An Honorable Rogue (7 page)

A choke, swiftly smothered, came from the fireplace and, a heartbeat later, Ben struck up another tune.

Ivona leaned forwards, surreptitiously digging Rozenn in the ribs.
'Comptesse
Muriel, Rozenn has ever been independent, she did not mean any disrespect.'

'No, indeed." Rozenn murmured agreement. 'But I must say that Ivona is correct. I do enjoy living in the town. I have friends there,
Comptesse,
and I would miss them if I moved back to the keep.'

'You have friends here." Countess Muriel said softly. Rozenn caught her breath. 'I know, but--' 'Friends who are, I think, your best patrons...' The Countess's insistence was unnerving. Thoughts racing, Rozenn concealed a sigh. She had hoped a simple refusal would suffice, forgetting how Countess Muriel liked to get her way. But if the Countess knew that she intended leaving, perhaps even she would not be so insistent. Rozenn glanced at the ladies clustered round the great canvas. This was not the time to break the news, either to her mother or to the Countess, not when they were surrounded by a roomful of women.

'Yes,
Comptesse,'
Rozenn said. 'I am grateful for that, but--"

'Friends whom you may be loathe to lose, Rozenn."

Rozenn swallowed. The warning was clear. This might not be the moment to discuss her proposal and Adam's summons, but she was not about to be bullied. 'Indeed,
Comptesse,
but--'

'Your husband left debts, I understand. Have you cleared them?'

Rozenn relaxed; here she was on firmer ground. 'Almost. One more day at market should see the tallies set straight.'

'Good.' Countess Muriel smiled. 'Then you can concentrate on your sewing--a much better occupation for a young woman than hustling at a market stall. Besides..." another smile, this one directed at Ivona '...I should not like to see Quimperle's best seamstress arraigned at my husband's court for debt.'

Wishing the Countess would focus on someone else, Rozenn squirmed on her stool. A ripple of notes drew all eyes as Ben finished the song with a flourish. Rozenn blinked. Surely he'd missed a couple of verses?

'Excuse me,
Comptesse,'
he said. 'What would you like me to play next?"

Bless you, Ben.
Glancing over her shoulder, Rozenn flashed him a smile.

'I should like a story this time, Benedict,' the Countess replied. 'Tell us the one about Tristan and Isolde.'

'Oh, yes,' Lady Alis breathed, blue eyes wide. 'Tristan and Isolde, I
adore
that one."

Rozenn gritted her teeth and stared blindly at a knight on the wall-hanging, so she would not have to see Ben exchange smiles with the girl he had met in the hayloft.

Then, unable to bear it any more, she turned her head and shot him a brief glance.

He had laid his lute across his knees. Opening his eyes wide--he was
not
looking at Lady Alis--he began to recite. 'Once upon a time, King Mark..."

As Ben's seductive voice filled the solar, conversations drew to a halt. Needles froze over the canvas. Heads turned in the direction of the fireplace, old heads as well as young. Rozenn pursed her lips. Was
no one
proof to his charms'?

Ben's voice, she had to admit, was his chief asset--it had a way of reaching deep into your heart. At least, that was how it was for her, and, given Ben's success and popularity, she assumed others felt the same. Reaching for a length of sage-green wool, Rozenn threaded a needle and shuffled closer to the table. Her stool leg squeaked.

Countess Muriel tutted.

'My apologies,' Rozenn mouthed, and bent over the canvas.

Yes, his voice was perfect. It was clear, it was carrying and it was somehow caressing. Like his fingers. A memory of the previous night flashed in on her, when she and Ben had been talking to each other with only her table between them. He had held her hand and his fingers had moved gently over hers. So gently. She could almost feel the warmth of his fingertips as she would feel them if he were to lift her hand to his lips. Later, he might lean forwards across the table and reach for her.. .he might slide his other hand round her neck, he might bring his lips to hers, he might...

Her needle ran into her finger and she gasped.

'Rozenn, do be still.' The Countess frowned. 'And mind you don't bleed on the canvas.'

Nodding an apology, Rozenn blinked at the welling blood and lifted her finger to her mouth. What
was
she about? Just because Ben's voice had the power to seduce half of Brittany did
not
mean it had the power to seduce her.

He had reached the point in the story when the lovers were sleeping in each others' arms, deep in the forest.

