare up bleakly into the layered, rolling blackness. Where in God’s name was she?

What folly to jump in the water, she thought, sitting up abruptly to hug her arms about her shivering body. Whilst swimming strongly, she had been unaware of the iciness of the water, but now, in the thick, crushing night, the cold leaked from her sopping garments into her skin. The mud that caked her sleeves, her arms, even her face, began to dry and harden in the freshening air. She needed shelter, and fast, otherwise she would surely freeze to death. Already, the bitterness of the north-east wind brought the occasional flake of snow that brushed her face, sharp needles that nipped at her skin with a sense of foreboding.

Standing, she concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, keeping the sound of the river on her right as a guide, her hands outstretched to stop herself walking into a tree. Occasionally she stumbled over unseen roots, but hauled herself back up again, dogged, determined. Her right foot dragged slightly. The snow seemed thicker now, flakes whirling like mad dervishes before her eyes.

And then she saw it. Looming out of the night, a small wooden hut, a shelter for animals, no doubt. She staggered toward the hovel, unable to keep the sobs of relief from emerging as the snowflakes stuck to her eyelids, her cheeks. But she forced her wooden limbs to keep going, to keep moving forward, throwing herself through the wide opening and onto the floor of the hut. Crawling forward, her hands touched earth, damp and hard-packed beneath her sore, frozen fingers and then, aye, straw, a huge mound of straw! Trailing her bone-weary joints to the centre of the sweet-smelling grass, she attempted to draw as much of it over her before sleep consumed her.

That voice. That low, melodious voice pulled at her brain, pushing fingers of consciousness, of awareness into the deepest, flickering regions of her mind. No cloying wet garments dragged at her; indeed, a languid warmth suffused her body, making her want to stretch out, to luxuriate in it. Moving her fingers surreptitiously, slowly, she realised in horror that she was naked, swaddled in the softest pelt, like a baby! God in Heaven! Skin flushing with embarrassment, she forced her eyes open.

Talvas sat opposite her, on the earthen floor of the hut, the broad lines of his back propped against the coarse mud and straw wall. One leg was drawn up; his forearm rested upon it, the sinewy tendons of his hand highlighted by the light of a fire. The flames burned brightly, their incandescence bathing the simple space in a suffusing, yellow glow. The shuddering flames, jerky in the frequent gusts of wind that swept through the open doorway, lit the craggy outline of his cheek and jaw, throwing shadows that gave him the look of the Devil.

‘You!’ The straw rustled beneath her hair, prickling her scalp as she angled her head to look over at him, incredulous at his presence. Her mouth dry, she licked her lips, tasting salt.

A soft smile played across his features, his lean fingers turning a solitary stick first one way, then the other. ‘Aye, mistress, ’tis I.’

His relaxed stance worried her; he should be miles away by now! She sat up abruptly, catching at the pelt to yank the edges around her shoulders, her expression intense, serious. ‘Talvas, you must go, ride away from this place! They’re looking for you!’ Her hair, unbound, fell forward about her shoulders in a cascade of blond ripples, still damp from their recent immersion.

‘It matters not.’ His words held a rough gentleness.

‘But Maud? She holds your castle, your home!’

‘Maud will be taken care of.’

Emmeline shook her head. A trickle of river water ran from one ear, trailing over the side of her face, wetting her neck. ‘Talvas, I don’t understand! Your life is in danger, yet you came back. Why?’

Talvas rose, a silent, stealthy movement. In the half light, his eyes glittered like burning coals. In two strides his leather-bound legs had covered the floor space and he was beside her, kneeling in the straw. Emerging from his rich green surcoat, the arms of his chain-mail glittered like millions of silver scales.

‘I came back for you.’

Breath punched into her lungs.

‘Nay…’ Her fingers reached out to skim the linked mesh across his chest, disbelieving. ‘Talvas, I don’t understand,’ She whispered. ‘You risked your life to come back?’

He seized her hand, his big grip heating her frozen fingers. ‘Believe it, mistress. Did you really think I would leave you in their hands?’ His heart beat unsteadily at her nearness, the depth of his feeling for this maid leaving him unbalanced, out of kilter. He took one deep, shuddering breath, forcing himself to remain indifferent to the exposure of one creamy shoulder, the dark pelt slipping seductively.

When he had finally found her, huddled and shivering in the corner of the hut, her lips had turned blue, her body almost frozen. With no thought other than to warm her, he had ripped the soaking garments from her body, rubbing her icy limbs with the dry straw, wrapping her in his fur cloak. He had thought that the speed of his actions would save her life, prevent him from holding the memory of her naked body.

And he believed, damn it, that he had succeeded. Yet the details flooded back to him: the tempting curve of her breast, the narrowness of her slim waist as she had lain so fragile, so vulnerable against the burnished straw; the images rushed back with agonising vividness. Now, as she faced him, her golden braids turning to gemlike brilliance in the light of the fire, her wide, catlike eyes alive with enquiry, the realisation that he wanted her struck with blinding ferocity. Mother of Mary, he’d come back to carry her to safety, to her sister’s home if that’s what she wished, yet all he yearned to do was bed her.

‘You came back…for me?’ Emmeline laughed, hoping to ease the peculiar, dangerous tension that had grown between them. A warm sensation coiled around her heart. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’

‘Why indeed?’ His eyes gleamed at her, sparkles of sapphire in his tanned skin. A tantalising eddy purled from him, a sense of excitement, of a danger that she couldn’t identify.

‘No one has ever done that for me before.’ Her words hitched. Talvas had risked his own life to come back. Giffard would certainly have left her, thinking of no one else but himself. The moment she had become of no use to him, she would have been out of the door and on the street. Wasn’t that the reason he had pushed her down the stairs in the first place? Because he had no intention of sharing her with anyone else? Because she carried his child? ‘You useless whore!’ he had yelled at her. ‘Fat lot of good you’ll be to me when there’s a bairn clutching at your skirts. I’ll teach you to whelp under my roof!’

‘You are kind.’ Almost in disbelief, Emmeline touched one fingertip to the sculptured angle of his cheekbone, anxious to dispel the unnerving images in her mind.

He closed his eyes, savouring the silken press of her fingertip, the exquisite heat that trailed over his skin. Kindness was the last thing on his mind. He fought to control the wildness that fired his blood, sent it hurtling through his body with reckless abandon, forcing his eyes open.

Her hand dropped away from his face. ‘Talvas, you must go now,’ she urged. ‘I wouldn’t want them to catch up with you; the Earl said they would slit—’

‘Stop worrying about me, maid,’ he growled unsteadily. ‘I am big enough and ugly enough to take care of myself.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s your wish, I suppose. But I can’t think why you would want to stay here.’

‘Can’t you?’

The simple question rippled over her, hung in the air. His eyes devoured her.

‘You think I’m wilful, my independence drives you mad.’ She laughed, a nervous trickle of sound against the crackling of the fire.

He caught her hands to him, the pads of his fingers like nubbled bark against her soft palms. ‘It did. But your behaviour grows on me…as you do.’

‘What do you mean?’ She trembled, a fearful anticipation growing in her chest.

‘This.’ he rose over her swiftly, self-control slipping effortlessly away, in ruins. He had to possess her, to have her, just this once, if only to forget her afterwards. His lips descended on hers, fierce, demanding. Pushing her back against the straw, his hands smoothed the pelt from her shoulders, revealing the delicate corded line of her collar bone, the shadowed dip between her breasts.

‘Talvas…I…’

Under the heady power of his kiss, her body relaxed, loosened, like flower petals opening beneath the sun. The tight bonds, imposed since Giffard’s death, her promise never to be with another man, shattered under the first burning touch of his fingers. She gasped as one of his hands found the gap in the pelt covering her naked skin, his hand levelling over the flatness of her bare stomach, the sensitive curve of her waist. Crushing her against the sweet-smelling straw, the fine mesh of his hauberk pressing into her soft, sensitive curves, he deepened the kiss, hungry for possession. She pushed her fingers into the thick strands of his hair, drawing him closer, closer. But he lifted his lips from hers, pulling against her hold, the azure brilliance of his eyes scalding her inflamed skin, his big hands framing the oval fragility of her face.

‘You are mine,’ he whispered, hoarse.

She slumped then, hands dropping away, falling limply to her sides, staring at him with a desolate light in her eyes, wanting to weep.

‘Giffard used to say that.’

Chapter Twelve

Talvas jerked back to sit on his heels, his breathing hard, sweeping his hand violently across his eyes as if to clear his head. ‘Ye gods, Emmeline, what did that bastard do to you?’

She curled away from him, hunching her shoulders to hide her face, drawing her knees up into her chest. The pallid greyness of her skin, her shuttered, blank pupils, jolted at his conscience. He wanted to reach out and touch her, comfort her, but feared his compassion might be misinterpreted, might drag up more unwanted memories.

‘Emmeline, forgive me.’ His words seemed raw, untried. The dark golden strands of her hair curved over the straw, twisting coils of gold as she glanced at him. He pushed a hand through his dark curls, hesitant, unsettled by her silence, her distance. Possessed by an invisible memory, her huddled form reminded him of a broken doll. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears; he leaned forward instinctively to brush them away.

She flinched, lurching back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered hoarsely.

‘Nay,’ he answered, surprised. ‘It’s my fault.’

‘It was just those words, Talvas.’ Her fingers picked at a crumbling piece of mud in the wall of the hut, loosening the caked earth until it fell to the ground in a shower of dust.

‘Powerful words, indeed, to have that effect upon you,’ Talvas replied. ‘What happened?’

She sat up clumsily, hair cloaking her shoulders like finespun golden net. ‘I married Giffard to try to keep my family alive after my father’s death.’ Her voice dropped to a dull monotone, listless. ‘It was not my choice, but it was my duty.’

A burning twig crackled and spat within the circle of stones that contained the fire, sending a shower of sparks toward the rush ceiling. Talvas ground at a glowing ember that had fallen outside the fire with the heel of his leather boot, extinguishing it. The silence quivered between them.

‘I made a mistake,’ Emmeline whispered. ‘My mother and I could have survived on our own if we hadn’t panicked, if we hadn’t thought that a male presence was needed to protect us. We would have survived.’ Emerald eyes met his. ‘Anything would have been preferable to that living hell that was my marriage.’

Talvas sucked in his breath sharply, an invisible fist punching him in the guts.

‘When they carried Giffard’s body in, run through by an errant hunting arrow, I could have jumped for joy. The sense of relief was unbelievable. Never again would that man humiliate me or hurt me.’

Talvas’s gaze flicked to her shapely calves, her fine ankles, peeking out from beneath the pelt. The permanent bruising, the slightest twisting at her ankle were just discernible. ‘How did that happen?’ Talvas nodded at her foot, shifting himself carefully into a seated position against the wall.

‘He kicked me down the stair ladder. He’d been drinking in one of the taverns, celebrating after a successful voyage. So you see…’ She threw him a wan, bleak smile ‘…I did have some respite from him when he was away.’ Emmeline picked up a few strands of straw, looping and turning the dried grass between her fingers. ‘I knew he was drunk by the way he threw back the door, bellowing for me. I was upstairs, preparing for bed.’ Her voice trembled. She flushed, remembering the violent way Giffard had thrown her onto the bedcovers, ripping at her nightgown. ‘And…and…when it was over…I told him about…oh, God!’ She sank her face into her hands, crouching low, as tears coursed down, sparkling through her fingers, before dropping in great, dark spots onto the earth.

Talvas clenched his fists, grinding his knuckles into the ground. Purposely, he fixed himself to the spot, knowing that if he went to her, he would break this moment. And he needed to know. Wanted to know. ‘What did you tell him, Emmeline?’ he probed gently above her noisy sobs, his voice edged with steel.

‘God forgive me!’ she gasped out between sobs. ‘I…told him about the baby! Stupid! Stupid!’ Thumping at the wall, her fist connected with more of the fragile earth, dislodging it. ‘I told him I was with child, his child…’ Her voice trembled, creeping higher and higher ‘…and, God in heaven, Talvas, I’ll regret that decision till the day I die!’ Jamming her fists into her eyes, she strove to contain the flow of tears. The sound of her crying clutched at him, tearing into the barren wasteland that was his heart. Every muscle in his body clenched with the strain of listening to her whispered speech. ‘I’ve tried to forget,’ She muttered, finally. ‘I’ve thrown myself into life and tried to forget what he did, but I cannot. ’Tis always there. I bled and bled that night, Talvas, but the child had been lost from the moment he punched me in the stomach.’ She turned her desolate, tearstained face toward him. ‘He made me what I am today.’

‘Sweet Jesu!’ Talvas sprang to his feet, striding to the door, wanting to challenge the bastard who had done such a thing, who had treated her thus. Emmeline watched the reaction to her words play across his face: anger, murderous anger, and revenge. ‘That bastard should pay for what he did to you!’

‘He’s dead and buried, Talvas.’ Emmeline smiled softly, the tears drying on her cheeks. A curious sense of release flooded over her, the shackles to her past beginning to loosen, to disintegrate.

Talvas dropped to her side, kneeling in the straw, trying to control his inner turmoil. ‘Not in here, he’s not.’ He touched the side of her head. ‘I wish to God it had never happened.’ He curved his big palms around the delicate flush of her cheeks, noting the dark circles around her eyes, wanting to erase the hurt, the pain, from her mind. His thumbs smoothed over the high crest of her cheekbones, testing the velvet of her heated skin.

‘I’ve never told anyone before,’ She said shakily. ‘And I am not certain why I told you.’ What had prompted her to tell him so much? Had it been the soporific warmth in the hut that played on the fatigue in her mind, or the steady reassurance of Talvas, his intelligent eyes trained on her, listening without judgement, without comment, to her words?

Talvas moved to the pile of logs in the corner of the hut, sweeping up her clothes that had now dried in the warmth of the fire. Holding the garments between his hands, he stared down at her, his eyes brooding. ‘I’m glad that you did, chérie.’

Emmeline threw him a tentative smile, knowing that something had changed between them. In that moment, a flash of understanding bound them, a tiny flicker of trust that drew them closer, braiding them inexorably together.

Behind his towering figure, through the open doorway, the darkness was a mass of swirling snowflakes. Emmeline smothered a yawn, her whole body trembling with the exertion of staying awake. Talvas smiled. ‘We need to sleep. The hour grows late and we will travel on the morn.’ He nodded, confirming her enquiring look. ‘Aye, I will take you to your sister’s…make sure you are safe. You’d best put these back on.’ A peculiar restraint governed his voice as he handed her the pile of clothes. ‘I will wait outside.’

Despite being warm and dry, dressed once again in her stiff, mud-caked garments, sleep eluded Emmeline as she lay wrapped in Talvas’s cloak before the fire. He had stacked chunks of wood around the heart of the flame, enough to keep the fire burning till morn and now the glimmering embers drew her gaze, causing flickering images to play over and over in her head. A weariness sank through her limbs, yet her mind refused to relax, constantly recalling the words she had poured out to Talvas.

A tiny click, a movement, distracted her. She turned her head toward the sound, feeling the soft fur caress her cheek. Although Talvas lay stretched out, the top of his dark head just inches from her own, Emmeline caught the glint of his eyes, wide open. ‘What’s the matter, can you not sleep?’

‘That bastard should have suffered for the way he treated you, Emmeline.’ Talvas propped himself up on one elbow, turning onto his side to face her. He had removed his mail hauberk and padded gambeson, and now wore only his linen chemise and surcoat. He had kept on his leather boots, laced in criss-cross fashion over his woollen braies.

‘Don’t think on it, Talvas,’ Emmeline replied softly. She hadn’t expected him to be so concerned, so agitated by the matters of her past.

One hand shot out to capture her wrist, encircling the fragile bones in a gentle snare. ‘I can’t, Emmeline. I can’t forget your words. No man should treat a woman thus.’

A churning, blossoming excitement pulsed up her arm. Her heart began to thump, its rate so fast it threatened to overwhelm her. How could a single touch of his fingers send her into such a spiral of desire? ‘It happens all too often, Talvas…’ she shuddered ‘…which is why I vowed from the day I watched the earth fall onto Giffard’s coffin that no man would ever own me, ever possess me, again.’

‘Such a waste,’ Talvas whispered. Hitching his body around so it lay parallel with hers, he touched one lean finger to the sweet curve of her bottom lip. ‘You deny your true feelings.’

‘Nay,’ she murmured huskily. ‘It keeps me safe.’

‘Are you certain about that?’

She closed her eyes.

‘Kiss me,’ he requested softly. He held his breath. The last thing he wished for was for her to draw away, to remain in this prison of fear—nay, he wanted to kindle her desire, kindle that carefree, easy loving that the bastard had driven out of her with brutality and threats.

Her eyes shot open. His face was inches from her own, his stern, chiselled features alive with desire. A trembling weakness possessed her; tentatively she placed her fingers on the fine linen that covered his broad shoulders. Her mind spun.

‘Kiss me,’ he urged, ‘don’t think about it.’

Setting one finger against the softness of his bottom lip, she traced the generous curve out to one side. His lips parted at the sweetness of her touch, a hot surge of his breath caressing her skin. She shifted her head forward, brushing her mouth to his—a movement of trust, an avowal of passion. The touch of his cool, pliant mouth sent a spasm of excitement rippling, unchecked, within her. He groaned, catching the back of her head to pull her closer, a flush of desire staining his cheeks, unable to withstand the deepening of the kiss. His hands caught impatiently in her hair, testing its wanton silkiness, running his hands down the curling tendrils, snaring one long length around his palm.

‘What about “love” you, Emmeline?’ He pulled his lips away, breathing unsteadily. ‘Would you ever let a man love you again?’

Her whole body flushed under his question. She knew what he was saying, what he asked of her. ‘In truth, Talvas, I have only ever known the love of one man, that of my father. I have no experience of the other.’

‘You mean marriage?’

‘Hah! Love and marriage are poles apart. The two cannot be together. Marriage is ownership, possession, a curbing of independence. But love…love is…’ Her speech trailed away, for she had no explanation.

‘I disagree.’ His voice rumbled deep in his chest. ‘If you love someone, care for them, then you marry them.’

She shook her head sadly. ‘Not from my experience.’

‘You have made this judgement on the basis of your marriage to Giffard.’ He sat up abruptly, pushing his hands into his hair, separating the dark strands.

‘And what do you base your thinking upon?’ Her voice rose above the crackle of the fire. ‘You’re a rebel through and through, conforming to nothing, following your own path through life. What do you know of love and marriage, Talvas?’

A log rolled from the fire, and he kicked at the burning wood with his foot, scattering ash. ‘More than you would care to know, mistress. More than you would care to know.’

Lord Edgar of Waldeath pulled his thick-set frame out of his carved chair and hurled his bowl in the direction of his cowering wife. ‘This porridge is stone cold!’ he snarled. Quailing visibly, Sylvie jerked her thin body sideways to avoid the missile, which flew past her, splattering its contents on the wall behind. Slimy gobs of sticky oatmeal clung to the stone momentarily before beginning to slide down. Edgar slurped at his tankard of mead, wiping his wet, shiny mouth on the back of his sleeve. ‘Fetch me more, you useless wench!’ He belched, noisily.

Scooping up the wooden bowl with shaking fingers, ignoring the mess on the wall, Sylvie scurried off to the kitchens, shoulders hunched high for fear of another attack. Her husband was unpredictable; she had no way of knowing his mood as often there was no advance warning, no change in his demeanour. Handing the bowl to a kitchen serf, she tried to calm her breathing, studying the column of steam that rose from the cauldron of bubbling porridge. She’d show him! she thought, watching the serf slop the runny oats into the bowl. Or rather, Emmeline would. She prayed fervently that her message had reached Barfleur, that her younger sister would arrive soon; her strong, fearless sister who would stand up to Edgar and extricate her from this parody of a marriage. When Geoffrey the merchant had arrived some week earlier, seeking accommodation, Sylvie had seen his presence as a salvation, as a way of escaping. She had pressed the letter into his palms, whispering the importance of the contents, that it must at all costs reach Emmeline.

‘Hurry up, you idle bitch!’ She jumped at Edgar’s jibing words as she set the fresh, steaming porridge before him. He jabbed his spoon into the pale cereal, shoving the food into his mouth.

‘Bah!’ he spat it out. ‘Too hot! Can’t you get anything right?’ He turned his beady, malevolent eyes on her. Sylvie shook her head dumbly. How could she ever have thought that the daring, exciting Edgar was the perfect husband, her mate for life? When she had first met him, the eldest son of a wealthy Anglo-Norman family, a family well rewarded for their loyalty to William the Conqueror with vast estates and productive manors in the south of England, she had thought her future to be certain, a way out of her life in service. Edgar had been handsome, attentive, loving and, above all, rich in his own right. She had been too ashamed to introduce him to her own humble family, her widowed sister eschewing all men in favour of the shipping business, her mother still in mourning from the death of her husband. Nay, Edgar had promised her a life of luxury, whisking her away from all that was menial and desperate. She couldn’t wait to leave, to swap her lowly life for one of colour and fun, to leave her daughter Rose, whose very presence seemed to mock her daily, a constant reminder of her previous folly with a man.

‘Can you hear me?’ Edgar was yelling at her, spit adhering to his fleshy lips. ‘Clear that mess up!’

‘I’ll fetch a servant to do it,’ she murmured, turning to go.

‘Nay! I want you to do it!’ he gripped her fingers, restraining her. ‘’Tis your fault!’ She didn’t move for a moment, paralysed by her train of thought.

Edgar stood, pushing the bench back violently, eyes trained on his wife’s waiflike frame. His burly presence seemed to loom over her, despite both he and Sylvie being about the same height. Grabbing Sylvie’s upper arms, he all but lifted her off her feet to shake her like some helpless creature.

‘I said, “Clear that mess up!’” Without warning, he dropped her, raising one meaty fist to clout her around the ear. As his fingers made contact, Sylvie howled with pain, eyes watering at the ringing noise in her right ear. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you suffer, she told herself, biting her lips to prevent any further outcry. She willed her thoughts to turn to the letter she had sent to her sister, a letter that gave her a renewed spirit and strength, something she had not experienced for above a year.

‘You can’t treat me like this! I am your wife!’ Sylvie pressed her palm to her ear, trying to alleviate the pain.

‘Huh! Some wife you turned out to be! Thin as a rake beneath the covers—why, ’tis like bedding a skeleton.’ She flinched beneath his scathing criticism. ‘In fact, a skeleton would probably be more fun! And where are the children you promised me? Where are they? I need children to further my name, to keep the lands in this family. You barren bitch, I wish I’d never set eyes on you!’

He pushed her then, with a studied deliberateness that made her blood run cold, his hand flat against her chest, shoving her toward the wall. ‘I’ll treat you however I like,’ he mused. ‘You are my wife and you will do as I say.’ He gave her one last almighty shove backwards. Her back landed heavily against the wall, as her hip smashed against the hard floor.

‘Not for much longer,’ she retorted, trying to focus on his brutish profile through the shimmering tears of pain. ‘I’m leaving you, I’m going back to France. Emmeline is coming to fetch me.’

Edgar shouted with laughter. ‘She’ll have forgotten your existence.’ Spite laced his tone. ‘Remember, you neglected to bid a proper farewell to your family all those years ago.’

‘Not Emmeline,’ Sylvie responded feebly, ‘she wouldn’t hold a grudge.’ The sadness on Emmeline’s face when Sylvie had announced she was leaving had almost been too much to bear—the two sisters had always been close. Unable to face her mother’s criticism at such a decision, her condemnation at leaving her small daughter, Sylvie had begged Emmeline to wait until she had sailed before breaking the news to their mother. Emmeline had simply hugged her, entreating her to ‘take care’.

Edgar sneered down at his wife’s crumpled profile. How weak she was! How insipid! He took great pleasure in ensuring that she behaved herself, as a proper wife should. He knew that without him, she would not survive—with no money, no friends or relatives in this country, she was totally alone. And that was the way he liked it. For miles around, Edgar had bought his loyalty through fear, and money. No one would give Sylvie shelter; they knew what Edgar would do to them. But if the sister appeared…Now that would be a different matter—someone on Sylvie’s side, someone to fight her cause. Edgar stared at the crushed figure huddled into the wall. Sylvie was his, his to treat exactly how he liked and no one was going to take her away from him. The menacing streak in his voice persecuted her, sending pinpoints of fear shooting through her veins.

‘You need to be taught a lesson, Sylvie.’

Outside the woodsman’s hut, deep in the forest, the air was still. A sparkling layer of snow, pure white and pristine, coated the ground, jewel-like frosting. The wind had dropped to leave an icy stillness through the bare branches, shot through with early morning sunlight. Emmeline emerged into the dazzling brightness, still rubbing her eyes to try and wake up.

‘Place your foot in my hands, Emmeline; I’ll boost you up.’ Talvas already stood beside his chestnut stallion, smiling softly at her befuddled state. The smooth skin of her cheek bore streaks of mud from the previous day and gave her the look of a street child, albeit an appealing one. She had managed to pull her hair back into one long braid, the curling end of which now bounced at her hips.

‘So soon?’ She murmured, wondering at the earliness of the hour. They had slept finally that night, both caught up in the relentless churning of their memories, but now she felt as if she had gained no sleep at all.

‘Make haste, Emmeline,’ he urged. ‘I would travel early, before anyone is about.’ The chain-mail clung lovingly to his lean frame, the slits at the side of his legs revealing his woollen braies beneath, his green and gold tunic pulled over the top. He had thrown the hood of the hauberk back on his shoulders to form a fine mesh collar that emphasised the strength of his neck, and his thick hair gleamed in the stark morning light: a raven’s wing.

‘You make it sound like we’re in danger.’ Her voice quivered as she stepped forward, hesitating, bracing her body against his inevitable touch. The snow, firmly packed, creaked under her step.

‘These are troubled times. If Stephen’s men have failed to catch up with Maud, then she and Robert will raise an army in no time. She has many supporters in this country who are prepared to fight against Stephen.’

‘A civil war, you mean?’

‘Maybe. And I, for one, would not like to be caught in the crossfire.’

‘But Talvas,’ she whispered, ‘it was my ship that brought Maud across.’

‘Aye,’ he admitted, his generous mouth twisting ruefully, ‘and I was the captain of that ship.’

She shook her head. ‘Then why didn’t you stop me?’

His bright eyes found hers. ‘Because, mistress, you were unstoppable!’ he held his hand up at her bemused expression. ‘Nay, I tease you! Maud would have found a way across in spite of you, but it may have taken a little longer if you hadn’t been so keen to do business with her.’

Emmeline flushed. ‘But you didn’t have to be a part of it…we could have found another captain.’

‘It meant I could keep an eye on Maud.’ And keep an eye on you, he admitted, assessing her neat, graceful figure as she moved to stand beside him.

‘So you are loyal to Stephen?’ She raised one slippered foot, clutching onto his broad shoulder for balance as he cupped the base of her shoe.

‘If I have to fight at all, then I would fight on his side. He is married to my sister.’ The sapphire in his eyes grew dark as he studied her face. ‘Come, mistress, the horse grows restless. I wish to be at Waldeath, at your sister’s, by the ten o’clock bell.’ A heady aroma rose from his body, a tantalising mix of horse and woodsmoke as he all but threw her to the front of the saddle, before leaping up behind her.

‘Lean against me, maid, for God’s sake!’ he ordered, aware that she held her body rigidly away from him. ‘You’ll slow the horse’s gait.’ Emmeline let her back fall against his chest, reluctantly. After her emotional outburst from the evening before, a shyness had come upon her, an awkwardness that made her movements jerky and restrained around him. Inwardly she cursed the way her words had tumbled out last night, unbidden, yet he had listened, with neither pity nor mockery in his expression. His very presence had nurtured her, steadied her, and made her feel whole again. Her heart clenched, for this journey to her sister’s house would be their last together. Although unsure as to his plans, from the morrow they would never set eyes on each other again. She would miss him.

The horse climbed a narrow track out of the forest, and broke out onto open heathland. Talvas kicked the stallion with his heels, his strength in his muscled thighs burning into her hips as he snared her tightly to his chest with one arm, and they galloped over the frozen ground, a desolate moor carpeted with low-lying gorse and heather, its profile broken occasionally by a gnarled, wind-bent tree.

‘It’s not far now,’ Talvas announced, steering the chestnut with strong, capable hands to the brow of the hill. ‘Waldeath lies in the next valley.’ The cloudless sky, lit with a brilliant, fresh blue, formed a striking contrast with the bleached-out tufts of moorland grass. The horse crested the top of the hill, and the next wide valley lay spread before them, its fertile pastures patterning out into the hazy distance. And nestled on the southern slopes, the village of Waldeath…burning.

‘God in heaven!’ Emmeline shouted. ‘Talvas, Talvas, the village burns! My sister!’ She twisted clumsily in the saddle to speak to him, before turning to clutch at the reins, to set the horse in motion, to race away. Adrenalin shot through her veins, the muscles in her body tensing as she lifted herself up from the saddle.

‘Hold on,’ he announced grimly, pulling her back into him, kicking the sturdy heels of his boots into the animal’s sides. The horse careered down the hill, great clods of mud and grass flying out from beneath its hooves. Smoke billowed out from the thatched roofs of the cottages: thick, dirty clouds that obscured the winter sun, the smell of scorched wood filling the air. The screams of the villagers rang out as they ran hither and thither, calling for their loved ones. Blood dripped from injuries: a head gashed by a mace, an arm cut with the murderous length of a sword.

‘Mother of Mary,’ Emmeline breathed, ‘who would do such a terrible thing?’ She sat forward, purposefully. ‘We must help these people.’ Throwing her leg over the front of the horse, she slithered easily from Talvas’s light hold, down the rounded flank of the horse. The hem of her skirt caught under the saddle and she pulled it out hastily, marching off into the screaming mêleé, crouching down to a woman cradling a small boy. Tears ran down the soot-streaked face of the woman, who rocked to and fro, wailing with an eerie, off-pitch tone.

‘Let me help you,’ Emmeline offered, horrified at the sight of the limp child, blood seeping from an ugly gash on his head. She tried to take the boy from the woman’s arms, but she held on with a surprising strength.

‘What is it?’ she demanded of the woman. ‘Why will you not let me look? Let me help?’

‘The boy is dead, Emmeline.’ Talvas stood beside her, his voice frozen.

Emmeline let her hands drop to her sides. She had never felt more useless, more unable to help in her life.

‘Come,’ Talvas said gently, ‘let us find your sister. She might be able to tell us what happened.’ he bent down to place a hand under her elbow, helping her up from the cold ground.

Emmeline rose slowly, her movements wooden. ‘The castle is over there.’ She pointed at the towering stone walls that loomed over the huddle of cottages.

‘Then let’s pray your sister is there,’ Talvas said, looking doubtfully at Emmeline’s pale face before hoisting her up on the horse before him. They rode silently through the village, following the narrow cobbled street uphill. The horse’s hooves clattered over the drawbridge, echoing through the dim tunnel of the gatehouse. No guard stopped them. An eerie silence permeated the air. Only a lone figure standing in the middle of the bailey, clothes torn and bloodied, golden hair matted and dirty. Her sister. Sylvie.

‘God in heaven!’ Emmeline threw one leg over the horse’s neck and jumped to the ground. ‘Oh my God, what have they done to you?’ She grasped her sister’s pale, limp hands. Her sister’s eyes were wide and staring, fixed on something behind Emmeline. She started to shake her head, her eyes riven with fear.

‘Nay, nay, not him. Take him away! He’ll punish me for what I did!’

‘What’s the matter, Sylvie? Tell me, what is it?’ Emmeline demanded, turning to follow the direction of her sister’s gaze. Already Sylvie pulled against her, trying to back away. ‘She’s raving, Talvas. Just look at her, she’s shaking.’ Emmeline glanced at Talvas, who came to stand beside her. ‘God knows what has happened to her.’

‘Is this your sister?’ Two spots of colour had appeared on Talvas’s cheekbones.

‘Aye, this is my sister, Sylvie,’ Emmeline nodded, a slight frown appearing on her brow.

‘Sylvie Duhamel,’ he murmured slowly. Again, Sylvie dragged and twisted against Emmeline’s hands.

‘Talvas, step back, you’re scaring her.’ Emmeline’s forehead creased with puzzlement as she tried to decipher the peculiar tension between her sister and the man she had shared the last few days with. ‘What’s amiss, Talvas? You’re acting as if you’ve met Sylvie before.’

‘We did more than “meet”,’ he bit out. The taut planes of his face were rigid with hostility.

Emmeline reached out to him, touched his arm. ‘Tell me.’

He laughed, the sound brittle and forced. ‘This is the woman I intended to marry…the mother of my child.’

Chapter Thirteen

‘What did you say?’ Emmeline reeled under the staggering impact of his words, insides turning to liquid fear. Disorientated, she searched Sylvie’s pale, pinched, mud-smeared face for some clue, some hint as to what was happening. Talvas and Sylvie…together? It didn’t seem possible…or make sense. Questions surfaced with unerring rapidity, confusion mangling her perception of reality. Sylvie appeared as if in a dream, the green of her eyes blank and unfocused as she swayed slightly, a slender flame buffeted by an unseen wind.

‘You heard.’ A rod of iron stretched through the clipped timbre of Talvas’s voice. ‘This woman is the mother of my child. When she left me, she took Rose with her, and I never saw her again.’

God in heaven! Rose, thought Emmeline, recalling the tiny baby brought to Barfleur by her sister; the tiny baby who had spent just a handful of days with her and her mother before slipping away. She pictured the child now with deadly clarity: a shock of raven-black hair, piercing blue eyes…and then…nothing. Talvas’s baby daughter!

‘Nay, it’s not possible!’ The words burst forth from Emmeline as she struggled with the picture of Talvas and Sylvie sharing a life together, a life into which she had no insight, no knowledge. Resentment nudged her heart, a burgeoning of hostility toward Talvas that threatened to dissolve the gossamer links, those flimsy threads of understanding that had bound them yestereve.

Sylvie moved awkwardly, her step hesitant, to stand next to Emmeline. ‘’Tis true, Emmeline. Every word he speaks is the truth.’ Her voice was a whisper, the soft vowels vanishing into the freezing air.

‘You never said you’d had a child!’ Emmeline flung at Talvas, annoyed that her tone sounded petulant, childish.

‘It’s not something that comes up in normal conversation,’ he replied tersely, his expression blank and forbidding. His knuckles clenched white at his sides.

The tight control of his tone made her rock back on her heels. ‘But you could have told me,’ she mumbled. ‘You could have told me.’ Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she dropped her head, focusing her blurred vision on the bright, slick cobbles at her feet.

‘Emmeline.’ He reached out, lifting her face with strong fingers to meet his eyes, acknowledging with that single glance the depth of understanding, of trust that they had shared the previous night. ‘Last night was not the time.’

Her small, straight teeth worried at the tender skin of her bottom lip, relishing the lingering warmth from his hand before it dropped from her face. He didn’t deserve her resentful, churlish behaviour and neither did Sylvie, who shivered in her thin gown beside her. ‘But how?’ Emmeline rubbed at her eyes distractedly, as if by the simple movement she could throw some clarity on the situation.

Talvas shrugged his shoulders. ‘I was young and foolish, foolish enough to want to marry her, a lovesick swain. When I realised what sort of woman she was, I was happy to let her go…but to take our newborn child, to hide her from me? It beggars belief.’

Sylvie hunched forward, cowering under the fierceness of his speech, drawing her tattered shawl about her thin shoulders. ‘I’m sorry for what I did, Talvas. Believe me, I am sorry.’

His mouth flattened into a hard, stern line; a muscle jumped in his cheek as he shook his head. ‘I find it hard to forgive you, Sylvie. I lost my baby girl twice; first, when you left, and then, when I learned that she had died.’

A sob tore from Sylvie’s throat; Emmeline felt the slight frame of her sister slump against her. Throwing an arm around Sylvie’s shoulders, in an effort to comfort her, as well as keep her standing, Emmeline struggled to quell her own bewildered emotions.

‘Talvas, go easy on her, please! I think she’s been through enough for today. Her village burns, her people are injured and afraid and her husband is nowhere to be seen!’

Talvas’s eyes bore into hers; bright coals burning in the stern implacability of his face. He wanted to rail, to shout, and above all to blame, yet drinking in the gentle calmness of Emmeline’s beauty steadied his rattled senses. He nodded stiffly.

Removing her arm from around Sylvie, Emmeline stepped toward him, placing her palms on his chest. ‘It’s a long time ago, Talvas. You must let go of the memories.’ Keeping her eyes pinned to the filigreed silver of his chain-mail, she drew a deep shuddering breath. ‘Your child didn’t die alone.’

Anguish ricocheted through his body at the trembling words, a quicksilver bolt of grief charging at his innards. He gripped her shoulders, the power of his fingers squeezing through the fabric of her bliaut to clutch at her flesh. A jerky, peculiar tone pulled at his words. ‘You were with her?’

Emmeline recoiled at the hoarseness, the torment in his voice. Without thinking, she placed her palm against his cheek, feeling his cold skin, the prickle of stubble against her hand. Under the rugged tan of his skin, his face was chalk-white. She ached to enfold him in her arms, to wipe away his stricken expression.

‘Aye, Sylvie brought Rose to my mother and me in Barfleur.’

He rubbed at his face with a trembling palm. ‘I had no idea.’

‘It’s not Sylvie’s fault that Rose is dead, Talvas.’ She dropped her hand from his face, feeling the force of his body against hers. ‘Rose was with my mother and I when she caught a fever…’ Her speech trailed to silence; she had no wish to torture him with details.

‘Why? Why was she with you?’ The raw emotion in his voice plucked at Emmeline’s soul.

‘Sylvie left the baby with us when she came to England with…Lord Edgar.’

‘So that was his name.’ He clenched his fists by his sides, his cold, arrogant gaze sliding over Emmeline’s shoulder at the forlorn, weeping Sylvie. ‘She never bothered to tell me the name of the man for whom she broke our betrothal.’

‘Betrothal?’ Emmeline’s question rang with dull hollowness. Jealousy gripped at her innards, twisting like a coiled, enraged serpent.

‘Aye, mistress. Your sister and I were betrothed.’ Talvas glowered. ‘Against my parents’ wishes, I might add. The marriage of a lord’s son and a servant did not immediately win their approval.’

At a shout behind him Talvas whipped round, causing Emmeline to stagger back under the force of his movement. A young lad burst through the gatehouse arch, his eyes wide and staring, his face streaked with tears. ‘Mistress!’ he shouted to Sylvie. ‘Mistress, they have returned. The soldiers have returned.’

‘Then God save us all.’ Sylvie crossed herself. She appeared as a wraith, a ghost, in the middle of the cobbled courtyard, shivering in her light blue bliaut.

‘Get her inside!’ Talvas shot the order toward Emmeline, drawing his sword with a deathly hiss. Face stony, he marched off in the direction of the burning cottages, the clouds of black smoke belching out below the gatehouse, an eerie howling renting the air.

‘Talvas, nay! Don’t go!’ Emmeline darted after him, clutching at his sleeve. He stopped, eyeing her with surprise, one slashing eyebrow quirked. ‘Don’t go out there on your own! You could be killed!’

‘Are you proposing to go with me?’

She nibbled on a nail. ‘Well, not exactly. But you are one and they could be many.’

‘It’ll take more than a few soldiers to scare me, mistress. I suggest you deal with her—’ he jabbed toward Sylvie with a leather-gloved finger ‘—and keep her out of my sight.’

Emmeline tracked his purposeful, long-legged stride until his tall, muscular form disappeared into the gloom of the gatehouse. In every rigid step he took, she sensed his pain, his sadness at hearing about Rose. Seeing Sylvie once again had made the memories surface. She wanted to run after him, to protect him, but a sense of loyalty to her sibling rooted her to the spot.

‘Why did you bring him here?’ Sylvie gasped.

‘I didn’t do it on purpose, Sylvie.’ Emmeline forced her eyes from the gateway to the frail figure of her sister. ‘I had no idea that you two shared a history…that you were…betrothed.’ She stumbled over the words. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘’Tis a period of my life that I’m not proud of, Emmeline.’ Sylvie hung her head in shame. ‘Talvas has every right to hate me.’

Emmeline frowned, ‘Oh, but I’m sure…’

Sylvie threw her a wan smile. ‘Nay, Emmeline, do not try and make light of it. It will take a lot to persuade Talvas to forgive me…to forgive what I did.’ Tears began to track down Sylvie’s wan, exhausted face.

Emmeline put her hands up to cup Sylvie’s shoulders. ‘Don’t despair, Sylvie. He understands a great deal more than you think. He’s a good man.’

‘I was so wrong about him.’ Sylvie shook her head, a wispy blond curl blowing across her face. Emmeline reached up to smooth it back, her fingers tracing over a purplish bruise that shadowed her sister’s chin. ‘How did you do this? Was it the attackers?’

Only one, thought Sylvie, bitterly, her gaze blurring. Edgar had said he would teach her a lesson, and he had, destroying the one thing she cared about in this godforsaken country: the villagers of Waldeath. Oh, he had made her beg, made her plead and promise to do unto his bidding, but it hadn’t been enough. Wearing the stolen surcoats of King Stephen over their chain-mail, helmets obscuring their features, he and his soldiers had torched the village, killing and injuring his own people purely to teach her a lesson. He had returned to the castle, triumphant, and had sent away everyone, anyone who could possibly be her ally, to leave the building empty, cold and her totally alone.

She had thought herself saved when Emmeline rode into the courtyard—her darling sister, who had read her desperate letter, who had come to England to take her back to France. But her hopes had fallen once more, plummeting to the depths of despair, of disbelief, when her eyes had set upon Talvas. He would never help her, not after what she had done to him. The lithe, energetic squire of eighteen winters, the boy who had chased her skirts as she drew him with coquettish glances and shy smiles, had turned into a devastatingly handsome man and a rich one, if one judged by his clothes. If only he had done her bidding, if only he hadn’t insisted on making his own living from the sea, then her life might have been different. But it was her own stupidity, her greed, that had driven her into the arms of Edgar, the rich lord who had visited the estates at Boulogne, who had swept off her feet. She couldn’t blame Talvas for that. How could he have known that his decisions would drive her into marriage with a violent bully of a husband? She had done that, all by herself.

‘Sylvie?’ Emmeline prompted, trying to erase the distant look that appeared in her sister’s eyes. ‘Come, let’s away inside, before we are in any danger.’ A leaping coil of fear spiralled in her breast—would Talvas return in one piece?

‘Too late!’ The wide, drooping sleeve of Sylvie’s pale blue bliaut billowed out like a sail as she lifted a shaking arm, pointing. The muscles along the back of Emmeline’s shoulders tensed as she spun around, dread rattling her senses. Relief poured through her as she recognised Talvas immediately, unharmed, his great legs powering over the damp, glistening cobbles. At his side, a tall blond man paced, talking animatedly. Despite the mud spattered over his garments, his clothes were fine, braies made of the softest fulled leather, a scarlet surcoat emblazoned with two golden lions covering his chain-mail. And behind the two men, a group of some twenty knights on horseback, their kite-shaped shields gleaming in the noonday sun, their upright spears resembling a glistening metal forest.

‘Mother of Mary,’ breathed Sylvie, her shoulder nudging Emmeline as she moved forward before dropping to a deep curtsy. ‘It’s the new King.’

Emmeline thumped the last mound of risen dough onto the long-handled wooden platter and pushed it into the bread oven at the side of the kitchen fire. A great deal of food seemed to have been left midpreparation: she had already rescued a couple of roasting chickens from the spit, and several rounds of bread that had been left in the oven. Wiping her floury hands on the borrowed linen apron, she started to scoop handfuls of flour from an unwieldy hessian sack into a bowl, adding butter and water to mix it into a pastry.

‘It seems if your servants had no warning of an attack,’ Emmeline commented softly, casting her eyes at Sylvie’s figure slumped over the kitchen table. She frowned, concerned at her sister’s listless behaviour. When King Stephen had announced that he and his men, exhausted from riding, were starving, Emmeline had volunteered to make preparations for a meal, thinking that the kitchens would be the best place for her and Sylvie to talk in private. She tried again, hoping to elicit some response from Sylvie. ‘Have you no sentry, no guard who could have shouted a warning, and closed the portcullis before the attackers came into the castle?’

‘It was a complete surprise,’ Sylvie whispered, her voice a dull monotone.

‘Did Edgar and his men pursue the attackers?’ Emmeline began to bring the pastry together. ‘Is that why he’s not here?’

‘Edgar did this.’

Emmeline’s fingers stilled, the lump of dough sticky and cold under her fingertips. Sylvie’s hands covered her face, the points of her elbows jabbing into the rough wood of the kitchen table as she cowered forward.

‘Your husband, Lord Edgar, attacked his own village, his castle?’ Emmeline repeated her sister’s words, incredulous. ‘Why, in Heaven’s name?’

Sylvie’s hands dropped to the table. Her red-rimmed eyes sought her sister. ‘To teach me a lesson, Emmeline. To show me who is lord and master, who is in charge.’ Big, fat tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, gathering to roll down her cheeks and drop onto the table, dark splotches on the light oak boards.

‘Sweet mother of God.’ Emmeline yanked her fingers out of the pastry, wiping them cursorily on the front of the apron. Sticky dough adhered to her hands as she swept around to Sylvie, sitting beside her on the bench, putting her arms tightly around her. To Emmeline, the true nature of her sister’s marriage revealed itself through her sister’s depressed behaviour. ‘Oh, Sylvie. How long has this been going on?’

Sylvie clutched her arm, her expression pleading. ‘You’ve got to take me away from here, Emmeline. Take me back to France before he comes back.’ A wildness entered her eyes, panic threading her voice. ‘I don’t know what he’s likely to do next.’

Emmeline nodded sharply. She didn’t need to ask Sylvie the details of what had been happening with Edgar; it was obvious. The bright, vivacious, proud and beautiful Sylvie had been reduced to a hollow shell: a forlorn, broken woman who teetered on the edge of madness. ‘Let’s sleep tonight, Sylvie, then on the morrow, I’ll ask Lord Talvas for an escort and a ship. We’ll travel on the morrow.’

Sylvie’s mouth turned upwards into a faint smile. ‘Oh, Emmeline, do you promise? Do you promise that you’ll take me away from this place?’

Emmeline hugged her. ‘It’s why I came to England, Sylvie. I promise.’

The heavy oak door banged back on its hinges. Both women jumped, guilt etching their faces.

‘Ah, what a touching scene.’ Talvas’s rough words fell on the sisters as he shouldered his way through the door carrying a platter littered with bones. ‘Sorry to break up the reunion, but the men need more food.’ Emmeline rose uncertainly, patting her sister’s shoulder in reassurance before slipping from the bench to resume her pastry making. Talvas stepped down into the heady warmth of the kitchen, his body moving with pliable grace. ‘What were you plotting?’ His surcoat and chain-mail had been replaced by a dark blue overtunic, the neck slashed to reveal a white linen shirt beneath, the brilliant colour stark against the tanned cording of his neck.

Emmeline pursed her lips, concentrating on lining a piedish with the rolled-out pastry. She knew he awaited an answer, her heart beating erratically under his sapphire perusal. ‘We’re not plotting anything, my lord,’ She said eventually. ‘Merely our journey on the morrow.’ She picked up a long knife, beginning to attack a piece of cooked ham, slicing it into large chunks to put in the pie.

‘What journey?’ Talvas reached out, snaring her wrist. She had pushed up the sleeves of her underdress to reveal pale forearms, a delicate tracery of blue veins under her skin. Under his grip the knife slipped from her fingers, clattering to the table. Her face lifted, emerald eyes luminous, magical in their depths. His heart jumped at the beauty of her countenance. A smudge of flour dusted her cheek; he wanted to smooth it away. And yet again he asked himself the question that had dogged him all day—how could two sisters appear so similar on the outside, yet differ so radically in their character?

The warmth of his fingers enervated her, sparking her veins. She quivered, the burning vitality of his gaze unbalancing her resolve, the sweet pressure of his fingers demanding an answer. ‘I will take Sylvie back to France tomorrow,’ she replied, her voice wavering. ‘She can stay here no longer.’

He grimaced, his mouth stern. ‘It’s not going to happen, Emmeline. Stephen has other plans for you.’ The arrogance of his tone needled her. ‘Other plans for us.’

Emmeline shook her head, muscles tensing in her stomach. ‘Then he must change his plans…don’t you think it’s time we left?’ But her heart jumped with joy at the chance to be with him for longer.

‘Aye, I do. I think you’ve been through enough. Besides, England at the moment is no place for a woman without protection.’

A woman without protection! She bristled. ‘I can take care of myself…and my sister.’

He stepped toward her. ‘Nay, Emmeline, that’s where you are wrong. I agree you’re strong up there—’ he tapped the side of her head ‘—with a mind to equal any man’s. But don’t fool yourself that you can best a man physically. That way of thinking will lead you into danger.’

‘Then don’t place me in it!’ Frustration coiled in her belly. How she hated the way these men tried to control her every move!

‘There’s nothing I would wish for more, Emmeline. But I can’t disobey a royal command.’

‘Do you always do what Stephen tells you to do?’ she bit back, irritation flaring in her eyes.

‘There’s such a thing as loyalty,’ he replied calmly, ‘or maybe you know little of that.’

‘Depending on others is foolish,’ she said, trying to keep her tone on an even keel.

‘Maybe you should try it some time,’ he murmured. ‘You might be surprised.’ Their eyes caught, snagged. Were they still talking about the same thing? she wondered.

‘I’ve promised Sylvie.’ Emmeline darted her eyes toward her sister’s ravaged face, streaked with tears. ‘Talvas, she’s in danger!’

‘We’re all in danger if we don’t stop Maud, Emmeline.’

‘How can I possibly help? Surely you need an army?’

‘Your skills in navigation are needed. As a woman, you’ll draw less suspicion. It will make it easier to approach Sedroc by stealth.’ He dropped her wrist, pushed a hand up into his hair, tousling the dark strands. ‘Believe me, Emmeline, I’m as against this idea as you are. But Stephen has made up his mind. He’s adamant that we two can achieve more to oust Maud than a whole army.’

‘We two?’ Her voice rose a notch.

He shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Stephen feels that the two of us would be able to break into the castle at Sedroc, flush Maud out.’

At the table, Sylvie whimpered. ‘Don’t go, Emmeline! You promised, you promised to take me away from this place.’

Guilt coursed through Emmeline’s body, her resolve wavering. The heat from Talvas’s fingers lured her, held her. She knew her loyalty should lie with her sister, but Talvas, Talvas was giving her the chance of spending more time with him, and every ounce of her heart wanted to leap for it, the opportunity to be at his side for longer. ‘Maybe we could sort something out, Sylvie? Perhaps you could stay till I return from Sedroc?’

Sylvie picked at a splinter that had come adrift from the edge of the table. ‘He is making me pay for what I have done to him,’ she answered, her tone resigned.

‘Nay, Sylvie, he’s not! He’s under orders from the King!’ Emmeline glanced at Talvas—since when had she began to defend the actions of this man by her side?

‘He’s taking you away from me.’

‘Not for long, Sylvie. I’m sure the King will grant some soldiers for your protection.’ A brief nod from Talvas confirmed her statement.

Sylvie began to back away, pointing a finger at Talvas. ‘If you forgive me at all, Talvas, then grant me my sister. Don’t take her away from me, please!’ She turned, a half sob clutching at her chest, and disappeared, a wraith on the steps.

‘I must go after her, Talvas!’ Emmeline stepped away from him, disloyalty like a foul taste in her mouth. The hem of her bliaut flicked upwards as she whisked around the table, pulling off the apron.

‘Leave her!’ he growled.

Already climbing the steps, Emmeline turned to fix him with her emerald gaze. ‘Nay, Talvas. I will not. She is my sister. Surely that counts for something?’

‘Not from what I know of her,’ he responded drily.

Emmeline shook her head. ‘She has paid a high price for choosing to leave France. You must find a place in your heart to forgive her.’

Talvas stared at the closed door for a long time after Emmeline had gone, his expression bleak.

Chapter Fourteen

Fully clothed, Emmeline lay on top of the bed furs beside Sylvie, drawing a final sigh of relief at her sister’s steady breathing. In sleep, the lines of exhaustion, of oppression, lifted from Sylvie’s features, reminding Emmeline of the time when they were young and carefree, before the responsibilities of life had seized them. After she had fled the kitchens in pursuit of Sylvie, Emmeline had found her in one of the tower chambers, huddled beneath the bed furs in a state of despair. In the darkness, Sylvie had told Emmeline the upsetting details of her marriage to Edgar, the daily taunts and curses, the wayward punches, how much she regretted the direction her life had taken. Listening, Emmeline was filled with guilt; her overriding urge was to protect her sibling. She, above all people, knew of the consequences of a violent husband. Sylvie must be her priority now; surely Talvas could find someone else to accompany him to Sedroc?

Tentatively, she stretched out her limbs; this narrow bed was too small for the pair of them to sleep comfortably. She swung herself carefully around, the bed rustling and creaking as she manoeuvred her body around to swing her feet to the floor. Twisting back, she drew the coverlet high over Sylvie’s shoulders, dropping a light kiss on her sister’s cheek. She opened the door with a faint click of the latch, pivoting on her toes silently into the curving stair well, intending to find a bedchamber on the floor above.

‘At last!’

Startled, Emmeline pressed back against the planks of the door, steadying herself.

‘Talvas…you made me jump!’ She stared at the smooth lines of his brow, the shock of his gleaming hair falling forward, his wide, generous smile.

‘Sorry.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘I’ve been waiting for some time.’ he pushed his large frame away from the wall, towering over her in the cramped space.

‘Why? Surely everyone is asleep by now…the King? His soldiers?’

‘All have chosen to sleep in the great hall; it’s warm in there…the fire is still roaring away.’

‘So why are you not with them?’

‘I wanted to make sure you had a good night’s sleep before tomorrow…it’s a long ride to Sedroc.’

Emmeline shook her head, the bright blond of her hair gleaming in the hushed dimness. ‘I can’t go, Talvas. I can’t leave Sylvie, not after what she’d been through. Her marriage…it’s been horrible for her.’

‘She should have thought about that before she went away with Edgar,’ he retorted, his good humour fading.

‘Shh! You might wake her; she’s only just gone to sleep.’

Talvas lifted her hand, engulfing her cold fingers in the rough curve of his palm. ‘Then come with me.’ His voice was rich, velvety. He drew her carefully up one flight of the stairs, pushing into a chamber above.

‘Oh!’ Emmeline glanced around with delight. On one side of the circular room, a charcoal brazier had been lit; the coals glowed with ambient heat, filling the room with warmth. The candles in the iron wall sconces flamed strongly, the flickering light painting the chamber in a wash of gold. Furs and covers were piled high on the bed, the dark chestnut of the pelt forming a strong contrast with the bleached linen of the pillows.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she breathed. ‘Who did this?’

‘I did.’

Surprised, she reached out to touch his arm—a gesture of gratitude, of thanks.

‘Why?’

He laughed. ‘Always so suspicious, mam’selle! As I said, so that you have a decent night’s sleep.’

‘Before I travel to Sedroc?’

‘Before you travel to Sedroc.’

She moved away from him then, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘Why can’t it be anyone else? Why does it have to be me?’

A couple of paces brought him to her side. The mattress dipped under his weight, the tightly packed straw rustling within the linen sacking as he sat down next to her. ‘Because I want you there. I trust you.’

She closed her eyes, the enormity of the decision tearing at her heart. ‘But Sylvie…?’

‘Will be protected until we return. She will be safe.’ He pushed back a soft tendril that fell across the flush of her cheek.

Emmeline studied her hands folded neatly in the lap of her dress, trying to ignore the heated touch of his fingers. The message from her heart was clear…go with him! Go with him! She lifted her head, her mind absorbing the fine details of the chamber: the scented, fresh rushes strewn over the wide, oak floorboards; the smell of freshly laundered linens on the bed; the earthenware bowl filled with water to wash in. ‘Stephen’s soldiers will stay with her?’ Her voice wobbled uncertainly.

‘Stephen has already agreed to it.’

‘Then I’ll go.’ Slowly she expelled the breath from her lungs, throwing a faint smile in his direction.

‘Thank you, Emmeline.’ His hand curled around to the nape of her neck. ‘You are so different from her.’

‘Not so very different, Talvas. Remember, you loved her once.’

His hand fell away, resting on the bed between them. ‘I thought I did.’ His clipped, raw response jolted her. ‘Seeing her again…after all those years…it brought it all back again.’

She searched the devilish shadows of his face. ‘Tell me,’ she whispered.

‘We were betrothed to marry. The wedding day had been agreed, although we had begun to argue. She wanted me to accept my father’s lands and estates, but I was determined to make my own way first, to earn a living from the sea.’

He lifted his eyes, encountering her assessing gaze, the limpid quality of her beauty. ‘We were both stubborn.’

‘She hated the poverty we had to endure after my father’s death.’ Emmeline’s voice echoed softly in the chamber. ‘She couldn’t bear it.’

‘So she thought she’d find herself a rich husband by working on my father’s estate?’ Talvas laughed hollowly. He stuck his legs out before him, flexing his ankles. The leather straps that criss-crossed his muscled calves strained against the movement. ‘Too bad she set her sights on the wrong man.’ His eyes glittered with memories. ‘Maybe if I’d forced her to marry me, rather than letting her run, then…’ The rich timbre of his voice trailed to nothing.

‘Your baby might have lived?’ Emmeline shook her head sadly. Her fingers moved to catch his, enfolding his rough digits within her own. He squeezed her hand, acknowledging the silent reassurance.

‘Mayhap,’ he muttered. The touch of her fingers sent the briefest sense of release fluttering through his torso, a lightening of pressure that had bound him tightly for all these years. The thick weight of his hatred toward Sylvie began to dissolve, melting slowly by degrees. His eyes sought the bright, vivacious face beside him, cupping her face in his hand, planting a kiss on her forehead. ‘Thank you, Emmeline.’ Under the burning press of his lips, her skin was silky cool.

‘It’s nothing more than you have done for me,’ She whispered.

‘Nay,’ he growled, lifting his lips and drawing her toward his hard frame, ‘’tis something far more, something that cannot be put into words, but it is there. It exists between us. And both you and I know it.’

A frisson of excitement burst through her limbs. Side by side on the bed, a hair’s breadth of air separated them.

He touched one finger to the sweet curve of her cheek. She shuddered.

‘Nay, do not fear me, Emmeline. Just one word from you and I will stop.’

She swayed fractionally toward him, his touch kindling a spiral of desire. He made her feel alive, shot through with unknown, peculiar feelings. Her mind spun; tentatively she touched the fullness of his bottom lip, tracing the generous curve. His mouth parted, the hot surge of his breath caressing her skin. She leaned into him, brushing her lips against his: a movement of trust, an avowal of passion. The touch of his cool, pliant mouth sent a spasm of excitement rippling, unchecked, within her. He groaned, catching her to the hard, muscled contours of his body, a flush of desire staining his cheeks. What did he do to her, this wild man of the sea, this rough pirate who touched her as if she were the most precious thing in the world? As his hands moved around her shoulders, sketching across her neck to cup her heart-shaped chin, simple logic teetered on the edge of chaos, a swirling, unknown maelstrom that implored and encouraged her, urging her to jump.

His hands caught impatiently in her hair, wanting it free. Tracking each braid down to its end, he tugged at the leather bindings that held each plait in place. Her silken hair slipped from the bondage, a glorious mass of shining loops that spilled over her shoulders.

‘So beautiful,’ he murmured, his eyes drinking in the tumbling curtain that fell past her hips. His fingers spread through the strands around her face, sweeping it back to expose the delicate curve of her neck. He kissed the pale skin just beneath her ear, sending delicious sensations direct to her heart.

She drew back. ‘Nay it’s too much!’ Her breath came in short, trembling pants.

He laughed softly, his breath fanning her cheek. ‘This is just the beginning, chérie.’ He studied the beautiful contours of her face; this brave, determined maid, whose courage had, by turns, amazed and frustrated him. The light of the torch painted her gleaming skin with a pearl-like lustre, her black lashes splayed out over rose-flushed cheeks, the green of her eyes darkened with the intensity of passion.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. His mouth crushed upon hers with a wild, compelling insistence, fuelling a hunger like he’d never felt before. Tilting his head back for a moment, his breathing rapid, he touched unsteady fingers to the luminescence of her skin, the flushed curve of her cheek: a touch of wonderment, of dreamlike quality.

‘Do you realise what will happen?’

She nodded.

‘Do you want it to stop?’ he demanded.

‘Nay.’ Her voice, low, caught slightly.

Desire blistered through him, raging uncontrolled through his blood, a tide of rapture. His fingers shook as he tore at the fussy lacings of her bliaut, dragging the garment over her head, swiftly followed by her underdress. He feasted his eyes on her delicate curves that tempted him beneath the chemise, finally ripping at the fragile linen in frustration, to expose the magnificence of her naked skin.

He groaned, devouring the roundness of her breasts, the flare of her hips curving out from a tiny waist. He tore at his own clothes, ripping off his tunic, his undershirt, then his braies, throwing them in a heap to the floor. As he lowered himself beside her, her hesitating fingers moved over the taut planes of his chest.

‘I’ve never touched a man like this before,’ She whispered.

He frowned. The light pads of her fingers trailed over the dark hairs of his chest, amazed at the solidity of his frame.

‘I’m sorry,’ he replied gently. He allowed her hands to explore until he could no longer bear it, then stretched out beside her, hauling her soft curves alongside him. The naked sinew against her own seemed to stagger her; ripples of surprise jolted through her body, his arousal evident against her soft thighs. His mouth sought hers once more; she responded to the strength of his kiss like a flower blossoming in sunlight, hesitation fading rapidly under the scorching onslaught of his mouth as she dissolved into the volatile chaos of rapture.

‘Mother of Mary, what do you do to me?’ she gasped.

Talvas moved over her then, the brilliant sapphire of his eyes full of promise. In the shadows, the solid frame of his chest appeared as polished metal, burnished in the glow of the torch. Emmeline relished the heavy feel of him as he pressed her down into the fragrant straw mattress, his broad hands enclosing the beautiful fragility of her face. The radiant turquoise of his eyes fired with passion, with urgency, as he touched one finger to a soft blond curl that had fallen across her flushed cheek.

‘Are you certain?’

She surveyed the sensuous angles of his face, the wide curve of his bottom lip, the striking upward slash of his brows, and knew that she had never been more certain in her whole life. If they only had this one moment together, she would cherish it for ever.

‘Aye, Talvas. I am.’

He smiled at her, hungrily, wedging the long length of his body along her slim flank, wrapping a length of her hair around his wrist. Fastening his lips to hers, he plundered the sweetness there, before trailing his mouth downwards. Flickers of intense pleasure lapped her body in waves, a sense of building intimacy, of rapidly dissolving self-restraint.

‘I…I’ve never felt this way before,’ she gasped in wonder. His fingers sought the core of her womanhood and she coloured at the hot wetness he discovered there. Noting her reddened cheeks he levered his upper body up on thick arms roped with sinew, a sheen of perspiration on his face.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, dearling.’

The soft endearment whispered in her ear pushed her body to bursting point, the blood hurtling uncontrollably in her veins. He pushed into her then, slowly, carefully, the heavy nub of his manhood testing her readiness as her body screamed silently for more. She moaned, lifting her legs around him, shifting her weight so she could match his steady progress, urging him onwards. Throwing her arms back against the pillow, she lifted her upper body from the bed, yearning, trying to reach for something, a pleasure unknown, never attained.

He began to move within her, a surging, bursting force that plunged her into a whirling cavern of need. She matched his determined movements with a wildness, a frenzy of her own, desperate to achieve that pinnacle of desire that her body sang out for. Together, they rocked to and fro, the two of them as one. The reins of her conscious thought slipped and loosened, trailing uselessly, her limbs shaking as stars peppered the blackness of her mind.

‘Talvas, I…Sweet Jesu!’ she cried as he plunged into her and the straining, pulsing bubble burst as her whole body arched with blistering violence, heaving and quaking. A scream tore from her lips. Talvas threw his head back as he shuddered in tandem, reaching his own climax. He collapsed on her, aftershocks rippling his frame, his body slick with sweat and she threw her arms around him, holding his large body close.

Emmeline turned her head on the smooth linen pillow, listening. Beside her, his heavy limbs meshed with hers, lay the man with whom she had just shared the most unbelievable experience of her life. Her flesh still thrummed with the feverish glow of their joining. How could she have known how all-consuming, how overwhelming the act of love-making could be? The crude couplings she’d suffered with Giffard could never have prepared her for this, this act of joining that filled her with such pleasure. She had no regrets about what she had just done, although the Church frowned on such actions. Widows were supposed to live a life of quiet decorum. She grinned to herself. But who was to know?

Revelling in the tempting way Talvas’s big body curved possessively around hers, one heavy arm slung seductively over her waist, she tried to identify the sound that had awoken her.

‘Talvas?’ she whispered, a faint flush heating her cheeks as the honed sinew of his muscular frame shifted slightly against her own soft curves.

‘What’s the matter?’ His voice, low and husky in the pitch-black, sent tingles of desire rippling to her toes. The warmth of his breath tickled her cheek as the heavy arm slung possessively around her waist pulled her tighter into the centre of him.

‘I thought I heard Sylvie call out. I need to go to her.’

He groaned. ‘Emmeline, not yet! ’Tis the middle of the night. Stay awhile.’

She skewed round in the sweet capture of his hold, relishing the feel of her naked skin against his. Trailing her fingers along the fine hairs that covered his arm, around the curved muscle of his shoulders, she reached the silky blackness of his hair, stroking it away from his brow. ‘I’ll come back.’

‘Are you running away, Emmeline?’ An edge of flint entered his voice.

She laughed softly. ‘Nay, never. That was the most beautiful experience of my life.’

He pulled her to him, wrapping his big arms around the delicate slenderness of her frame, crushing her to him, seizing her lips in a fierce kiss of possession. ‘After what we have just shared, I’m not sure I want to let you go.’ His arm tightened around her bare shoulder. She heard the weight of ownership in his voice, the bonds lacing around her.

‘It was a coupling, Talvas, not a lifetime commitment,’ She replied lightly.

‘It was more than just a coupling,’ he murmured.

Her body flowered under his words. ‘It doesn’t mean you own me, Talvas.’

‘I never said…’ He held her chin between his fingers. ‘What are you so frightened of?’

She pulled away. ‘I will not be owned,’ She whispered into the darkness.

‘Understand something, Emmeline. I have no power over you, even after what we have just shared.’

‘You’re a man.’

‘I had noticed,’ he replied, grinning.

She pushed at the bare skin of his chest, the hairs tickling her hand. ‘Don’t jest, Talvas. You have a claim on me now.’

Talvas stared at her through the darkness, the bright fall of her hair, the pearly gleam of her skin, her words churning in his brain as they echoed around the chamber. What could he say in return? That he wanted her, needed her, by his side for ever? She hated the very thought of marriage, of ownership.

‘Go and see to Sylvie,’ he growled, giving her a gentle push. ‘We’ll talk later.’ He watched her silvery nakedness as she slipped from the bed, dragging on her chemise and bliaut, covering her bright hair with a light woollen shawl. At the click of the door closing, he raised his arms behind his head, propped up against the pillow. Before, he had existed as an empty shell, a man with nothing to lose. Now, he had everything to lose.

Emmeline stood on the darkened stairs, trying to pull her tangled senses into some sort of order. Had she made a mistake in sleeping with Talvas—not that her traitorous body had given her much restraint? The kind gentleness in his eyes, his look of possession afterwards, niggled at her thoughts.

The castle was quiet, apart from the rumbling of soldiers’ snores from the great hall. The strangely comforting sound made her feel that she was not quite alone in this creeping darkness. Tiptoeing downstairs and into Sylvie’s chamber, she quickly realised that the bed was empty, the bedclothes flat. Where would Sylvie have gone? With all the soldiers downstairs, Emmeline quickly checked the rest of the chambers upstairs. Nothing. Had Sylvie tried to find her in the middle of the night? There seemed no other explanation. Entering the fuggy warmth of the great hall, she scanned the rows of sleeping soldiers, the huddled bodies wrapped tightly in their cloaks. With a gathering panic, Emmeline wondered if Sylvie had decided to leave the castle.

The temperature outside had dropped below freezing, the land gripped in an icy hold, the only sound the crunch of Emmeline’s feet on the hard ground as she left the relative safety of the gatehouse. The guard on duty had looked at her in surprise as she approached the large wooden gates, but one glance at her fiery expression had made him think twice about questioning her. The icy wind stung her ungloved hands as she held a burning brand aloft in the darkness, careful to avoid the few sparks that emanating now and again from the flame, and tried to decide on her sister’s direction. Maybe she would have tried to seek shelter with friends in the village? Emmeline started to walk down the wide steps that led from the castle to the small huddle of cottages, or what remained of them. At the bottom of the steps lay the moat, with a permanent bridge across it. Strange that Sylvie and her husband had thought themselves so safe as to have dispensed with the more common drawbridge that could be raised at the sight of an approaching enemy.

She trod carefully over the wooden planks of the bridge. Frost glittered on the bare wood, and the smooth soles of her leather shod feet slipped a little. The cold clenched at her toes. She had almost reached the end of the bridge, when something jarred in her memory. Something she had seen. Retracing her steps to the middle, the spluttering brand picked up a flash of colour, a torn fragment of blue cloth lodged into one of the side rails of the bridge, a small piece of ripped fabric that had snagged in her mind and pulled her back.

She crouched down, trying to dislodge the frayed material snared on the wooden upright. At least it confirmed that Sylvie had walked this way; the hem of her skirts must have caught on the unfinished planks. As her palm grazed against the wood as she tried to push her hand through the gap to seize it, a disquieting thought flooded over her. The material was on the outside of the bridge!

Mother of Mary! The pale colour mocked her as her limbs turned to liquid. She started to shake. ‘Oh, my God, nay, nay!’ The words slipped unbidden from her lips. She rose, unsteadily, clutching at the guard-rail of the bridge to lean over. Nausea rose in her gut as she stared down, down into the black, oily waters.

Sylvie floated face up in the moat below her, her blond hair fanning out in the water, threads of gold on inky velvet, her blue gown spread out like a domed cushion around her frail body.

‘Help!’ Emmeline screamed, shock coursing through her body. ‘Somebody help me, please!’ Her voice sounded odd, out of kilter in the still night air. The light fell from her weakened grip, hissing to the ground. She moved suddenly, her body jerky with adrenalin, running to the end of the bridge, trying to find a way down in the dark, down to Sylvie. Coming off the packed earth of the road that led to the village, she plunged into the high grass that edged the steep bank, the heavy dew soaking her shoes, her hem-line.

‘Stop, Emmeline, stop!’

Suddenly Talvas was there beside her, his arms enveloping her to pull her back from the steep incline. Bellowing orders to the soldiers at the gatehouse, he slid down the bank to the deep water. Leaning out from the side, he managed to catch hold of the hem of Sylvie’s dress, towing her dead, floating body unceremoniously to the side.

Shuddering with horror, Emmeline stumbled down the bank after him, desperate to reach Sylvie. With illogical rage, she saw Talvas’s hands upon her sister, grabbing a fistful of the cloth at her waist to haul her onto dry land. Tears broke from her eyes, a noisy weeping as she beat her fists against Talvas’s back.

At her touch, he half turned in surprise. ‘Go back,’ he breathed, ‘’tis not safe down here!’

‘Get away from her!’ She screeched at him. ‘Leave her alone!’

But Sylvie already lay in his arms, her head dropped back, her frail arms drifting by her sides, the skin of her face grey. Above them, on the bridge, the castle soldiers had gathered, lighting the ghastly scene with their flaring torches.

‘I’m sorry, Emmeline,’ Talvas said quietly.

Crouching beside him, balancing precariously on the steep bank, Emmeline grabbed his upper arms, her fingers curling into the hard muscle of his shoulders. ‘She didn’t believe me, Talvas! She didn’t believe she would be safe!’ The fat tears ran down her face, over her mouth, on to her chin. ‘She didn’t believe me!’ His strong frame seemed immovable, a statue, as she clung to him.

‘It’s not your fault, Emmeline. She decided to take her own life.’

‘Because of me! Because of us!’ Her breathing quickened so much that her heart threatened to burst from her chest. Her darling sister!

‘Calm down, chérie!’

‘Calm down!’ She yelled at him. ‘You tell me to calm down. Talvas, this is my sister, my only sister!’ She shook her head, eyes wild. Sitting back suddenly on her heels, the hem of her dress dipping into the moat, she stared at him. ‘God in heaven, Talvas, I betrayed her and I shall never forgive myself!’

Chapter Fifteen

Talvas inspected Emmeline’s white, weary profile—blue circles banded her beautiful green eyes, her shoulders slumped forward in defeat. She rode beside him, her grey palfrey picking carefully through the deep ruts of mud as they followed the main route along the coast. Loathe to admit it, he missed her quick smile, her indomitable will that set to thwart and disagree with him at every turn; anything as opposed to this strained, dispirited demeanour. True, they had only buried Sylvie yesterday; a dismal day when he had remonstrated heavily with Stephen about sending Emmeline on this mission, yet the King had been adamant, insisting that only he and the maid could prise Maud from the castle at Sedroc. A keen responsibility for Emmeline swept over him, a strange compulsion to care for her, to protect her. The sheer force of the emotion surprised him. Ducking his head to avoid the spindles of ash that hung low over the track, he wished it were possible to sweep her grief away and comfort her.

‘Let’s stop here.’ he indicated a circular clearing, ringed with beech. A few of the burnished brown leaves still clung to the branches, despite the cold of the midwinter. ‘We need to rest.’

‘You may need to,’ She bit out harshly, ‘but I intend to keep going. I want this over with so that I can return home.’

‘But you’re so tired,’ he said kindly, leaning out from his saddle to touch her elbow.

She pulled her arm away, scowling at him. ‘I have no need of your gratitude, just because Sylvie’s dead. I know you’re glad to see the back of her, so don’t pretend.’

He shrugged, the sharpness of her words having no effect upon him. ‘I don’t pretend I liked the maid, but I never wished her any harm.’

‘If I didn’t know you better,’ She snapped back, ‘I’d suspect you of murdering her.’

His blue eyes held fast upon her face, the faintest tinge of annoyance discernible in their depths. ‘Stop this, Emmeline. Stop blaming yourself.’

The brittleness of her expression crumbled under his knowing gaze; her head drooped. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t deserve to bear the brunt of my guilt, my anger.’ Her knuckles clenched white on the reins.

He smiled ruefully in agreement. ‘But I understand.’

‘She trusted me, Talvas. She trusted me to protect her, and I failed her.’ Agony pooled in her wide, green eyes.

‘Who can protect anyone from themselves?’ Talvas responded quietly. Raising his body from the saddle, he dipped forward, dismounting in one swift movement, leading his horse into the glade of trees. Sunlight shafted through the branches of the beech, lending the glade a magical air, at once a place of mystery and beauty. Coming back to the track, to stand at the side of her horse, he held out his hand. ‘You did everything you could for Sylvie, even risking your own life to help her. I know you are hurting, Emmeline, but if we don’t pull together now, this task set by Stephen will be dangerous. We have to rely on each other, trust each other.’

She hesitated, absorbing the solemn impact of his words, knowing in her heart that she would be lost without him, then placed her cool, delicate hand in his large, warm fingers. Almost immediately, his hands moved to her waist, and he swung her light frame to the ground. Her hood dropped back, releasing a sweet smell of lavender from her hair, bound tightly into a thick braid that swung down her back.

‘I said I would do this, Talvas, and I will.’ She stumbled a little over the words, a note of apology for her earlier accusation lacing her speech. His firm hands still clasped about her waist, sending an entrancing warmth through her sides. ‘But I still can’t understand why you feel so obliged to help Stephen.’

‘Stephen is my brother-in-law. I owe him a certain loyalty.’ He touched her elbow, steering her gently into the forest glade. ‘You need some nourishment.’ Spreading his cloak over a damp cushion of leaves, he opened his leather satchel to bring out a heavy round of bread, a lump of cheese. Rubbing at her aching eyes, Emmeline sank down onto his cloak in a puddle of skirts. The pale green of her bliaut had become spattered with mud from the journey and she brushed at the specks absentmindedly. The bright strands of her hair gleamed in the weak sunlight, feathery spirals around her forehead.

‘You must eat, Emmeline.’ Talvas broke off a piece of bread and pressed it into her hand. ‘You’ll need all your strength for the task ahead.’

‘I can’t.’ Emmeline drew her knees up to hug them close to her chest. ‘I’m too ashamed.’ Her cheeks flushed at the memory of their night together.

Talvas lay back on one elbow, stretching his long body out on the cloak, his eye following the bouncing flight of a wren as it crossed the glade. ‘No regrets, Emmeline,’ he admonished softly. ‘Don’t let your sister’s death tarnish what happened between us.’ he touched her cheek with one finger.

Conscious thought deserted her as she turned her face into the warm nearness of his hand, eyes closing impulsively at the sweet torture of his caress. Memory pounded into her head: their bodies coupled in passion against the white linen sheets, the untamed desire that had raged between them. His simple touch reminded her of so much. Just for a moment, she told herself, a moment of comfort in this cold, dark time. She heard the sharp intake of his breath as her lips pressed against the sensitive skin of his inner palm. The urge to sink into him, into the warmth of his embrace, was overwhelming.

‘Emmeline,’ he whispered, the velvet rasp of his voice drawing her closer. His hand smoothed gently over the curve of her cheek to cup her chin. Her defences shattered to a thousand tiny pieces; his lips crushed against hers. Reason tried to tell her that the pain of her sister’s death had undermined her defences, that Talvas took advantage of that fact, but she knew it was a lie. She relished the fierce burn of his lips, the thrilling eddy of passion as it spiralled through her body, the vital strength of his arms as he lifted her effortlessly toward him, locking her upper body to his own in a vicelike grip.

Then abruptly, reluctantly, he broke away, meeting her stunned expression with the slightest shake of his head, a finger against his own lips. The polished lustre of her skin, the chafed redness of her lips snagged his gaze for a moment, before he set his head on one side to listen, trying to control the rapid staccato rasp of his breathing. On the still air came the faintest whinny of a horse, the crack of a stick breaking; someone approached. A ripple of alertness charged through Talvas as he sprang to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. His eyes, heavy with promise, ran over her as she hung her head in shame. He bent down, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘We are not finished, mam’selle,’ he murmured. ‘And both you and I know it.’

A cloud of ill humour crouched over Edgar of Waldeath’s head as he followed the track alongside the forest. Where were they? He had supposed that Mam’selle de Lonnieres would be as pathetic at riding as her sister, slowing their progress, but it seemed the couple had started early in the morning, when he had still been snoring in his bed, exhausted by the bloody excitement of firing his own village. What had started out as a way of punishing Sylvie for her insubordinate behaviour had turned into a massacre: a pleasing way to end the day.

After the attack, he had dispensed with his soldiers, returning to his castle alone. He was astonished to find it filled with Stephen’s soldiers, and the King himself, sitting at his top table! Knowing the back corridors and secret hiding places of the castle had enabled Edgar to overhear Stephen’s plans regarding Maud without revealing himself. As he climbed the stair to a disused chamber, Edgar had cursed himself for allowing his soldiers to go home: the heavily guarded King Stephen was a sitting duck in his castle, yet, with no manpower, Edgar had not the means to touch him!

But, despite his secrecy, one person had known of his return: Sylvie. Like a frightened animal, she had caught his scent, and had tracked him down to the little-used chamber where he snored. He had woken as she had pushed open the door, watching her through the half-open slits of his eyes as she stared at him with her wide, anxious eyes. He had known in that moment that she would run to the King, raise the alarm. As she had slipped away, he had grabbed her from behind, squeezing her neck in a fatal grip before hoisting her body into the moat while the guard at the gatehouse snoozed.

Tightening his thick, pudgy fingers on the reins, he kicked his horse into a trot. Killing came easily to him; both his father and brother rode out daily to attack rival barons, to steal and pillage in the bloodthirsty ambition of gaining more land, more money. He and his kin would do anything to help Maud onto the throne of England; they shared strong blood ties with her, and she had promised them more land and gold in return for their sworn allegiance. In thwarting Stephen’s plans, he would become a hero, maybe even a member of the Empress Maud’s coveted inner circle, advising her on matters of state. Edgar licked his lips, almost tasting the power, excitement welling in his chest. He knew how to get Stephen where he wanted him, begging for mercy, and he would use Lord Talvas and Mam’selle de Lonnieres to achieve it. He just needed to find them.

Voices carried to his ear on the wind; in a trice, he dragged hard on the reins, jerking his horse to a stop. He turned his head this way and that, trying to gauge the origin of the sound. Dismounting stealthily, he looped the bridle around a low-hanging branch and crept through the snagging undergrowth, the soft leaves deadening the sound of his approach. He could see the clearing now, the golden flash of Emmeline’s hair, the relaxed stance of Talvas, as he lay back on the cloak. Edgar knew he was no match for Talvas; in hand-to-hand combat, the big man would best him in moments. The maid would be no problem, but how to lure her away from him? He watched in growing interest and surprise as Talvas leaned forward to kiss Emmeline. His rate of breathing increased as the kiss deepened, and in eagerness he stepped forward fractionally, a twig snapping under his leather sole. Immediately the couple jumped apart; Edgar moved silently back, before coiling into a low crouch back to his horse, a wily smile upon his lips. He had a plan.

‘Who goes there?’ Talvas shouted, instinctively shielding Emmeline with his body.

Edgar walked into the clearing, leading his horse, his scarlet tunic ‘borrowed’ from one of Stephen’s sleeping soldiers glowing against the pale colours of the winter forest. ‘’Tis I, Robert of Ilminster,’ he lied. With a false name, Emmeline would never suspect his true identity; they had never met face-to-face.

‘Be you for Stephen or for Maud?’ Talvas challenged, glowering warily at the stocky stranger, his muscled right arm held diagonally across his trunk, gripping his jewelled sword hilt.

‘I fight for Stephen,’ Edgar declared, childishly crossing his fingers behind his back in the hope that he might negate the lie. ‘He sent me after you, Lord Talvas…to help.’

‘Hmm…he made no mention of it yesterday.’ Talvas frowned. ‘And I don’t remember your face from his soldiers.’

‘I arrived in Waldeath last night…from Winchester.’ Edgar hurriedly recalled all the details gleaned from the overheard conversations that would make him appear convincing. ‘Stephen sent word that he needed extra soldiers for the push on to Sedroc. I am to go ahead as a scout for the camp.’

Talvas nodded, for this he knew to be true. How could this man know about the plan to surround Sedroc unless he had spoken with Stephen directly? After he and Emmeline had infiltrated the castle, Stephen planned to increase his troops to the front of Sedroc, so that Maud would have no means of escape. ‘Then you are welcome to join me…’ he hesitated for a moment, his eyes raking Emmeline’s seated figure. How to introduce the woman who had come to mean so much over the past few days, more than he would care to admit? After his experience with Sylvie, he had truly believed that he would never care for anyone again, but at this precise moment, he could not imagine life without Emmeline. ‘And my wife,’ he added finally.

Emmeline jumped in shock at the words, glaring up at Talvas’s half smile. Struggling to her feet, her limbs numb from sitting too long in the cold, she gasped as he cupped a firm hand under her elbow to help her to her feet.

Edgar bowed, hiding a secret smile as he bent his head respectfully. Little whore, he thought as he lifted his head: she was no more married to this lord than he was. He pitched a swift glance in her direction, instantly jolted by the pale delicacy of her beauty, so similar to Sylvie and yet infinitely more desirable.

‘I thank you, my lord,’ he replied, silkily.

Hoards of people thronged into Wareham for the weekly market day. In the main square, merchants had set up their colourful stalls from an early hour, anxious to claim the best pitch. They shouted their wares at the tops of their voice, each man vying with the next, trying to cajole the milling crowds to buy from them. From the moment Talvas, Emmeline and Edgar rode through the stone gatehouse, they were pushed along on a tide of people, all trying to reach the centre of town. Occasionally, a lone person in the crowd would raise a face, nodding significantly at the scarlet tunics emblazoned with a golden lion worn by the two men. It was well known that Wareham supported King Stephen in his efforts to overthrow the Empress Maud.

‘Let’s stop here!’ Talvas bellowed over the roar of the crowd, indicating a wooden bar onto which the horses could be tied. He dismounted in one lithe movement, tying the leather bridle firmly around the rounded wood of the bar. Edgar did the same. Overwhelmed by the cacophony of sounds after the creeping quiet of the forest, Emmeline stared at the bright stalls, a feast of rippling colour. The silks and satins spread over one trestle table caught her eye, and, uncharacteristically, she yearned to run her fingers over the smooth cloth. How Geoffrey would love to be here! A nub of homesickness welled in her chest, memories of Barfleur flicking through her mind with surprising vividness. It seemed a long time since she had left home.

‘Emmeline?’ Talvas’s soft voice startled her. She looked down at him, confused for a moment as to where she was.

‘A feast for sore eyes.’ he grinned. ‘Mayhap you would like to look around?’

‘May I?’ She blurted out, surprised. It was the last thing she had expected him to say.

He placed a hand on her horse’s neck, nudging the animal toward the wooden bar so he could secure the mare with a rope. ‘Aye,’ he replied, his eyes filled with a teasing light. ‘Just don’t buy anything.’

Emmeline threw her leg across the pommel, and slid down to the filthy cobbles. Her legs jarred as she landed awkwardly, heavily. Instinctively, Talvas caught her elbow, steadying her. She ached all over, unaccustomed to so many hours in the saddle.

‘This is too much for you,’ he muttered, almost to himself.

Immediately, she pulled herself straighter, ignoring the protesting scream of her muscles. ‘I’m fine, Talvas. I’m not used to riding so much.’

‘I still don’t agree with Stephen’s decision to send you.’

She lifted her wide green eyes to his, one hand on the rich wool of his sleeve. ‘It helps me,’ she whispered. ‘It helps me to forget.’

He squeezed her shoulder; the brief touch conveyed a welter of reassurance. ‘If you say so.’ The blandness of his tone indicated his disagreement. ‘Robert, could you fetch some food, while I escort my lady around the stalls? We don’t have much time—we must reach Sedroc by nightfall.’

Edgar nodded, moving off into the crowd toward an open area where a hog roasted over an open spit, pulling his hood sharply around his face, so his features were cast in shadow.

Emmeline watched Edgar’s back disappearing through the crowd, before raising her gaze to Talvas. ‘You don’t need to come with me, Talvas. This “lady” can take care of herself.’

He smiled. ‘I don’t doubt it, mistress. But these are troubled times, and I’d lief be by your side.’

‘I can’t imagine silks and satins would interest you.’

‘You’d be surprised what interests me, my lady.’ The lilt of his voice caressed her. He began to steer her toward the tables laden with fabric, an arm tucked through her elbow. Emmeline began riffling through the material, a sensual delight against her palms.

She laughed, suddenly. ‘If only my mother could see me now! She was always trying to persuade me to take more interest in my clothes, how I looked.’

Talvas watched the delight play across her fine features, pleased to see her relax a little, the hard lines of strain beginning to melt from her expression. Something caught his attention over her head; he jerked his chin up. ‘Looks like our friend needs me—the food is no doubt more expensive than he had coin for.’ he rested his blue eyes upon her. ‘You’ll stay here? I’ll be back in a moment.’

Emmeline dipped her head in agreement, aware that his presence cloaked her in a mantle of protection. Reluctant as she was to declare it, she was beginning to rely on him. Turning back to the silks, her eyes blurred with tiredness as she tried to absorb the rainbow hues of the material.

‘Not from around these parts, are you?’ The stall holder, a tiny woman with black shiny eyes set in a tanned, creased face, addressed her.

Emmeline’s brow creased with concern. ‘Nay…nay, I’m not.’

‘I thought as much,’ The crone replied, her tone loaded with significance.

‘What do you mean?’ Emmeline dropped her voice to a whisper, leaning over the table to catch the woman’s answer. The fabric felt sticky under her palms.

‘If you were from these parts, you wouldn’t be travelling with that man!’

‘Who…Lord Talvas?’

The woman raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘Nay, lass, the other one!’

‘Robert of Ilminster?’

The woman cackled, throwing her spiky, whiskered chin up into the harsh winter air. The cackle turned into a hacking cough, and Emmeline bit her lip, impatiently waiting for the woman to speak again. ‘Come closer, maid,’ The woman said, when she’d finished coughing. She caught Emmeline’s forearm, and dragged her around the table with a surprising strength. ‘That man is Edgar of Waldeath, married to poor Lady Sylvie…’

The world dipped and swayed. Emmeline clutched the woman’s hand. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying the man’s notorious for his viciousness. No qualms whatsoever. They say he burned his own village just to draw in King Stephen.’ The old woman’s voice lowered to a whispered sibilance.

‘To draw in King Stephen?’ Emmeline repeated the woman’s words. God in heaven! She swallowed hard, trying to stop the ground from running away beneath her feet, trying to garner her thoughts logically. She twisted her head around, searching the crowd for Talvas’s sleek head, catching his tall, proud stance immediately against the white steam that arose from the roasting hog. He appeared deep in conversation with another man, a stranger. Edgar was nowhere to be seen.

‘So he supports the Empress Maud,’ Emmeline confirmed as she turned back to the old woman. ‘You are certain?’

‘Aye, maid. Just watch the way the townspeople follow him with their eyes. Even though he’s dragged his hood low, and parades around in the colours of the King, we still know who he is. I’m surprised no one’s put a knife in his back.’

‘Talvas must know,’ Emmeline murmured almost to herself. She fought to quell the hysteria rising in her breast, fought to maintain her balance. ‘I must tell him, before it’s too late.’

‘Good luck, my dear.’ The old woman smiled tightly. ‘It’ll take a clever piece to outwit that one.’

Head reeling from the shocking impact of the woman’s words, Emmeline started to push her way through the smiling, chattering faces of the crowd, oblivious to everything except reaching Talvas. The woman’s words continued to flirt at the edge of her mind: Edgar was Sylvie’s husband, the husband she had never met. Trying to see over the heads of the mass of people she searched for the details that had become so familiar to her over the past few days: the seal-dark hair; the lean, hungry features; the flash of scarlet tunic. Nothing. How could she have lost sight of Talvas so easily? A wave of breathlessness slowed her step; the plethora of limbs and smells, the crush of people threatened to overwhelm her.

And then she saw him. Relief flooded through her. He stood alone, and she realised her opportunity to speak to him, without Edgar’s presence. With no great distance between them now, she tried to call his name, but the sound buried itself in the swell of bodies before he heard it. She reached out her arm, trying to attract Talvas’s attention, only to have it smacked ruthlessly down.

‘You know who I am, don’t you, you little bitch!’ A smooth, dangerous voice, Edgar’s voice, slurred in her ear, breath laced with drink. She jumped back, blood running cold at the spitefulness of the tone.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ She faced him brusquely, dismay mingling with the utmost horror as she stared at his coarse, florid features.

His lips slobbered wetly, his hand still gripping her upper arm. ‘Don’t give me that rubbish!’ Edgar hissed. ‘I saw that old crone talking to you!’

‘I would never have found out what an evil man you are if she hadn’t!’ Emmeline threw the insult back, tired of pretending. ‘Let me go!’ She tried to tug her arm from his punishing grip.

‘Nay, my lady, we’ve come too far for that! I’ll not let you spoil my plans.’

‘I’ll say nothing,’ Emmeline pleaded, desperation clouding her voice. ‘Let me go, and you can disappear into the crowd. Lord Talvas will be none the wiser.’

Edgar’s sludgy brown eyes narrowed on her face. ‘But I need you, my little lady. You are my bait.’

She struggled violently at the words, but his grip increased in strength until it was almost unbearable. ‘Let me go!’ she shouted. ‘Talvas!’ The words died in her throat as Edgar buckled her around roughly, pinioning her back against him. The cold slick of a knife blade pressed against her throat.

As Talvas raised his eyes from his conversation, a look of horror crossed his face. He strode over, hand reaching for his sword. ‘Robert…what are you doing?’

‘Back off, Talvas,’ Edgar snarled. ‘Leave hold of your sword, and don’t come any closer. You wouldn’t want this little angel to have her pretty throat cut.’ he giggled suddenly, a childish, simpering noise that rang out oddly over the utter silence of the market-place. The tension of the unfolding spectacle had spread amongst the crowd and now, with curious eyes, they turned their heads to watch. The whole place held its breath.

‘Just let her go, Robert.’ Talvas sounded calm, but never in his life had he felt more powerless, so unnerved by the situation before him. The gossamer threads of trust between himself and this woman had grown and strengthened to a tangled complexity, a bond impossible to sever. Fear slicked his heart, breath caught in his chest as he clenched his fists in a futile gesture of anger at the sight of Emmeline’s pale, slender figure jammed up against this snarling thug. If only he could pluck Emmeline from those brawny arms that held her, yank her to safety. But the knife glinted in the weak sunlight, its flashing blade taunting him, jeering at him. He knew that a single nick would kill her.

‘Nay, Talvas, I’ll not let her go,’ Edgar sneered in answer. ‘And it’s Edgar, not Robert. Edgar of Waldeath.’ The crowd gave a subdued gasp of surprise. The name was notorious in these parts.

‘What do you want, Edgar? Money?’ Talvas tried to guess at Edgar’s full intention, tried to keep him talking, his mind all the while trying to work out a way of freeing Emmeline.

‘Nay, Talvas, I want far more than that. I want King Stephen. It will be easy for you to fetch your brother-in-law to me. Give him in exchange for this pretty maid and she’ll walk free.’

‘He’ll never meet with the likes of you,’ Talvas sneered back, unable to keep his temper at bay.

‘Then this little bird will die,’ Edgar replied. He smiled, his lips tight with cunning. ‘And if I’ve guessed aright, you’ll do anything to save her. I’ve seen the two of you together. And a delectable piece she is, too.’

Concern etched Talvas’s features. Never before had his loyalty been so sorely tested, especially over a woman. Like a blow, he realised the powerful web in which Emmeline had entangled him. He gave his head a slight shake, almost disbelieving that he had to choose between the King and this woman. He forced himself to keep his voice level as he gave his answer. ‘I’ll do it, Edgar. On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘That the maid is not harmed. In any way.’ The meaning of Talvas’s words was unmistakable.

Edgar giggled. ‘Oh, what a shame. I must admit, I am tempted. She’s far more attractive than her sister ever was.’

Rage boiled in Talvas’s gut as he took a step forward, not thinking. The knife pressed deeper into Emmeline’s throat and she squeaked in surprise at the sear of pain.

‘Calm down, Talvas. I want Stephen, not a night of fun.’ Edgar started to back his way to the edge of the square, dragging Emmeline with him, her body bouncing like a limp rag doll at his side as she tried to keep her feet on the ground. ‘Meet me on the morrow, up by the stand of pines on the hill yonder. If you are not there by the time the noon bell sounds, with King Stephen, then this maid will die.’

Chapter Sixteen

Edgar hauled Emmeline along the narrow, oppressive streets of Wareham, ducking through alleyways, stumbling over uneven patches of ground, his grip around her elbow never lessening in its ferocious hold. Overhead, the sky began to darken, thick clouds driven in by the stiff westerly breeze, promising rain. She lost count of the times her shoulders, her elbows, bumped and scraped against a rough stone wall, a sharp corner of wood. Edgar obviously held a clear knowledge of the back streets of Wareham, and had no intention of allowing Talvas the slightest chance of following them. At last, as he pulled her along a dilapidated row of tumbledown cottages, he suddenly shoved at one of the low doorways with his shoulder and all but threw her into the gloomy interior.

‘Say nothing,’ he whispered threateningly, waving the knife at her as he struggled with the heavy iron bolts on the inside of the door. Emmeline stared in dismay around her. The room—the kitchen, she supposed, although the black grate of the fire lay cold—had a sad, unlived air, and was lit only by two small windows at the front, the apertures criss-crossed by iron bars, hung with thick cobwebs. She shivered.

‘Sit down,’ Edgar ordered, pointing at a high-backed oak chair in the middle of the room. Apart from a long trestle table it was the only other item of furniture.

Emmeline sat. She had no intention of riling this man; the dangerous insanity in his eyes was all too apparent. The soreness at her neck, a legacy of his sharp knife, kept a heightened flow of adrenalin coursing through her blood. Despite her annoyance, she remained silent as he bound her legs and arms to the chair, using thick ugly knots that tightened into her delicate flesh.

‘All done,’ Edgar announced, standing back to admire his handiwork. ‘I’d like to see you escape from that!’ Reaching down to a leather bag previously dumped by her feet, he lifted out a calfskin flagon, taking a large swig. He belched.

A huge sense of injustice, of acrid indignation, swept over her; in a moment she had forgotten her promise to remain silent. ‘You came prepared,’ She uttered, unable to contain her sarcasm.

Edgar grinned nastily, appraising the pearly white column of her throat, marred by a line of blood, his gaze trailing down the slender figure encased in the lichen green gown. ‘It always pays to have a bolt-hole in times like these. This house belongs to my friends and me…and not a soul in Wareham knows about it.’

‘How could you have known that Talvas and I would travel this way?’

Edgar sat down on the earthen floor, leaning his back against the wattle-and-daub wall, a wall mottled by patches of damp and mouldy lime plaster. He turned the knife continually, restlessly, in his hands, as if desperate to use it. ‘I returned home yesterday to find my castle full of Stephen’s soldiers…and the King himself,’ he replied, his eyes intent on the knife blade. ‘By not showing my face, I learned a great deal about Stephen’s plans for you and Lord Talvas.’

‘You’re a traitor to the King.’ And a bully, just like Giffard, she thought.

Edgar’s lips wrenched into a lopsided smile. ‘The man is a usurper; Maud should be Queen. But he won’t be King for much longer, maid, if my plans go aright. Lord Talvas will bring him straight to me.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Emmeline shot back. ‘Why would Lord Talvas exchange the King for a commoner like me?’

‘Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you, talks to you. And I’ll wager there’s more than the eye can see between the two of you.’

A damning flush crossed her face. Edgar hissed with laughter, a guttural sibilance. ‘I knew it! I knew I was right! He’s bedded you, as well, has he not?’

‘None of your business!’ she flashed back.

Edgar hoisted himself up from the earthen floor. ‘Shame I can’t have a piece of you.’ Panic fizzed through her veins at his words, her hands tightening imperceptibly around the curved ends of the chair arms as he placed one hand on her knee. The smooth fabric of her bliaut snagged on the coarse skin of his palm as his hand travelled up her thigh. His breath, thick with the stench of rotten food, washed over her. Nausea roiled in her stomach. ‘Or maybe I will,’ he murmured. ‘After all, who’s to know?’

‘What did Sylvie ever see in you?’ Fear forced her mind to think, to prepare herself, as her muscles tensed in agony, trying to escape his lecherous touch.

Edgar lifted his hand away. ‘You mean, what did I ever see in her? That silly bitch nearly betrayed me in the end. After everything I’ve done for her, given her!’

‘What do you mean, “betrayed” you?’ Emmeline asked slowly, seizing on his words. She could hear her heart thumping, slowly, steadily.

‘She knew I’d come back home. I saw the look on her face as she watched me sleep. She was going to run to the King, tell him who I was, and what I’d done. Luckily I stopped her just in time.’

‘Stopped her?’

He lifted his hands, began to crunch his knuckles one by one. ‘Strangled her with my bare hands. I found it easy.’

Emmeline moaned in shock, her head dropping forward at the impact of his words. Dear, sweet, brave Sylvie! She had tried to warn them! She hadn’t taken her own life after all!

From his pocket he produced a strip of dirty white linen. ‘I’ve had enough of this prattling.’ He tied the cloth over her mouth, tightly, so she could not utter a sound. She twisted her head, trying to indicate it was too constricting, but he merely laughed. ‘That should keep you quiet until I return.’ he pushed his face up close to hers, so close she could see the grease-filled pores of his pockmarked skin.

Tears of frustration welled in her eyes as Edgar shot the bolts of the door and slipped out, as she heard the heavy clunk of a key turn in the lock from the outside. She had little idea how long Edgar would be, or what his plans might be for the night. Talvas would come for her, of that she was certain, but when? She had no intention of sitting around waiting for her captor to return. She began to try and rock the unwieldy chair from side to side, but it seemed impossible to move, fashioned from solid oak.

Panting from the exertion, she rested a while, casting her eyes about the forlorn little room to discover some other means of escape. In the crepuscular gloom of the chamber, a deep-set square of window set high on the north wall snared her glance…and gave her renewed hope. The bristly flax of the rope scraped at her flesh as she pulled and wrenched at the complicated, but inadequate knots that pinned her wrists to the chair arms. As the rope burns drew blood, she gritted her teeth against the pain—she had to escape this place, convinced her fate was to be raped, or murdered, or both. She had to find Talvas, wanted to find Talvas. An overwhelming desire to sink into the warm comfort of his arms flooded through her; the image of his dancing eyes in her mind giving her renewed hope and energy.

‘There he is now!’ whispered Guillame, his breath emerging in white clouds into the icy night air. The gold pin securing the sides of his cloak at his throat glinted in the moonlight, the only evidence of his movement as he blended the height and breadth of his body into dark shadow.

‘Let’s get him!’ Talvas muttered at Guillame’s back, leaning his body forward, ready to spring at the man who had dragged Emmeline away.

‘Nay, friend, stay back!’ Guillame warned quietly. ‘Let him move away a bit. He’s sneaky, he could double back easily if he sees us. He may even have someone else in there, holding a knife to Emmeline’s throat. If we attack him within earshot, he could shout back and—’

‘Don’t say it!’ Talvas gave a deep, shaky breath. He tore his hood back from his head, shoving his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve got to get her out of there!’ An edge of instability suffused his voice, a mark of desperation.

‘I know, Talvas,’ Guillame replied, his tone calm and reassuring. ‘And we will get her out. The trick is not to kill her in the process.’

Talvas nodded curtly, unable to speak. He’d been relieved when Guillame and a few of Stephen’s soldiers had arrived in Wareham just moments after Emmeline had been seized. Guillame had taken charge while Talvas’s mind had scrambled with an untested, untried emotion.

‘There’s no way we’ll go through that door without a key,’ Guillame continued. ‘There’s no windows at the front, and the door is heavy with iron straps. We must get the key from Edgar—’

‘And drag the whorehound to the gallows,’ Talvas growled. The image of Emmeline’s slender body being dragged from the market-place in Edgar’s barbaric grip replayed endlessly in his mind.

They followed Edgar from a distance, keeping their steps soft, aware that on the still night air, the slightest sound would carry. They communicated with gestures, with signals that indicated a long friendship, one of trust and loyalty. As Edgar stepped along a narrow path that led down into a valley wooded on either side with spindly birch, they jumped on him.

‘Got you, you bastard,’ Talvas yelled, launching onto Edgar’s back and bringing him down spread-eagled into the mud. He sat heavily on Edgar’s back, wresting the man’s arms back and pinning them solidly with his weight. ‘Get the key, Guillame!’

‘It’s too late, Talvas.’ Edgar lifted his head, spitting out bits of mud, as Guillame ripped Edgar’s leather pouch from his belt, tipping out the contents. ‘I knew you wouldn’t keep your word. I killed her after I’d had my fun. The maid’s dead.’

Talvas closed his eyes momentarily, unbelieving of the raw pain that coursed through him. ‘You lie, you snivelling dog!’ he shouted. Enraged, he sprung off the man, yanking Edgar into a standing position. Guillame, rifling through the contents of the pouch spread out on the ground, shook his head. ‘The key’s not here.’

‘Where is it?’ Talvas demanded. One fist gripped Edgar at the throat, a bunch of cloth in his hand as the other reached for his knife. ‘Maybe this will make you talk.’

‘There’s no point, Talvas. Let her body rot there till she’s a pile of dry old bones,’ Edgar squeaked, as the point of Talvas’s knife jabbed into his throat.

‘Tell me where the key is,’ Talvas repeated, his voice deadly calm.

‘You’ll never find it!’ Edgar lifted his right arm and threw a heavy iron object spinning into the scrubby brambles at the side of the path. Guillame followed the path of the key with his eye, throwing his body after it before it disappeared into the dark thicket.

Talvas grabbed a fistful of Edgar’s tunic at the neck, all but lifting the stocky man from the ground. ‘Much as I’d like to slit your throat from ear to ear,’ he snarled, ‘the law of this land prevents such action.’

‘I’ve found it!’ Guillame hoisted one arm jubilantly, the dull gleam of metal between his fingers indicating the retrieval of the key.

Talvas did not raise his eyes from Edgar’s face. ‘The sheriff of Wareham will keep you under lock and key until you can be tried for treason at King Stephen’s court.’

‘Never!’ breathed Edgar. In desperation, he lunged backwards, pitting his whole body weight against the strength of Talvas’s hold. The heel of his foot jarred against a stone and he stumbled in his efforts, yanking Talvas off balance. The two men plunged together onto the damp ground, Edgar struggling to extricate himself from Talvas, Talvas trying to pull the knife out from where it had lodged between the two men. Rolling away from Edgar in one swift movement, Talvas realised it was too late; the knife had plunged into Edgar’s heart as the men had struggled.

King Stephen stood before the wide wooden doorway of Waldeath Castle, his thick blond brows knitted together in a disapproving frown that marred his customary benign features. A vague headache troubled him; he raised one hand to his forehead, trying to erase the pain as he viewed the sight below him, at the bottom of the steps. His light blue eyes rested on the figure of a tall, statuesque woman, who smiled up at him coyly with cobalt eyes, her ebony braids partially obscured by a white wisp of veil.

‘Matilda,’ he breathed. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was bored of sitting in Winchester, not knowing whether you’re dead or alive! I’d much rather be with you!’

Stephen sighed. ‘It’s not safe, Matilda.’ he swept his hand over the burnt-out village of Waldeath, the huddle of cottages still smoking slowly. The acrid smell of charred thatch and wood hung like a shroud in the damp air. ‘Maud’s spies are everywhere. And you, as my wife, would be a prime target.’

‘It’s not safe anywhere, Stephen,’ His wife cajoled, her face lit with challenge, ‘so I’d as lief be with you.’

Stephen sighed. Around Matilda, his soldiers dressed in red surcoats were already mounting up, making ready for the march to Sedroc, to flush Maud out. The confines of the inner bailey rang with the shouts of his men as they steadied their horses, their chain-mail glinting like fish scales in the lucid morning light, the bosses of their kite-shaped shields gleaming.

Stephen winced at the brilliance of the scene, his headache intensifying as he shook his head dubiously. ‘It wasn’t a good idea for you to come here. It’s too dangerous.’

‘So dangerous that you sent my brother Talvas on a mission with a maid, so I hear?’ Matilda cocked her head on one side. The fine silk of her veil flowed out to one side, exposing the shining black of her hair.

Stephen coloured. ‘The messenger yesterday claimed the maid has been captured by one of Maud’s men…which is why we must make haste!’

‘And what of Talvas? Where is he?’

Stephen bit his lip under his wife’s unerring azure gaze. God in heaven, she could be stern at times! ‘I have no news of him,’ he replied lamely.

‘Mother of Mary! Stephen!’ Matilda blazed at his evasiveness, thrusting her embroidered leather slipper into the stirrup, the elegant folds of her russet cloak falling back to reveal a sumptuous bliaut of red wool. ‘Help me up on to this horse. Talvas could be dead for all we know!’

‘’Tis unlikely,’ Stephen demurred, coming down the steps to boost Matilda’s light frame into the saddle, realising he had no choice but to take his wife with him. ‘I know of no man more fortunate than your older brother.’

‘Aye…’ Matilda smiled ‘…he’s lucky, beyond a doubt. But with the maid captured, I suspect he may need our help.’

Emmeline had no idea how far she had walked, but it seemed like miles. The chill wind moaned through the skeleton branches that arched above her, shadowing her steps along the sunken lane; an icy wind whispering at her, cajoling her to lie down, to sleep. The freezing air chased up the wide, tapered sleeves of her bliaut, sawing into her bones with bitter teeth. She fumbled uselessly with the long cuffs, trying to pull them over her hands to keep them warm. Her buoyant step of earlier had been replaced by a shuffling, stumbling gait.

A sense of euphoria had washed over her as she had finally squeezed her body through the narrow window of Edgar’s prison, accomplished by stripping down to her linen chemise and hauling the rest of her clothes through after her. Despite wrists raw and smarting, the corners of her mouth bruised from the tight, linen gag, she had rolled out of the window onto a higher piece of ground at the back of the cottage, almost laughing out loud in appreciation of her own achievement. Unsure as to Edgar’s whereabouts, she had donned her garments briskly, creeping through the shadowed streets of sleeping Wareham to find the road west, the road to Hawkeshayne and her ship. She had learned how to navigate by the stars at her father’s knee, and she had turned her face up to the heavens, almost losing herself in the intricate layers of darkness, locating the Pole Star with ease. Keeping that bright gleam to her right, her direction westwards had been easy to identify.

She had to keep going, had to move forward. No one else could help her now; she had to reach her ship, and sail home. Vaguely, she tried to concentrate on placing one foot in front of another as the soft mud squelched with each step over the sides of her leather boots. Scarcely aware of its damp touch against her woollen hose, she wondered how long it had taken Talvas and her to ride to Wareham—not above half a day, she was certain. As full night draped around her shoulders, sapping at the last vestiges of strength that she held within her, her mind began to crowd with doubts and uncertainties. Had it been only yesterday that they had travelled? Or had it been the day before? She frowned in dismay at the jumble of her mind, the fragments of logic whisking away like feathers on a breeze as she tried to piece together a conscious train of thought. She staggered, her shoulder cracking against the unyielding trunk of a tree, yet she couldn’t feel the pain; her skin seemed frozen, a block of stone. Maybe she should have just a little sleep before she went on; it would lend her renewed energy. The mists of exhaustion swirled around her as she slid down the tree and let her heavy eyelids close.

Talvas lay low, welding himself to his horse’s back, riding wildly as if lightning was striking at his heels, with no other thought or care than to reach Emmeline. His mind seemed to be within hers—he knew her now, knew where she would go. As he had thrown open the door to Emmeline’s prison in Wareham, he realised immediately the emptiness of the chamber. Despair gnawed at him as his eyes pounced on the bloodstained loosened ropes, a snag of pale green wool on a rusty nail by the window; there was a sense of utter desolation that he couldn’t find her, couldn’t hold her close. And now, as the sky began to lighten with the reddish streaks of dawn, he would catch up with her, he was certain. Rounding a wide, mud-rutted corner of the track at a gallop, clods of wet earth flicking up from behind the horse, he hauled on the reins in surprise. His horse reared up, hooves pawing the air, and he fought to stay on the animal’s back.

A knot of people clustered on the track some way ahead; rich travellers by their appearance, their garments forming a polished display of reds and golds against the more subdued colours of the forest. He cursed, slowing his snorting horse to a walk; his headlong pursuit of Emmeline had made him careless, unthinking as to his own safety. He, above all people, knew the dangers of travelling alone in these times. Then one of the group turned toward him, and to his surprise he recognised the good-natured expression of Stephen.

Dismounting, Talvas ran forward, his long, muscular legs springing quickly over the ground as he pulled his horse behind him. ‘Stephen!’ he greeted his friend. ‘Stephen, have you seen Emmeline, Mam’selle de Lonnieres? She must have come this way!’

‘She’s here…Talvas. We’ve just found her.’ Stephen’s voice seemed crushed, beaten. His stricken expression cast a sad veil across his face.

‘Nay…’ whispered Talvas. His heart split, fragmenting to a thousand tiny splinters of loss. ‘It’s not true…tell me it’s not true…’ He began to push his way through the huddle of bodies, an unforeseen rage searing his chest, aware of Stephen’s hand on his arm…then stopped. For a moment, he closed his eyes, appalled by the harrowing sight of Emmeline splayed out defencelessly on the frozen ground, then he sprung down beside her, his hands moving over the ashen skin of her face, the blueness of her lips.

‘There’s nothing you can do, Talvas. She’s gone.’ Nausea rose in his gullet as he recognised the calm, measured tones of Matilda, his sister. His hands move ceaselessly over the frosted silk of Emmeline’s skin, trying to find something, anything, that would indicate she was still alive. And then his questing fingers recognised a shiver of movement at Emmeline’s throat. The faintest beat of hope.

‘Nay…’ he gathered her limp body into his arms ‘…she lives.’ Dieu merci, he thanked God silently as he scooped Emmeline up, throwing her against his chest as he stood up. ‘The cold is killing her, but she is alive!’ he carried Emmeline toward the ox cart, her golden head lolling against the supple leather of his jerkin, the gathered skirt of her bliaut falling in a wide arc, the embroidery at the hem skimming the ground. ‘I’ll take her back to Hawkeshayne!’

‘But what of our campaign against Maud?’ Stephen said petulantly. ‘I need you with me at Sedroc. Let Matilda take Emmeline back, with an escort.’

‘Maud can wait, Stephen,’ Talvas growled, his blue eyes lit with the fires of determination. ‘Emmeline goes with me.’ As he turned once more, pacing toward the cart, Matilda moved toward her husband, whispering into his ear. Bending his head to his wife’s lips, Stephen nodded.

Once in the cart, Talvas stripped Emmeline of her clothing with savage resolve. He’d seen people die from exposure before, especially at sea, and he wasn’t about to let this maid go easily. Despite his joy at finding her still alive, he knew of the risks; she was not yet out of danger. Lying her on his cloak, her frozen body clad only in a linen chemise, he slipped off his own clothes, leaving on his undergarments. Skin to skin contact was the only way to warm a person up. Pulling her close to him, chest to chest, hip to hip, binding her legs tightly with his own longer ones, he was aghast at the iciness of her limbs as he drew the fur of his cloak over both of them.

‘Why didn’t you wait for me, Emmeline?’ he whispered, touching his fingers to the alabaster luminescence of her face, the soft blond curls of hair that frothed over her forehead. A delicate scent of rose petals lifted from her skin as he roped his arms around her back, trying to draw the ice from her limbs with the heat of his body. Tipping his head back a little, he searched her taut, pallid face for some shred, some scrap of life.

‘Talvas! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Matilda poked her head through the side curtain of the cart, her dark features alive with curiosity, her head bobbing in time to the movement of her horse.

‘I’m trying to save her life!’ Talvas replied, irritated, amazed at how like their mother Matilda sounded.

‘I’ve never seen anyone save a life like that before,’ Matilda continued imperiously. ‘Are you naked under that cloak?’ She noted the bundle of clothes thrown into the corner.

‘As good as…’ Talvas sighed. His younger sister was well known for asking hundreds of questions. Against his limbs, Emmeline stirred gently. His heart leapt.

‘It’s not seemly, Talvas. You should swap with me, and I’ll look after her.’

‘Matilda, tell me one thing. Are we on the road to Hawkeshayne?’

‘Aye, I decided to come with you, but Stephen has carried on to challenge the Empress. He’s not best pleased with you.’

Talvas shrugged his shoulders. ‘I care not. Now close the curtain, little sister, you’re letting in the cold air.’

‘Let me swap with you, Talvas. The maid’s reputation—’

‘Does not matter now,’ Talvas finished the sentence for his sister. ‘What matters is that she is alive.’ His voice fractured with emotion.

‘She means a lot to you.’ Matilda’s words emerged as a statement, not a question.

‘More than you can know, Matilda. More than you can know.’

Chapter Seventeen

Distant voices traversed the swirling fogs of Emmeline’s mind, familiar voices that tugged at her consciousness, drew her out from the numbing mists of sleep. Eyes still closed, she pushed out a hesitant hand, testing the soft supple linen beneath her fingertips, aware of a dull ache in her shoulder.

‘Have no fear, Talvas,’ a woman was saying, her tone merry and reassuring, ‘I’ll take good care of her; I’ll make sure she doesn’t go anywhere without me!’

Emmeline’s lashes stuck together fractionally as she forced her eyes to open, seeking the direction of the voices. The light streaming in from the window embrasure silhouetted two figures: Talvas’s dark, saturnine profile instantly recognisable, and a straight-backed woman whose identity Emmeline failed to place.

Talvas laughed, a boyish sound. To Emmeline’s surprise, he reached out and tugged at one of the woman’s sleek black braids, gently teasing. ‘That’s what worries me, Matilda, for I can’t be certain where you plan to go!’

Matilda! Of course, the woman was his sister! Emmeline’s head shifted on the pillow as she made the identification, the long blond coils of her hair fanning out silkily on the tightly woven linen. The woman laughed, a delicate, tinkling sound, twisting her head as Emmeline’s small movement caught the corner of her eye. ‘Oh, look, Talvas! She’s awake at last!’

‘Thank the Lord!’ Talvas shoved one hand through his sleek locks, leaving a few strands to spike out with the movement, before covering the planked floor in one stride.

‘Talvas!’ Emmeline croaked, her speech raw as she stretched out her fingers. ‘I’m so glad to see you!’

The blue of his eyes shone with gentleness. ‘And I you, maid. And I you.’ His hand enveloped hers in his warm, strong grasp, his expression travelling over her ashen skin, the faint beating pulse at her neck, still marred by a congealed line of blood, the emerald shine of her eyes.

‘You look like you’ve never seen me before!’

‘I thought I would never see you again,’ he admitted ruefully, settling himself on the edge of the bed. Lines of fatigue incised his face, lending it a carved severity; his eyes were bloodshot.

‘You look terrible,’ She admitted, noting the shadowy stubble that covered his chin. Yet her mind continued to absorb the heart-stopping details of his face, and, like a thirsty man in the wilderness, she drank and drank, never taking her eyes from him.

‘He hasn’t slept since he laid you on that bed,’ Matilda chimed in, coming to stand behind Talvas, elegant in a tight-fitting gown of heavily embroidered russet wool.

‘How long?’ Emmeline struggled to prop herself up beneath the covers, wincing as her body protested with numerous aches and pains.

‘A few days,’ he murmured, pushing her back down gently. ‘Rest easy, Emmeline. Your shoulder is badly bruised…although this—’ he placed his finger at the hollow of her neck ‘—is starting to heal, thank God.’

His touch sent a frisson of delight through her, exciting her nerves with a fizzing intensity. She closed her eyes at the exquisiteness of her reaction, amazed that a single touch could transport her to such a frenzy of delight.

‘Emmeline…are you all right?’ His voice held concern.

Her eyes opened, their emerald-green locking into his gaze of sparkling sapphire.

‘I will make myself busy elsewhere,’ Matilda said tactfully, ‘now I have seen for myself that the maid is going to live.’ But no one heard her soft tread across the chamber, the high-pitched click of the iron latch as she left the room.

‘I’m fine, Talvas, fine.’ But Emmeline’s voice held a shudder as the memories came flooding back. The horrific image of Sylvie floating in the moat loomed into her mind.

‘Did the bastard hurt you?’

‘Nay…but he killed Sylvie! She didn’t take her own life, Talvas. He, Edgar, killed her. Sylvie realised he had returned to the castle and she intended to warn us, to warn Stephen. But he killed her before she even had a chance to open her mouth!’

‘God rest her soul,’ Talvas murmured. ‘Her words would have saved you from this ordeal.’

‘She was trying to make amends, Talvas. She truly regretted her actions from all those years ago.’

‘I realise that now. She was a brave woman.’

He leaned forward, scooping his arms behind her shoulders to gather her into his chest, wrapping her tightly in his embrace. ‘As you are,’ he murmured into her shoulder. The scented skin at the nape of her neck was warm from sleep.

‘Nay,’ she replied, ‘it was nothing I couldn’t handle.’

‘It seems like you can handle a great deal,’ he murmured with subdued ferocity, a muscle tensing high in his cheek. He settled her back gently against the pillows. ‘What of this?’ he touched the yellowing bruise at the corner of her mouth.

‘I told Edgar he was wasting his time with me, using me as bait. That you wouldn’t come for me.’

‘But I did, Emmeline. I did.’

‘I knew that…but Edgar couldn’t be sure. I knew you would come for me.’ She reached up and touched the rasp of stubble on his chin.

Talvas placed his hand over hers, feeling the smooth warmth of her palm against the side of his face. ‘This can’t go on, Emmeline.’

A nervous trickle of excitement gathered force within her heart.

‘I lost you Emmeline, I couldn’t find you anywhere.’ His voice dropped to a solemn whisper. Lifting her hand from his face, he turned it over, rubbing his thumb carefully against the red, torn skin with his fingertip. ‘And then I found you, collapsed on the track, literally dying with cold.’ His fingers tightened on her wrist. ‘Christ, when I saw you…’ The words died on his lips as he stared into the beautiful, mesmerising enchantment of her eyes, the vital translucency of her skin. He shook his head, unable to speak the emotion he had experienced: the all-consuming sense of anguish, of loss. ‘Emmeline, I can’t go through that again.’

‘What are you saying?’ she whispered, unknown territory looming before her.

‘That I will never lose you again, Emmeline, never.’

She drew her hand away from his, worrying at the amulet that rested on her neck. The pale jade felt cool against her skin, reminded her of the incisive, practical logic of her father. Lifting stricken eyes to his, she replied, ‘It’s a promise we cannot keep.’

‘Why not?’ His voice held the faintest rasp of rejection.

‘You speak of…marriage, Talvas,’ she faltered, biting the bottom of her lip, searching for the right words.

‘It is what I had in mind.’ His eyes adopted a searching look. Sweet Jesu, he had been about to bare his soul to this woman, and still she pushed him away!

‘Talvas, I cannot.’ Her speech dropped to a whisper.

‘Christ, Emmeline, why not?’ Without warning, Talvas leaned forward, hauling her body to him in ferocious desire, sealing her lips to his in a demanding, violent kiss. His hands swept around her body, feeling her slight figure cleave to him through the thinness of her nightgown, before wrenching his lips away, dropping her back against the mattress. ‘Why do you constantly deny what’s between us?’

Her blood pelted around her body, her heart thudding from the impact of his kiss. ‘I don’t deny it!’ She protested, slumping weakly back against the pillow. The fine linen of her nightgown lifted, then settled around her skin again with the movement. ‘Talvas, I want to be with you, but I can’t marry you!’

Tearing himself from the bed, almost banging his head on the crossbar that held the bed curtains, he strode over to the window, rage boiling in his gut. ‘Then I can’t protect you, Emmeline, damn it! I can’t protect you!’

Despair laced her heart; the simple circle of their joy at seeing each other again was ripped apart. She threw back the bed furs, uncaring as to the aches and pains that seared her slim frame, hobbling over to him to place one hand on his shoulder. ‘I don’t need your protection, Talvas, I just want your love.’

The chamber echoed with the solemnity of her words.

‘You let that one man destroy your whole life.’ A deadly calm threaded his voice, the set of his shoulders rigid with rejection. Had he even heard her words? ‘But I can’t make you marry me, Emmeline. God forbid that I ever make Mam’selle de Lonnieres do anything.’ He rounded on her, almost knocking her over with the violence of the brusque movement, his eyes sparking hostile fire. ‘’Twould be different if you carried my child.’

Icy fingers of horror gripped her chest as her gaze trailed over his obdurate features. Her hand fell from his shoulder, dropping limply by her side. ‘You mean…you would force me to marry you?’ Bewildered by her own revelation, she staggered back, almost tripping over the trailing hem of the nightgown. Nay, Talvas, she wanted to rail at him, don’t do this!

‘If it came to that.’ The damning curtness of his response sent ripples of sorrow through her frame.

She turned away then, hopelessness crushing her chest, an overwhelming sense of isolation welling inside her. ‘Then let’s hope it never will.’

Dark green tendrils of ivy reached their glossy fingers up the pale, rough-cast stone wall that surrounded the kitchen garden at Hawkeshayne. A solitary robin perched on a bush denuded of leaves, the fiery orange of its breast the only brightness amongst the browns and greys of the winter garden. In the weak afternoon sunshine, Emmeline walked slowly, glad of the support of Matilda’s arm. Their thinly slippered feet made little sound on the cobbled pathways that edged the neat vegetable beds, beds loaded with freshly dug rich earth, ready to receive the spring planting.

The days were beginning to drag on Emmeline: a full sennight had passed since Talvas had announced he would return to help Stephen in his battle to extricate Maud from Sedroc. He had left specific instructions to Matilda to keep an eye on Emmeline, to not let her go anywhere until he returned. He had barely spoken to Emmeline before he left. She had struggled from the bed, desolate and weak from their last quarrel, watching from an upstairs window as Talvas rode off with Guillame and a group of soldiers, the shields and spears sparkling in the sunshine, the red colours of King Stephen draping their horses.

‘’Tis good to see the colour return to your cheeks, Emmeline,’ Matilda remarked, looking down at the woman she had come to regard as her friend over the last few days. Thrown together by the circumstances, the two women had discovered they had much in common, not least their quest for independence, and had shared much laughter over the past few days. The pair formed an attractive contrast: the tall, dark Matilda moving with a willowy grace and Emmeline, petite and fair, stepping carefully at her side.

‘Aye, and to feel the wind on my face,’ Emmeline agreed. The mild breeze carried the tang of the sea to her nostrils, a smell that brought the thrill of excitement, of adventure, coursing through her veins. ‘I am all but fully recovered now.’ She relayed these words with such emphasis that Matilda stopped, glancing at her quizzically.

‘You mean…’

‘Aye, that I’m ready to go home, to go back to France.’

A flock of crows emerged as one from the tangle of bare ash branches in the corner of the garden, cawing and chattering as they rose into the air.

Matilda grinned. ‘Oh, you are so naughty, Emmeline. You know full well that Talvas demanded that you wait for his return. I suspect he plans to take you back to France on your ship.’

‘It would be easy to find another to captain La Belle Saumur. There’s nothing left for me here.’ Emmeline tried to ignore the gnawing hole in her heart, burning with a solitary intensity.

‘Are you sure about that?’ Matilda asked carefully. Her brother had been more than usually insistent about his instructions regarding Emmeline; she remembered the way he had worried over Emmeline in her unconsciousness. Matilda could not recall a time when he had shown more care, more tenderness, toward one woman.

‘He wants to marry me.’ Emmeline sighed, pushing at a fragment of earth with her toe.

‘Oh, Emmeline, that’s wonderful news!’ Matilda reached round to face Emmeline, to take both her hands in her own. ‘So why do you want to return to France?’

‘Because I told him “nay”.’ Emmeline’s voice rang hollow in the still air.

‘I don’t understand.’ Matilda’s expression was serious.

‘He doesn’t believe that love can be separate from marriage…he wants to protect me and thinks that marriage is the only way. I suffered much with Giffard and relished my independence for too long, Matilda. Surely you can understand that?’

‘So what would you say about me, Emmeline? Would you say I was owned, possessed?’ Hands still linked, the two women began to walk again.

‘Nay, I think you are one of the most wilful, strong-minded women I have ever met.’ Emmeline grinned suddenly.

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Matilda laughed. ‘And yet, I am happily married, to a man that I love.’

‘True,’ Emmeline mused. ‘Oh, Matilda, I need to talk to him. I’ve been so horrible to him.’ A weight began to lift from her shoulders. ‘How long do you think it will be until he and Stephen return?’

Matilda sighed, then she smiled softly, squeezing Emmeline’s fingers. ‘Who knows, Emmeline? These walls, beautiful as they are, are beginning to close in on me, and I suspect they are with you, too.’ The light breeze sifted through the loose ebony strands of her hair.

Emmeline nodded, catching on to Matilda’s train of thought. ‘And sieges can go on for weeks and weeks,’ she added. Both women turned by silent agreement and began to head back to the low arch set into the garden wall. They pushed through the gap together, tripping on each other’s trailing skirts in their eagerness, giggling like mischievous girls.

‘Talvas said nothing about us travelling together. And I promised that I would make certain that you didn’t go anywhere without me. Are you fit to ride?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

Sedroc Castle stood high on a natural rocky outcrop, dominating the surrounding countryside of flat fields and salt marshlands with its vast square keep and towering walls. The smooth, white walls of the inner keep gleamed implacably in the few glimpses of sunshine that peeked their way through the lumpy clouds. Encircled by a deep-cut moat, the only conceivable access to the castle lay through the gatehouse, which was now heavily guarded by Stephen’s camp. The stained white canvas of the circular tents, each topped by a conical roof trimmed with coloured fabric, indicated the frequent travelling of Stephen’s soldiers, men able to set up or pack up a camp in the space of a few hours. The twenty or so tents each held ten men; Stephen was not about to let Maud slip through his fingers again. Smoke from the cooking fires rose into the still air, the tantalising smell of roasting meat lingering from the soldiers breaking their fast that morning.

Talvas contemplated the dark stain of heavy dew that soaked the toes of his sturdy leather boots. Sitting on a wooden stool outside the tent he shared with Stephen and Guillame, he dipped his pewter cup into the wooden pail beside him and drank deeply. This siege had been going on for far too long. Stephen’s soldiers were beginning to show signs of fatigue; a few had succumbed to disabling coughs and colds in the damp winter air. He tracked the progress of a herald, dressed in full chain-mail and wearing a surcoat that bore the colours of the Empress Maud, as the boy approached King Stephen, who stood chatting to Guillame. Maybe this was it, thought Talvas. Maybe this latest missive was a message from Maud that she wished to surrender, that she would go quietly and not continue to contest her cousin Stephen’s reign.

Stephen listened attentively as the young lad read out the message from the unrolled parchment, then laughed suddenly, throwing the dregs from his cup of mead on to the soil. He shook his head. ‘Tell her “nay”,’ His voice boomed out, cutting the herald off in midflow. The herald scuttled off as Stephen strode toward Talvas.

‘She refuses to surrender, the stubborn bitch!’ He raked a hand through his fair hair. ‘And I’ll wager they have no food left to eat. We’ve effectively stopped all the supplies in and out.’

‘Which only leaves their water supply,’ Talvas mused. ‘If we could reach that, then the siege would be over in hours, rather than weeks. Who knows how big their stockpile of food is?’ Although loyal to Stephen, a part of him still lingered at Hawkeshayne. He wanted to return, to go back…to her. The bitter words of their last conversation echoed constantly in his mind; he had been angry with her, annoyed at her stubbornness, her continual rejection of him. Besides, he held little confidence that even his strong-willed sister could hold back the indefatigable Emmeline. Stretching his legs out before him, he winced a little as the day-old wound in his thigh smarted with pain.

‘How fares the leg?’ Stephen asked, frowning at Talvas’s awkward movement. ‘Is it bleeding again?’

‘Nay, I think not. Guillame has done the best he can with it. It’s only a scratch.’ he brushed Stephen’s concern aside; he blamed himself for catching a stray arrow shot from the gatehouse at Sedroc—his mind had been elsewhere, dreaming of the silken whisper of Emmeline’s fine skin under his fingertips. It had been days since he had last seen her, yet the etched delicacy of her face filled his head. At night, he yearned for the soft perfumed touch of her body, during the day he missed her caustic tongue and quick wit. Every time he attempted to banish her from his thoughts, the vivid memory of her returned threefold, tormenting him with her elusive beauty.

A shout went up, a warning call from the outskirts of the camp. Both men stared in the direction of the noise, running their eyes quickly over the fields and hills to seek the cause of the alert.

‘Someone rides under my colours,’ Stephen said, squinting his eyes at the red-and-gold banner held aloft by a soldier, leading two other people on horseback.

‘Mother of Mary!’ Talvas murmured, a feeling of excitement, of warmth, surging through his veins. He recognised the two women on horseback immediately: the tall, stately figure of his sister and the smaller, more curvaceous frame of Emmeline. The party rode into the centre of the camp, oblivious to the covert, admiring glances they drew from the soldiers. Emmeline’s pale skin was flushed with the cold; the wide hood of her dark-green mantle had fallen back to her shoulders, allowing the silken froth of her veil to catch the breeze. She laughed at something Matilda had just whispered to her; a sweet smile that tugged at Talvas’s heart. He was unsure whether to kiss her or strangle her. Stephen, however, knew exactly how he felt about his wife riding into the middle of a siege camp.

‘What in God’s name do you think you are doing, Matilda?’ Without waiting for his wife’s chestnut palfrey to stop properly, he all but dragged her from the saddle.

‘It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, sweetling,’ Matilda replied, falling gracefully into his arms, unconcerned by Stephen’s anger. She planted a flirtatious kiss on his nose as her feet touched the ground, an easy task as they were almost matched in height. ‘Emmeline and I were both worried about you. Both of you.’ Matilda threw an impish glance at her brother, who scowled back at her. ‘Oh, don’t look so cross, Talvas. Aren’t you glad to see us?’

Emmeline slipped silently from her horse, her high spirits crushed by Talvas’s indifferent reception. She felt a fool; the journey with Matilda had been fun, full of laughter and gossip. Matilda had a confident, easy-going manner that complemented Emmeline’s quieter but equally determined character. She set her shoulders in a rigid line as Talvas walked over to her, glowering. She frowned, noting a slight limp to his gait and extra lines of tension around his nose and mouth.

‘What ails thee?’ she blurted out.

‘What ails thee, more like?’ he ground out, tapping the side of her head to indicate her foolishness. ‘I thought I told you to stay at Hawkeshayne.’

‘Matilda wanted to come here,’ she replied limply. How could she tell him she had been desperate to see him? That she had missed him? She yearned for the intimacy of that snow-filled night they had spent in the hut, that time when she truly believed she could have told him anything, and he would not have judged. Her refusal to marry him had set him away from her once more, augmenting those solid barriers of restraint, of caution that had distinguished him on their first meeting. Was she too late to try to reach him again?

‘So you follow the whims of my foolish sister, but will not do what I ask you to do?’ The blue of his eyes bore into her. ‘For God’s sake, Emmeline, it’s for your own safety!’ He ran a distracted hand through his hair, exasperated.

‘I couldn’t let her travel alone,’ Emmeline protested, pulling the sides of her mantle together against the chill wind.

Talvas pulled at her hand, separating the delicate fingers. ‘Don’t tell me, you’ve become her guard-at-arms,’ he said scathingly. ‘After all, you’ve just the right physique for it.’ A bleakness entered his eyes, his temper dissipating. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else from you.’

A strong breeze blew her veil across her pale features, and she lifted one slim arm to sweep the wisp of fabric from her face. ‘I wanted to see you,’ she murmured.

He stared at her then, their gazes locked in silent awareness. It was as if a thunderbolt had struck him in the chest. The sapphire gleam in his eyes leapt with fire as reality dissolved around them, the world disappearing to leave them in a circle of vibrant intensity: a blissful, exhilarating bubble that no one else could enter. He held her spellbound in his diamond gaze: time stopped. She traced the familiar high cheekbones, the tousled raven locks, the deep pulse beating at his throat and knew…the meaning of love.

‘Stephen says your leg is bad,’ Matilda burst into the sparkling silence, the silver moment of pure, deliberate recognition that passed between them.

The precious moment broke, shattered.

‘Come on, take off your braies, let me have a look!’ Matilda was staring at the dried bloodstain that marked the front of Talvas’s trousers.

Talvas smiled ruefully at Emmeline, an apology for his sister’s exuberant behaviour. ‘At least let me have the privacy of my tent,’ he laughed, limping toward the opening in the canvas.

‘Come, Emmeline, you can help me. You can hold him down when he screams!’ Matilda grinned at her friend’s dumbstruck expression. ‘Mother of Mary, Emmeline, I don’t mean it!’

Matilda’s expression changed, however, concern etching her wide brow as she viewed the raw, puffy edges of Talvas’s wound, situated midthigh. She had already forced him to remove his braies, pushing him back on to the straw-filled mattress that served as a makeshift bed under canvas. He lay back, one arm flung over his eyes, the sleek blackness of his hair accentuated by the bleached linen of the pillow, his mouth set in a grim, stubborn line as Matilda probed the blood-encrusted flesh.

‘You fool!’ Matilda spoke at last. ‘The wound has not been cleaned properly…and this bandage.’ She held up the blood-soaked strip of linen, her face clouded with distaste. ‘What in God’s name was Guillame thinking of?’

‘Do not blame Guillame,’ Talvas defended his man. ‘He did the best he could under the circumstances.’

Following Matilda’s terse instructions, Emmeline pushed aside the canvas flap to fetch the leather satchel attached to the back of Matilda’s horse, pleased to see that Guillame was already heating up a small cauldron of water on the fire. Talvas seemed exhausted, she thought. Biting her bottom lip as she fumbled with the leather ties on the back of the animal, she suspected it was unusual for such a man to suffer the nagging ministrations of his sister.

‘You’re fortunate that I thought to bring these,’ Matilda said as she rifled through the muslin bags, sniffing at each one to find the correct herb to make a poultice to draw the poison out of Talvas’s leg.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Talvas muttered. He propped both arms behind his head, following his sister’s actions with an inquisitive eye, tracking the quiet movements of Emmeline as she carried out his sister’s instructions with dexterity.

‘You seemed to have recovered fully, mam’selle,’ he remarked suddenly, noting the fresh bloom in her cheeks, the lightness of her step. He suspected the gown that she wore to be one of his sister’s, for although the graceful lines of the lilac-coloured bliaut hugged her slim figure, the heavily embroidered hem trailed in the mud and dust. The two women had arrived in the camp like two bright birds; he felt his spirits lifting at their animated, colourful presence.

Emmeline turned her vivid green eyes toward him, smiling. ‘Aye, I am fully recovered, thanks in no small way to your sister.’ The two women shared a smile. ‘I was up and about in two days.’

‘Emmeline, I need you,’ Matilda said, her brow furrowed as she focused on her work. ‘You need to hold the edges of the wound together so I can stitch it properly.’ Emmeline stared at the gash, located midthigh, and blushed fiercely.

‘Don’t be like that!’ Matilda said brusquely. ‘Do you want to save his leg or nay?’

‘Aye, I do,’ Emmeline replied, taking a deep breath and placing her fingers on the burning skin of Talvas’s thigh, trying to ignore the nearness of his loin cloth that covered his decency. The hairs on his leg tickled her palms. She heard his sharp intake of breath. ‘Do I hurt you?’

‘Nay,’ he replied tersely. ‘Just get on with it, Matilda!’ How could he explain the rush of desire that Emmeline’s delicate touch ignited within him, the racing pulse, the drumming of his heart? He closed his eyes, willing himself to think of other things until the ordeal was over, his wound was stitched up, and Emmeline had removed her tempting fingers.

‘How fares the patient?’ Stephen pushed his jovial features through the tent flap.

‘Still alive,’ groaned Talvas, dragging his braies back over the wound.

Fingers busy tying up the muslin bags, Matilda addressed her husband. ‘Talvas will never recover here, Stephen. He needs to go home. This wretched siege has gone on long enough.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ Stephen replied. ‘We need to end it. We need to poison the water supply, and by my reckoning there is only one way.’

Talvas swung his feet to the floor, standing up abruptly, unsteadily, his big body crowding the tent. ‘Nay, Stephen, I’ll not allow it!’

‘’Tis the only way, Talvas, otherwise we could be here for a year or more!’

‘But…’ Talvas glanced at Emmeline. His dark brooding look shocked her.

‘What is it?’

‘We need someone small enough to access the castle from the seaward side,’ Stephen explained. ‘At high tide, a boat can be rowed around, and a person can climb up the north wall, and in through a window. This is what I originally intended for the two of you, before Lord Edgar intervened.’

‘Nay!’ Talvas closed his eyes.

Stephen turned to Emmeline. ‘You strike me as a remarkable young woman,’ he said. ‘Would you help us? You are the smallest amongst us.’

‘You want me to climb in?’ Emmeline replied, incredulous.

‘Nay! I’ll not allow it!’ Talvas roared. ‘I would rather stay here for a hundred years than put Emmeline in danger.’

Emmeline put her hand on Talvas’s arm. ‘It’s the only way to break the siege, Talvas. Haven’t we been through enough together to prove to you that I can look after myself?’

‘She has a point, Talvas,’ Matilda chipped in. ‘She’s almost as determined as myself.’

Talvas sighed. He knew when he was beaten, and maybe, just maybe, by letting Emmeline do this, she would believe that marriage could be something so different from her own perception. ‘Then I will row you to the wall, Emmeline, and see you safe back in the boat again.’

‘But…your leg!’ Matilda began to remonstrate. ‘You need to rest it!’

‘I will take her, Matilda, and that is final.’

Chapter Eighteen

Talvas rowed steadily, trying to ignore the painful stretching of his skin around the stitches in his thigh. Emmeline faced him from the bow, her arms outstretched to each side of the boat to keep her balance, the dark cowl of her hood provided a strong foil to the brightness of her hair. Her small feet, encased in leather boots fastened with a toggle, peeked out from beneath borrowed braies. The drab garments that she wore served only to heighten the pale beauty of her face, her smooth, alabaster skin radiant in the gathering dusk.

With every dip of the oars, Talvas wished fervently that he could turn back, could turn the boat round in this narrow inlet that led to the sea and take Emmeline back to safety, but he knew, deep down, that no other way existed. His logical, ordered brain wrestled with his conscience, aye, and with his feelings for this maid. He had been angry with her at Hawkeshayne, annoyed by her resistance to marriage, making him want to walk away, to forget her. But he knew it would not happen. In the dim twilight, he studied her—the graceful yet determined set of her shoulders, the plush curve of her velvet lips, the svelte lines of her figure—and realised that he couldn’t let her go, ever.

‘The sea smells so good,’ Emmeline murmured as she lifted her nose to savour the distinctive salty tang on the breeze. Her hood dropped back; he remembered her as he had first seen her, on the harbour wall at Barfleur, magnificent hair streaming behind her as she waited for her ship. And he had mistook her for a whore! How wrong could he have been? As a woman, she was utterly unique: a jewel that shone with such individual clarity, such brilliance, that his very senses were bewitched. How in heaven’s name could he entice this sprite of the sea, with all her wilful, independent ways, to stay by his side for ever?

The bow of the boat bumped gently against the outcrop of rock on which the castle sat. Emmeline twisted around, scrabbling to throw the rope loop over one of the dark jagged peaks.

‘Here, let me.’ Pulling the oars into the bottom of the boat, Talvas moved forwards in a stealthy crouch, leaning over her to secure the boat, before turning to squeeze his large frame in beside her on the seat. She caught the smell of his skin, a rich aroma of sea and leather.

‘You don’t have to do this, Emmeline.’ He kept his voice muted.

‘Aye, I do, Talvas. Your men are exhausted, you’re exhausted.’ She stared at the paleness of his skin, touching a hesitant finger to one dark circle beneath his eye. ‘We need to finish it.’

He nodded tersely. ‘You remember what to do?’

She smiled, thinking of the number of times both Stephen and Talvas had repeated their instructions, the layout of the castle, the position of the well. ‘Aye, I do.’

‘Remember, you must come back before the tide turns. Otherwise the boat will be too low in the water.’

‘Then I must go now, Talvas.’ Determination bordered her tone.

He brushed at a wisp of hair that had escaped her braid. ‘I wish I could come with you.’

Her stomach churned, queasy with nerves as she sought his hand, surprised by the chafing warmth of his fingers. ‘I wish it, too.’

He cupped her chin within his large palms, leaning forward to plant a light kiss on her mouth. Her skin tingled.

‘Take care, my beautiful one,’ he whispered.

Emmeline climbed the wall easily, discovering hand-and footholds at every level. She gained the small window with astonishing speed. Turning to give Talvas a quick wave, she pulled herself through, dragging a leather satchel in behind her. Finding herself in a darkened corridor, lit only by a rush torch, she pulled the hood of her short shoulder cape over her braided hair, the tight coils pinned securely to her scalp.

Hearing Talvas’s voice in her head, running through the instructions, she knew her direction immediately. The well was situated outside the kitchens, in a small courtyard, one floor down from where she stood. No one suspected her as an intruder as she stepped confidently down one stairwell, through the bustling great hall, and into the busy kitchens. Eyes straight ahead, she made for the far corner, slipping through the archway and into the inner courtyard. Fingers fumbling to open the pouch at her waist, Emmeline hesitated for just a moment, before tipping the sparkling hemlock seeds into the water. They made a soft ‘plopping’ sound, like rain, on the surface of the water.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’

The back of her neck prickled in warning. That voice! The blood rushed to her toes, urging her to run. Maud’s voice, at once imperious and commanding.

‘Answer me, peasant, what did you throw in the well?’

Out of the corner of her eye, Emmeline spotted her escape route, a small flight of stairs leading upwards. Slowly, she turned.

‘You!’ Maud hissed. ‘I thought you were dead!’ The Empress’s face suffused with colour in the flickering candlelight.

‘The siege is over, Maud,’ Emmeline stated calmly. ‘The well water is poisoned.’

‘Why, you little…’ Maud clutched at her arm. ‘To think that I asked for your help. I could have made you rich, you stupid girl, could have given you things beyond your wildest dreams, yet you choose to side with Stephen!’

‘Give up, Maud. Surrender the castle.’

‘Never,’ Maud whispered, her small eyes cramping to thin slits. She clung tight to Emmeline’s sleeve. ‘Guards!’ she shouted. ‘Guards!’

‘Goodbye, my lady,’ Emmeline said, disentangling her arm from the grasp of the Empress, hurling her body toward the stairs. She plunged upwards into the dim light, clutching at the damp walls, her mind certain of her direction. Shouts rang out behind her as she found the window, turning around to push herself out backwards, feeling for a foothold through the soft leather of her shoes. The hem-line of her tunic flared out in the strengthening breeze as she climbed down, dragging her bag through the aperture before letting it slip from her fingers. She could climb down far more quickly without that encumbrance. The stone became wet beneath her fingers, slimy with green algae, evidence of the tide on the turn. Above she heard shouts, then Talvas’s low murmur.

‘Let go, Emmeline, I’m right below you.’

Without pausing to turn, to check his command, she jumped, certain of him, landing in his enveloping arms.

‘You took long enough,’ he grumbled gently, relief spreading across his features.

The white flag of surrender fluttered from the towering ramparts of Sedroc castle a few hours later. Despite the bravado of her speech to Emmeline, Maud had given up after all, sending out a nervous, cowering herald to inform Stephen that she intended to go quietly, and stay with her half-brother in Gloucester. After one more night under canvas, with Emmeline and Matilda sleeping on hastily constructed pallets in the corner of Stephen’s tent, the camp disbanded in the morning, the journey back to Hawkeshayne one of jubilation.

Now Matilda’s ebony eyebrows drew together in a frown as she rifled through the contents of her large leather satchel, spilling out the various garments on to the floor of the upper chamber. The wrought-iron brazier, well stocked with charcoal, had been allowed to burn all day, spreading a soporific comfort throughout Matilda’s chamber. In addition to the rush torches, a branching candelabra stood by the bed, the wax candles flickering in the slight draught from the window, filling the chamber with pools of light. Emmeline, perched on the cold, stone window sill, glanced once more at the jewel-like colours of the brief winter sunset streaking the sky, before turning to Matilda.

‘Just something simple,’ Emmeline said suddenly as she noticed Matilda’s fingers hesitating on a bliaut of brilliant russet silk, ornately embroidered with gold filigreed thread. She hated the thought of drawing too much attention to herself, especially as Talvas had not said more than two words to her since they had broken camp that morning.

Matilda grinned up at her. ‘Don’t worry, Emmeline, red wouldn’t suit your colouring. I was thinking of it for me.’ She drew out a gown of leaf green. ‘But this would suit.’

‘It’s beautiful.’ Standing up, Emmeline stepped over to Matilda, kneeling on the floor to run her fingers over the material, testing the rich softness under her fingers. ‘But it’s far too elaborate for me to wear.’

‘Nonsense!’ Matilda snorted. ‘You are being fêted as a heroine. The feast this evening is in your honour; the people of Hawkeshayne wish to thank you, to drink your health.’ She began to stuff some of the garments back into the leather trunk; her voice lowered. ‘And Stephen wishes to thank you, too. In truth, I’ve never seen him more excited about a feast!’ The corners of her mouth turned upwards into a wide smile as her sparkling blue eyes sought those of Emmeline.

‘It wasn’t just me,’ Emmeline replied, sitting back on her heels. She nibbled fretfully on one of her nails. ‘Talvas was there, too, remember?’ The memory of him enfolding her into his muscular embrace rattled her senses, his intoxicating scent returning to dance tantalisingly in her conscious mind. A frisson of delight shot through her; her fingers trembled as the silk crushed in her hands.

‘I remember; and it looks like you cannot forget.’ Matilda gently prised the silk from her friend, smoothing the material out, her expression thoughtful. ‘The two of you work well together. Your courage matches his.’

‘Nay, I am not brave.’

‘You climbed into the castle, Emmeline, and you poisoned the well.’ Matilda reached out to touch her forearm. ‘You’re a courageous woman: don’t forget that.’

‘I wont,’ Emmeline promised, watching as Matilda began to pack away the rejected garments, anxious to change the subject. ‘I can’t believe you managed to bring so much with you from Winchester!’

‘I always insist on an ox cart…’ Matilda’s blue gaze sought Emmeline’s ‘…or two. It’s the only way to travel.’

Emmeline laughed as she remembered the small bag she had hoisted up into La Belle Saumur, a bag that contained a few underclothes and one other serviceable bliaut and underdress. Now, after these few weeks in England, all that remained were the clothes she stood up in. ‘Stephen must be very lenient,’ She murmured, thinking of the relaxed relationship she had witnessed between the couple.

‘Nay, ’tis not a question of leniency, Emmeline.’ A sharpness entered Matilda’s tone, as she shook out one of the dresses. ‘Stephen respects me, listens to me, and treats me as an equal.’

‘You are fortunate. Those qualities in a man are difficult to find.’ Emmeline twisted her fingers together.

‘Not so rare, Emmeline, if you look hard enough. And for you, that man is easy to find.’

Emmeline sat down abruptly, smoothing her hand over her face. ‘I know, Matilda, I know.’

‘Has he said ought again about marriage?’

Emmeline plucked miserably at the furs on the bed. ‘My feelings haven’t changed. Marriage means ownership, a curbing of my ways. After my marriage to Giffard, my freedom was the only thing I had. It means everything to me—it is my life.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper.

‘And I say again, Emmeline, do you think that I’m not free? That Stephen owns me?’

Emmeline ran her eyes over the tall, proud figure of Matilda, and knew what her friend was trying to tell her: that marriage could be one of equal partnership.

‘Nay, Matilda, you have a wonderful relationship with Stephen.’

‘And so could you, Emmeline, so could you.’ Matilda touched her arm.

‘I’m not sure. It’s a risk.’

Matilda laughed, pushing back easily on her heels to stand up. ‘I’m surprised at you, Emmeline. You, of all people, take more risks than anyone else I know. Why not take one more?’ Suddenly, she grimaced, bending over, clutching at her stomach. ‘Mother of Mary! A pox on this curse of ours!’

‘What’s the matter?’ Emmeline levered herself more awkwardly from the oak boards.

‘Have you any spare rags?’ The peachlike bloom of Matilda’s face contorted in pain.

‘Rags? Only the ones I stand up in!’ Emmeline smiled.

‘No, silly, my time of the month is almost upon me and I don’t have enough.’

‘Nay.’ Emmeline frowned. ‘I don’t have any with me.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll ask the servants.’ Slowly, Matilda straightened up. ‘I’ll get someone in the kitchen to make me a tisane. These cramps will be the undoing of me! But they are not going to make me miss this feast.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Now, come on, Emmeline, make haste, the men await us downstairs.’

‘What are your plans now, Stephen?’ Talvas, leaning back in one of the carved oak chairs at the top table, surveyed the mass of people jammed into the hall below him.

Stephen speared a piece of roast pork with his eating knife, putting it into his mouth. ‘I’m not certain how long Maud will behave herself for; but, for the nonce, I think I deserve a well-earned rest.’ He chewed on the meat thoughtfully. ‘God in heaven! This tastes good after our rations at Sedroc.’ Wiping his mouth on a linen napkin, he turned to Talvas. ‘I know Matilda is keen to spend a few more days at Hawkeshayne with you.’

Talvas smiled. ‘And her new friend.’

‘You mean Emmeline. Aye, they seem to have become close.’ Stephen clapped Talvas on the shoulder. ‘So how about it? Can you put up with Matilda and me for longer?’

‘You’re always welcome, Stephen, and well you know it.’

‘And what of the maid?’

Talvas shrugged his shoulders. ‘What of her?’

‘You can’t pretend you’re indifferent to her. What are your plans?’

‘I’m not exactly sure.’ Talvas curled his lean fingers around the cool stem of his pewter goblet, before lifting it to take a huge swig. The honeyed fire of the mead spiralled down his throat.

‘Will Emmeline stay…or will she return to France?’

‘That depends entirely on her,’ Talvas replied drily. ‘I’m sure you’ve realised by now that she’s a law unto herself.’

‘I had noticed.’ Stephen chuckled. ‘And more than a match for you.’

‘We’ll see.’ A flash of colour at the far end of the hall hooked his gaze. ‘Talk of the devil,’ he growled, as Emmeline and Matilda slipped through the doorway and began to walk past the rows of crowded trestle tables, drawing admiring glances with every step. The luminous colours of their dresses glowed like butterfly wings: shifting, glimmering silks that formed a startling contrast to the drab greys, browns and greens worn by the majority of the crowd. One by one the crowd fell silent, each and every man and woman acknowledging the presence of their new Queen Matilda and the lady who had saved their country from the Empress’s rule. One by one, they stood, each bowing their heads as a mark of respect.

‘Sweet Jesu,’ Stephen muttered, rising out of his seat, ‘that woman is breathtaking.’

At the women’s entrance, Talvas’s glance had merely grazed the familiar statuesque beauty of his sister, his heart almost ceasing to beat at the sight of Emmeline. The delicate green of her bliaut undulated seductively in the candlelight, flowing over her figure in graceful lines, emphasising the trimness of her waist, the gentle flare of her hips. Her blond hair, plaited and bound in complicated intricacy around her pale forehead, was covered with a single layer of diaphanous silk, so fine that it floated around her head and shoulders like a glistening mist. Desire raged through him; the urge to grab her and run, run like the devil away from this crowd, away from everyone, threatened to overwhelm him. With studied determination, he placed his goblet carefully on the table, before pushing back his chair and striding from the dais.

He caught Emmeline’s hands, a light snare.

‘Talvas!’ She looked up in surprise, the rose of her lips curving into a smile, her eyes alight with longing, with love.

‘I haven’t seen you all day!’ he murmured, ducking his head slightly so only she could hear his words.

She reached up a hand to touch his face; his blood raced at the coolness of her fingertips against his cheek. Without thinking, he seized her to him, one thick arm around her waist as he pulled her, hip to hip, flank to flank, to place his lips against hers.

The great hall erupted, the crowd wild with excitement at the sight of their lord claiming his woman, clapping and stamping their feet on the grey flagstones.

‘Don’t keep her all to yourself, Talvas!’ Stephen shouted down from the top table. ‘Let us all raise a toast to Mam’selle de Lonnieres!’

As swiftly as the kiss had begun, it ended, Talvas tearing his lips away reluctantly. An expectant hush fell, all eyes resting upon King Stephen as, standing, he lifted his pewter goblet. ‘I raise my cup to Emmeline de Lonnieres, who risked her neck to oust the Empress Maud from her campaign against me.’

‘Emmeline de Lonnieres.’ The repetition of her name grew louder and louder, swelling to the rafters, carried on a hundred voices. Her fine, alabaster skin flushing from the attention, Emmeline smiled tentatively at the crowd, before turning to Talvas, conscious of his arm still around her waist. ‘They should be thanking you, too,’ she murmured, drinking in the devastating sight of him in a well-fitting dark brown tunic, a black lock of hair falling over his brow.

He dipped his head to catch her lowered voice, savouring the sweet smell of her perfume: attar of roses. ‘Nay, my lady,’ he whispered back, ‘you deserve it.’ Seizing her left hand, he lifted her arm above her head in a gesture of salute, all but pulling her arm out of its socket.

‘Come on, you two,’ Matilda urged grumpily from behind Emmeline. ‘I’m hungry!’

Talvas stepped back to let Matilda past, his fingers tightening around Emmeline’s. ‘Come with me,’ he whispered. ‘I need to talk to you.’ Her green eyes darkened to deep lovat, the seductive timbre of his voice kindling her desire. ‘Come!’ he repeated urgently, sensing the hesitation in the elegant lines of her body. His eyes held hers as ribald laughter echoed around the hall—their exit would not go unnoticed.

‘Do you need a chaperon, Emmeline?’ Matilda, halfway up the steps, turned around when she realised Talvas’s intention.

‘Nay,’ Emmeline reassured her hurriedly, unwilling to draw more attention than was necessary to the situation. Talvas spun her in the circle of his arm, heading for the door at the side of the high dais, levering a blazing torch from its iron ring as she pushed her way through the curtain.

‘They think we’re up to no good,’ She breathed. ‘And after that kiss I don’t blame them.’

‘Let them think what they like.’ His eyes sparkled wickedly in the gloom, as he hustled her along the dark corridor and into the icy twilight of the kitchen garden. Through the glittering mounds of frozen, tilled soil they walked, heading for a carved stone seat at the end of the path that sat against the wall that encircled the whole castle. As they sat down, Emmeline could hear the sea on the other side of the wall, water plashing sloppily against the stones as the tide rushed in. A chilly raft of breeze stung her bare throat; she shivered.

‘Here.’ Talvas undid the jewelled clasp at the neck of his short cloak, sweeping it around her shoulders before she had time to protest.

Emmeline shifted uncomfortably as the cold stone began to seep through the fabric of her bliaut. ‘I love this place,’ She ventured, nervously. ‘Matilda and I spent a lot of time here while you were at Sedroc.’

Talvas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his widespread knees, studying the ground. ‘I missed you then,’ he ground out finally. The bright moonlight highlighted the severity of his expression. ‘Do you really want to go back to France?’

The bluntness of his question came as a shock, catching her unawares. She touched the bulky curve of his strong shoulder, feeling the tense, bunched muscles beneath. ‘Nay, I wish to stay here with you.’ A sense of utter release flowed out of her, a certainty regarding her future.

Her words settled upon him like silken cloth. Twisting his whole body, he gripped her upper arms, a spiral of joy bubbling in his chest. ‘Then you’ll marry me?’

The words hit her with the force of a mace. ‘Nay, Talvas, I’ll stay here on my terms. No betrothal. No marriage.’

He released her shoulders savagely, causing her to sway back with the movement and sprung from the bench. ‘Sweet Mother of God, I actually thought you would relent…what a fool!’ The feral roughness of his tone shredded her heart as he knocked his head with his fist.

Shocked, she reached forward with her hand, trying to calm him, trying to appease him. ‘Talvas…I thought you realised…Don’t be like this!’

‘Like what?’ he shot back bitterly, striking her fingers away. ‘I have lost too much before to not insist on wedlock, Emmeline.’

Utter desperation clouded her features, tore at her very soul. ‘But you wouldn’t lose me, Talvas…you don’t need marriage to keep me by your side.’

‘The Church would condemn your actions; you’d be treated like a whore if you don’t take my name…’ His voice deepened with guttural hoarseness. ‘I couldn’t protect you, Emmeline. I told you before.’

‘Since when have you cared what other people think, Talvas?’ Emmeline stood up, unsteadily. This bitter acrimony poured like acid onto the bond that had grown between them, eating away at those fragile strings of connection. Nausea swept through her as she felt herself losing him, of never seeing him again. ‘Can’t you see?’ Her voice wobbled with misery. ‘Talvas! I would be your wife in all but name!’

In the pearly luminescence of the moonlight, his eyes were bleak, saddened. ‘’Tis not enough, Emmeline. Not enough.’

Chapter Nineteen

Not far from the castle at Hawkeshayne, bordering a wide, downstream curve of the river, sat a vast wharfside area spread out over a flat area of shingle. The wharfside was a place of industry, a place well-known for its excellent craftsmanship, where Talvas had ships built to his design, either selling them on, or using the vessels for his own endeavours.

The wind sighed through the bare tops of the beech trees as Talvas led Emmeline along the narrow track through the forest toward the high warehouses that edged the wharves. With each step, misery welled in Emmeline’s chest as she followed the rigid line of his back, his every movement unyielding with anger. After he had left her bereft and speechless in the garden, she had raced back to her bedchamber, flinging herself fully clothed onto the bed, tears pouring down her face. How could Talvas be so unreasonable? How could he expect her to marry, after everything she had told him? Surely he of all people knew how she felt? Yet the thought of leaving him filled her with such pain that she wondered whether she could step up to the altar and take her vows once more. Tormented by self-doubt, thoughts looped continually through her mind, nibbling and chattering at her. She hadn’t seen him for over a week, preferring to keep to the chambers allocated to her, trying to decipher the best way forward.

Talvas’s feet skidded as the path began to descend, the heavy mud clinging to the thick leather on the sole of his boots. He stopped, turning to Emmeline. ‘Watch your step here,’ he cautioned brusquely, reaching up his hand to help her down, avoiding her emerald gaze. The warmth of her fingers sent spirals of longing coursing through his lean frame and, inwardly, he cursed, dropping her hand and turning his back on her as soon as he knew she was steady. When Emmeline had approached him earlier that morn, his heart had lifted briefly with the thought that she might have changed her mind. But one glance at her pale, stony face made him swiftly realise his mistake. Beset with a polite formality, she had asked about the state of repairs on La Belle Saumur, as if there had been nothing between them, as if they hadn’t argued, her intention to return to France obvious in every gesture, in every word. Despite being irked by her cold, withdrawn behaviour, his every instinct yearned to race down to the wharfside and smash the vessel to pieces to prevent her leaving.

As Talvas strode on impatiently, Emmeline clutched at a gnarled, overhanging branch for balance and to catch her breath. Matching Talvas’s furious pace was difficult this morning, and, lagging behind dismally, she knew why. Matilda’s request for rags had highlighted the stark fact that Emmeline had had no need of them since she had come to England. Tossing and turning in her bed last night, Emmeline had tried to dismiss it, tried to focus on something else, until, with shaking fingers, she begun to count the days. The frantic summing up on her fingers had yielded a full-blown certainty: she carried Talvas’s child. Biting her lips against the boiling nausea in her stomach, she fought to place one foot before another, her mind churning with the damning reality. The thought filled her with fear, with tearing panic. How could she tell him? If he knew about the babe, then he would compel her to marry, without a doubt. But to keep such knowledge from him would be beyond cruelty. Her lashes swept down briefly over her cheeks; racked by indecision, she followed his steps blindly.

They emerged from the gloom of the trees and onto the gentle slope of the open foreshore: a narrow strip of shingle that bounded the powerful, strong current of the river. The tide was out at the moment, and the vast flats of mud made strange creaking and sucking noises as they walked past, each silent, caught up in their own thoughts. Curlews lifted their long, spindly legs to pick their delicate way through the mud, their black outlines stark against the silvery grey flow of the water. Emmeline lifted her face, the fresh sea air brushing her skin, quelling the sickness in her stomach.

‘Over there.’ Talvas pointed at the impressive line of warehouses, their outlines sharply delineated against the billowing grey sky. Emmeline nodded, pulling the sides of her cloak closer together, relieved that she didn’t have to walk much farther. The energy had sapped quickly from her body on this walk, leaving the muscles in her legs depleted of all strength, trembling from exertion.

‘What ails you?’ Talvas rapped out roughly, a restraining hand on her upper arm as he checked the grey circles beneath her eyes, the whiteness of her skin. ‘Make haste, Emmeline; I haven’t got all day.’

She flinched under the cut of his words; but after her rejection of him he had every right to be angry with her. How angry would he be if she failed to tell him about the small life that grew within her? She had lain awake for most of the night, her mind racked with uncertainty. Could she really leave, go back to France, without saying anything? Could she really take another baby away from the man who had suffered so much with the loss of his first child? Stumbling over the coarse, ridged grass of the estuary, she honestly did not know the answer.

The sweet smell of wood shavings filled her nostrils as she entered the first warehouse, her eyes alighting immediately on the familiar, elegant lines of her ship.

Propped up by wooden stands, La Belle Saumur seemed enormous, her hull exposed when normally it would be covered by water. Men worked all around her, some hammering the last carefully curved planks around the bow, others busy up on deck, planing down wood to a silky smoothness. Noticing Talvas, a few of the men grinned and waved before returning to their work.

‘She’s all but finished,’ Talvas said reluctantly, pushing at a pile of frothy woodshavings with his toe.

‘So I can see.’ Emmeline’s voice echoed dully in the huge space. Her heart plummeted at the impact of his words. If La Belle Saumur was nearly finished, then there was nothing to prevent her departure. Tears bubbled up, blurring her vision, and she stepped forward blindly, thinking to hide her sadness by running her fingers over the mended hull.

‘She’s beautiful,’ she murmured. Why had she even approached him this morning to ask about her ship? Was she completely foolish? All she needed now was some space in which to think, to think what was best for all of them: her, Talvas, and their child.

‘Thank you for repairing her. It means much to me.’ Her fingers drifted instinctively over the silky wood, before she turned to face him. He caught the fragile smell of her perfume, the single pearl of a tear in the corner of her eye.

‘Then why are you crying?’ he murmured, touching his fingertip at the corner of her eye. The diamond tear sparkled in the light.

‘I’m not.’ She dashed a hand to her face. ‘The strong light is making my eyes water.’

Inside his heart clenched with wretchedness, with the desolate pain of a loss that had yet to happen. He kept reminding himself that it was better this way, for if she wouldn’t agree to marriage, then it was preferable that she left. He set his face into a blank mask, lifting his eyes to the mast. ‘A new sail, as well,’ he added, remembering the white wisp of her body pinned to the mast on that terrible night at sea.

‘When can we put her on the water?’ She struggled to maintain the formal conversation.

Talvas shrugged his shoulders. ‘Tomorrow, if you like. This harbour will protect the vessel from any storms.’

She nodded, remembering the huddle of boats against the jetty. ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to find a captain, a crew, to take me back to Barfleur.’ She laughed, joylessly, the sound brittle in her ears, speaking words that hid her heart’s true direction to cover up her indecision, her dilemma. ‘Mayhap you would help me find someone?’

The strained, translucent quality of her skin bewildered him; she appeared weary, almost beaten, the wide, earnest green eyes bereft of their usual sparkle. Why did she persist with this stubbornness, this refusal to trust him, to marry him? He ached to hold her in his arms, to tell her all would be well, but he knew he deluded himself. Pain lacerated his innards as his mouth twisted in answer. ‘You’ll be lucky to find anyone at this time of year; at Yuletide, people want to be with their families.’

‘So you will not help me.’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve better things to do with my time than assemble a crew for you.’ She flinched at his callousness, the icy tone of his speech engulfing her with a sense of loss, of sadness. Her shoulders slumped forward with an air of dejection.

His fingers clenched into his palms at the sight of her demeanour; his voice dropped to a savage whisper. ‘You bring this on yourself, Emmeline. It doesn’t have to be like this! One word from you and you could change everything. Just one word.’ The raw hurt that laced his words kicked her in the gut. Unable to speak, her throat gripped with heartache, she shook her head, not knowing what to do, tears of silent agony pooling in her eyes.

An air of festivity spread through the great hall; servants carried in armfuls of glossy ivy, the green shining leaves offset by clusters of dull black berries, and wrestled with spiky bundles of holly as they attempted to hang them from the walls. The leather curtain that covered the doorway between the hall and the outside courtyard flapped continually with people coming in and out. Smiling contentedly from the high dais, Matilda chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread, nodding her approval as the decorations began to transform the grey austerity of the hall. She loved this time of year, the celebration of Yule, the time when the nights drew in and the fires burned high, and loved it even more this year as she and Stephen would be staying at Hawkeshayne with Talvas.

‘I’m pleased Emmeline decided to stay awhile.’ Matilda turned to her brother, who sat further along the long, oak table, engrossed in the estate accounts with his bailiff.

‘Hmm?’ replied Talvas, absentmindedly, his attention on the neat list of figures that the bony fingers of his bailiff pointed out to him. The early morning sun poured through the windows, their shallow arches set high into the grey stone of the hall, sending shafts of light down onto the trestle tables, some still crammed with peasants breaking their fast.

‘Are you listening to me?’ Matilda raised her voice.

Talvas lifted his head reluctantly from the parchment, keeping his finger on the numbers he discussed with his bailiff. Confident that his capable manservant would oversee the sowing of the crops, he had only to agree the outline plan for the year before escaping to sea once more.

‘I hear you, Matilda.’ The note of patience in his voice stretched thin.

‘Are you pleased that Emmeline is staying on?’

Talvas began sorting through the papers, the large pieces of parchment starting to cover a large part of the oak table. ‘The maid has little choice: the weather is too inclement to return to France at the moment.’ In truth, after she had made her feelings clear about marriage, he wanted her to leave. Every touch, every glance from the maid filled him with a grim despair, a constant reminder of her imminent departure.

‘Since when has the weather stopped her? She would go if she really wanted to.’ Matilda speared a piece of sliced ham with her jewelled eating knife. ‘Nay, I think she stays for a different reason.’

Talvas nodded at his bailiff, who made a few marks on one of the pieces of parchment, then whipped his blue eyes round at his sister.

‘Emmeline stays because she has no choice, not because she wants to.’

‘She stays because of you,’ Matilda announced.

A wild, incomprehensible anger seized him. He rose abruptly, almost knocking the bench over with the violent movement. ‘There’s nothing between us, d’you hear?’ He glared at Matilda, mouth twisting in annoyance. ‘For pity’s sake, cease your meddling!’

He had scarce seen Emmeline in the past few days. She had avoided his company, choosing to keep to the chambers allocated to her, or the women’s solar on the first floor. If by chance they came together, they acted as strangers, their behaviour beset with a jerky formality that knifed his heart. Whatever ties had existed between them now seemed severed, the flimsy lines of connection stretched so taut it seemed the slightest breeze could shred them. He knew better than to pursue her now, now her mind seemed set on returning home. Better to ignore his feelings for her, to parcel them up and tuck them away in a faraway place, buried for ever.

Emmeline descended the steep steps carefully, one hand skimming the curve of the damp stone wall in case she lost her footing. With every step, her heart thumped in nervous anticipation, at the thought of the commitment she was about to undertake. The stormy weather over the past few days had given her time to think; now her mind was made up. Her blood plummeted around her veins at the enormity of the decision she had taken, formed in the dismal half light of dawn. She would tell Talvas about the child, and if he insisted upon marriage, then so be it. It was no longer her choice to make; she had another life to think of now. If staying with Talvas meant marriage, then she would go through with it, despite all her misgivings. The thought of a life without him was intolerable.

‘I thought she’d eaten in her chamber…as usual,’ Talvas muttered as he spotted Emmeline’s slender lines framed in the doorway of the great hall. He began to gather his papers together, much to the astonishment of his bailiff who had been about to explain the crop rotation for spring.

Matilda placed a hand on his arm. ‘Stay, Talvas. Don’t offend her by rushing from the room.’

‘She is more likely to run, if she sees me,’ he responded gruffly.

But his mouth opened in scowling surprise as he tracked Emmeline’s progress toward the top table. The elegant lines of the heather-coloured bliaut smoothed over her slender curves, the tips of the long, exaggerated sleeves almost touching the flagstone floor. Delicate filigreed embroidery looped and twirled fine stitching along the cuffs of the sleeves, the sweeping hem of the gathered skirt. She appeared as an early spring flower, trembling and radiant in the first pale rays of sunshine, her milk-white skin causing her eyes to burn with jade fire, setting off the rosy pink of her lips. As she walked to the high dais, it seemed the whole hall held its breath, just for a moment, in appreciation of her delectable beauty.

‘Come.’ Matilda half raised herself from the bench. ‘Come, Emmeline, and break your fast with me. Talvas has wolfed his down already, but I am still eating.’

Emmeline’s eyes grazed the hunched, brooding figure of Talvas, the hectic flush colouring the lean, tanned angles of his face. She wondered how in heaven’s name she would find the strength to tell him of her decision.

Matilda answered her look with a quick, reassuring smile. ‘Don’t mind him, he’s like a bear with a sore head this morning. Come and keep me company.’ She patted the seat beside her.

Emmeline flicked her skirts over the bench and sat down next to Matilda, smoothing the material down over her legs with hot hands. Indeed, it did seem to be very hot in the great hall this morning. The air stifled her.

‘Did you sleep well?’ Matilda asked conversationally, sipping neatly at her goblet of mead. She licked the honeyed droplets from her lips.

‘Aye, I did,’ Emmeline replied, the lie springing easily to her lips. Her head pounded with fatigue, the legacy of continually tossing and turning all night, racked with anxiety and guilt. ‘My chamber is very comfortable,’ she continued awkwardly, her bell-like tones casting out into the hall, a silver melody that rattled the shell that Talvas had attempted to build around himself. He gripped the edges of the parchment, the spidery writing dancing before his eyes as he tried hard to study their content, to concentrate on his bailiff’s suggestions.

‘Talvas is immersed in his plans,’ moaned Matilda. ‘He can’t seem to stop for a minute and talk to us!’ The solid wall of his back turned toward them, shutting them out.

He’s hurting so much, thought Emmeline sadly. And I am the cause of it. I am the cause of all this heartache between us. ‘I need to talk to him,’ she murmured to Matilda.

Matilda stared at her friend, swiftly interpreting the look. ‘Let’s eat up,’ she suggested, ‘and then I’ll leave you alone.’

Emmeline peered blankly at the bowl of hot pottage before her, steam rising to mist her skin. Her stomach churned, queasy with fluttering nausea. Nay, not now! Not before she had a chance to talk to him!

‘Eat up, Emmeline,’ Matilda urged, breaking into the round of new bread, placing a chunk on each of their pewter plates.

‘I’m not hungry,’ Emmeline replied. A dryness scraped at her throat; still her stomach roiled.

‘What ails thee, Emmeline?’ Matilda said, suddenly, her limpid blue eyes full of concern. ‘You’re pale—look, your hands are shaking.’

Emmeline wished fervently that Matilda would lower her voice, anxious not to draw Talvas’s unnerving gaze. But, glancing over Matilda’s shoulder, she saw with relief that he was still engaged in conversation with the bailiff.

Matilda smiled at her. ‘God in heaven, Emmeline. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were with child!’ Her words boomed and swelled, taking on huge proportions to bounce from the upper rafters of the hall.

Sweat sprung to Emmeline’s palms. Swiftly, she suppressed the hysterical giggle that threatened to burst from her lips. ‘Nay, Matilda, I’ve had neither the inclination, nor the opportunity,’ she hedged, breaking the bread on her plate and stuffing the bits into her mouth, praying that Talvas had not overheard. Colour rushed to her face as the image of her limbs tangled with those of Talvas forced its way into her brain.

‘Look at you blushing!’ Matilda touched a finger to her friend’s cheek, misinterpreting Emmeline’s guilty look. ‘I can’t believe I have embarrassed you! Just wait until you’re an old married woman like me!’

Emmeline hung her head, attempting to swallow the bread, a rough stone against her tongue. She wanted to sink under the table, to disappear. A sudden heat broke out over her body; the surging nausea climbing higher and higher as she chewed.

‘I must go!’ Murmuring her excuses to a surprised Matilda, stumbling backwards over the bench, she fled from the hall, out, out through the kitchens, out to the inner courtyard. There, where the sun warmed the east-facing wall, she leant her face against the stone, relishing the damp grittiness against her skin, fighting the sickness that bubbled and churned in her stomach. By not taking supper last night, she had hoped to avoid this morning sickness, hoped to be strong in front of Talvas when she spoke to him. But now, a debilitating weakness coursed her body: she couldn’t face him now. Better to hide, until the worst was over, and confront him later on.

Eyes closed, she prayed fervently that Talvas hadn’t noticed her hasty exit. If he had, then this place, a few steps from the entrance to the kitchens, was not safe. She had to go, she had to run. Pushing herself back from the wall, she scoured the courtyard for somewhere to hide, a place where he couldn’t find her. Had he heard his sister’s words?

The stables attached to the outer bailey would be her refuge. He would never find her there, she thought, agitation causing her fingers to slip and fumble with the rusty bolt on the half door of the stable. Pushing into the gloom, she stumbled through the deep raft of straw strewn thickly on the floor. The grey palfrey within greeted her with a snicker, nuzzling her soft nose into Emmeline’s hand. She spotted the rickety ladder leading up into the hayloft, and at once knew her hiding place. Climbing into the bundle of dried meadow grass, she collapsed into the mound of hay, burying her face into the cushion of grass, into that sweet smell of long, summer days.

‘When were you going to tell me?’

The strident tones attacked her, accused her. Talvas!

Pressing her skin farther into the hay, she willed the soft grass to swallow her up, to engulf her wholly in its balmy scent. Sweet Jesu! She hadn’t been quick enough!

‘How long were you going to wait, Emmeline?’ The stubborn line of her slender back mocked him. ‘’Till the babe’s full grown? Or never?’ A fierce anger gripped him, yanked him back to a time he cared not to remember.

‘I was going to tell you.’ Pushing up on her forearms, she twisted her body around in the hay, sitting up.

‘You were going to return to France without telling me!’ He flung the accusation at her, the blue of his eyes spitting arrows of sapphire.

Tears tracked down her cheeks. ‘’Tis not true!’ She sought his shadowed countenance in the gloom of the loft, cowering under the forceful vehemence of his words. ‘I was going to tell you, Talvas. I…I just had to be certain.’

He folded his arms high over his chest, the jewelled hilt of his sword winking in the half light. In the cramped confines of the hayloft, he appeared as a giant, the soft black of his hair almost brushing the apex of the ceiling. He tilted his head to one side. ‘Certain? Of what?’

‘Of my decision to stay.’ Her words, spoken with quiet dignity, poured over him like honey balm. ‘Of my decision to marry you.’ She drew her knees upwards, clasping her arms around her calves. One golden braid dropped forward, a rope of raw silk.

He stepped forward, dropping to his knees before her, all the tension that had grown within him in the past few days running from his body like a fast-flowing stream. The straw rustled beneath him as he smoothed his palms down the lean length of his thighs. ‘But you don’t want to marry, Emmeline. You made that perfectly clear.’

Her eyes rested upon him, wide, luminous orbs. The reddish-purple hues of her gown accentuated the chalk-white of her skin, the pulse beating rapidly at her throat. ‘It’s not my choice anymore, Talvas.’ Without thinking, she ran a protective hand over the gentle swell of her belly. ‘I will marry you.’

He heard the forlorn note of acceptance in her voice, saw the downcast sweep of her lashes and felt ashamed. The child she carried had compelled her to yield to his demands of matrimony. ‘If not for this babe, Emmeline…’ His voice sounded hollow ‘…you would have left me, gone.’

‘Nay, Talvas, I wouldn’t have. I was upset, angry with you for giving me such an ultimatum, for trying to make me do something that I really didn’t agree with. But the baby has made me truly think what I would be giving up.’ She leaned over and touched his cheek. The raised embroidery on her sleeve rasped against his skin, before the fabric fell back to reveal one slender wrist. He squeezed his eyes shut at the feather-light scuff of her fingers. He hated seeing her like this: downbeat and humbled before him. Emmeline would have stayed despite the baby, but she knew that staying meant accepting his terms. He had forced her to give up the one thing that was precious to her: her free will. Was that the reason he felt so wretched inside?

The tiny chapel at Hawkeshayne, nestling in the lee of one of the turrets and bounded on two sides by the thick walls of the outer bailey, had been hastily prepared for the forthcoming wedding. The shields and crossed swords that decorated the white stone walls had been polished to a high sheen, emphasised by the morning light that poured through the narrow altar window. As the people of Hawkeshayne entered the holy place through the ornately carved recessed arch of the door, their excited voices muted immediately, feet shuffling forward slowly for fear of drawing the priest’s wrath, as they moved to stand in the nave to hear the wedding service. Some whispered hesitantly of a fight between the lord and his betrothed, that a mystery surrounded this marriage, conceived with such haste. Yet others grinned conspiratorially, and nudged each other, reminding their friends of the feast some nights before, and how their lord had whisked the maid away before she had time to put a morsel of food in her mouth.

Aware of the whispered speculation behind him, Talvas gazed up to the single window that threw light on to the altar table, covered with a brilliant white linen cloth, then upwards at the barrel-vaulted ceiling. Did he pray for salvation, for some sign that he did the right thing? He yearned to rest his head against the cool stone of the huge, circular column beside him; his skull pounded incessantly with the after-effects of too much mead the night before. Tormented by the image of Emmeline, humbled before him, quietly accepting his terms without her customary fighting spirit, he had quaffed cup after cup of the potent alcohol, ostensibly to celebrate his impending marriage. Doubt and despair plucked at his conscience.

He winced as the priest moved one of the candelabra nearer to the stone steps that led to the altar, steps at the top of which he would kneel with Emmeline and speak their vows. One of the candles tilted precariously in its iron holder, a gob of wax spattering to the floor below, spreading, then setting hard on the cold flagstone. He loved her wilful independence, her indomitable spirit—had he now crushed the one thing that he so admired? Would she grow to resent him for this in years to come? By gaining her hand in marriage, he might well lose her for ever.

Immersed in his thoughts, he jumped as a hand touched his elbow.

‘Are you ready?’ Stephen murmured in his ear.

Attempting to control the crucifying thump in his temples, Talvas viewed his brother-in-law, resplendent in his red-and-gold finery. ‘Nay,’ he replied. ‘Stephen, fetch Matilda to me. I need her to do something for me.’

‘He…what?’ Emmeline gasped out loud, the elaborately wrought headdress slipping through her fingers. The dried lavender and roses that made up the circlet crushed against the wooden floor to release the sweet aroma of summer. She brushed her hands over the fine blue silk of her wedding gown, a gesture of agitation. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Well, I certainly don’t,’ Matilda replied. ‘He just told me that you’re free to go. Like you’re a prisoner or something.’

‘But…?’ In a single, blinding revelation, Emmeline suddenly realised what he was doing…and her heart leapt with joy. ‘Oh, what a fool that man is!’

‘I agree,’ Matilda replied. ‘He said he couldn’t bear to see you leave, couldn’t bear to watch you walk out of his life for ever. Now, what sort of talk is that when he’s about to marry you?’

Emmeline grasped Matilda’s hands. ‘Don’t you see? He’s giving me the freedom to choose.’ Bending down, she grabbed the blue silk slippers dyed to match her gown, and shoved her feet into them. Her gleaming, unbound hair flowed around her like a cape; the only day a maid was allowed to leave her hair loose was on her wedding day. ‘I’ve got to find him…where was he when you last saw him?’

‘Sitting in the church, feeling sorry for himself. God be with you, Emmeline,’ Matilda called after her friend as the iron-studded door shut behind her.

The church had been cleared of people, empty apart from a solitary figure: Talvas. He sat on the lowest step, his back to the altar, elbows resting on his knees, his seal-dark head buried in his hands.

‘Talvas!’ The hem of Emmeline’s gown lapped across the flagstones as she moved toward him.

Slowly, he lifted his head. Dressed in his wedding finery, the masculinity of the man before her was devastating. His tunic and braies were of the deepest forest green, their only decoration a silver trace of embroidery around the cuffs and hem. He wore a cloak lined with sable, the chestnut-brown colour of the fur emphasising the dark hue of his eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, the words dragging heavily from his lips. ‘Didn’t Matilda tell you you’re free to go? Didn’t she give you the message?’ Strain and exhaustion etched his features.

‘But I don’t want to go, Talvas. I want to stay.’ She came and sat next to him on the step, relishing the close warmth of his big body.

‘I made a mistake, Emmeline.’ He shifted his weight, turning to look at her. ‘For which I am truly sorry.’ Almost in wonderment, he touched the shining strands of her loosened hair that rippled over her shoulders, curling to the grey stone beneath her. ‘I should never have forced marriage on you.’ His speech emerged as a desperate whisper, a plea for understanding, for compromise. ‘You, of all people, should have a right to choose. But that choice was taken away from you when you realised you carried our child.’

Our child. His words carried a sweet possessiveness that fired her heart. The azure brilliance of his eyes pierced her. ‘So you are giving me the choice.’ Her fingers reached up to skim his cheek, and he turned the side of his face into the cup of her hand.

‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘And I’ll hold by your decision.’

She shivered as his lips grazed her sensitive palm. ‘Even without the babe, did you really think that I would leave you? That I could leave you?’ She frowned, concentrating on pushing back a lock of his hair that had fallen over one temple. ‘After Giffard, except for the love of my family, I thought I would never know true love, never learn to trust anyone again. But you have shown me how, Talvas, in every look, in every gesture. You have shown me true love.’

She saw the joy spark in his expression, and sagged against him, weak with her revelation. His arms supported her slight weight easily, clasped tight around the small of her back, the indentation of her waist. He swallowed, his throat dry. ‘Then you’ll stay with me, at Hawkeshayne?’

Her slim fingers reached up to trace the high arrogant arch of his eyebrows. His eyes locked with hers, tangled with her green gaze.

‘Speak,’ he urged, his voice ragged with expectation.

Her lips tilted to a smile, amazed at the quiver beneath his skin. ‘Aye, Talvas, I’ll stay by your side for ever.’

He laughed then, a boyish chuckle of glee, springing to his feet to pull her up with him, sweeping her high in his arms and sealing her lips with a kiss that would join them for eternity.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-3588-9

THE DAMSEL’S DEFIANCE

Copyright © 2007 by Meriel Fuller

First North American Publication 2009

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