With rather more of an effort of will than she would have liked--the picture of Ben's arms around her was worryingly compelling--Rozenn made herself think of another pair of arms.

Richard of Asculfs. It is Sir Richard I yearn for in that way. And then, for one heart-sinking moment, she was utterly unable to recall the colour of Sir Richard's eyes. Brown? Blue? No, brown. Or was it grey? Lord. A knight, he's a knight, she muttered to herself, trying to close out the distracting sound of Benedict Silvester's voice.

Lady Josefa--Rozenn's jaw clenched--had abandoned all pretence of embroidering, and was sitting with her hands resting idle on the wall-hanging, gazing at Ben as though he were her only hope of salvation.

Hunching her shoulder--really, Josefa was embarrassing--Rozenn sneaked a look in Ben's direction. It was just her luck that his eyes were open and he happened to be facing her way. He didn't falter in his telling of the story, but his voice did soften as their eyes met. A curl of awareness unfurled in her belly. Damn him. Huffing out a breath, she turned back to her work.

As the story unfolded Rozenn held the image of Sir Richard in the forefront of her mind. The last time she had seen Sir Richard he had been riding out of Quimperle at her brother's side. Two knights, one Norman and born to his station, with lands and a proud ancestry, and the'other but newly knighted and with not one acre to his name. How kind Sir Richard was to have given me a gold cross. How kind he was, Rozenn thought, deliberately blocking out the beguiling sound of Ben's voice, to befriend Adam when he had been but an eager squire. Not many knights would bother with the son of a lowly horse-master. Firmly, she squashed the urge to turn to see if Ben was returning that idiotic smile Lady Josefa was sending his way.

Where was she? Ah, yes, how
kind
of Sir Richard to have sponsored Adam, to have seen him knighted. Yes, she had chosen a kind man, an
honourable
man. When Sir Richard and Adam had ridden out in response to William of Normandy's call to arms, they had looked so fine. She had been proud of her brother. And of Sir Richard, naturally, Rozenn frowned. But the colour of his eyes? Brown, surely, like Ben's?

She wriggled on her stool and again the legs screeched on the floorboards. Countess Muriel glared.

Sir Richard was taller than Ben, much broader, larger all over. Big hands. She had noticed that particularly, on the day he had challenged Ben to a lute-playing contest. The size of his large, battle-scarred fingers--her lips curved in a smile--Sir Richard could never hope to match Ben on a lute. But he had done astonishingly well, considering.

She sighed. Ben was... No--
Sir Richard.
It was
Sir Richard
she was thinking about, not Ben. Sir Richard was taller, very handsome with his brown hair and his broad shoulders. A man indeed.

Sneaking a sidelong glance under her lashes at Ben, Rozenn felt again that unsettling tremble in her belly. Ben was not as tall as Sir Richard, but he was, she had to confess, perfectly proportioned--strong shoulders, narrow waist, as ever accentuated by a wide leather belt. Ben knew how to make the best of himself, that green tunic matched those tiny flecks in his eyes
exactly.

Needle suspended over her work, Rozenn did not notice that it had been some moments since she had set a stitch.

But Ben did. He intercepted her gaze and a dark eyebrow quirked upwards.

Hastily, Rozenn focused on the canvas, damping down that irritating flutter of awareness that only he could elicit. Even her idol, even Sir Richard never had that effect on her. Thank goodness. It was far too discomfiting.

She, Rozenn Kerber, would marry Sir Richard, on that she was determined. She was going to be a
lady.
One day she would have a solar of her own, and other women would join her there to work on the tapestries and wall-hangings that would decorate
her
hall. Perhaps, like Countess Muriel, she would hire a lute-player, maybe even Benedict Silvester himself if he was lucky, to entertain them while they sewed.

That afternoon, Mikaela came to the Isle du Chateau to ask for Rozenn's company. As was her custom when entering the castle precincts, she was wearing her veil. She came directly to the solar, where the Countess, having tired of sewing, was happy to wave Rozenn away.

It was a Friday, a fish day, and every Friday since Per's death, Rozenn had got into the habit of accompanying Mikaela to the fish market, which was held in Basseville on the quayside. There she would help her friend choose fish for the tavern and load them on Anton's cart. In return for her assistance, Mikaela usually sent Rozenn a portion of whatever dish resulted such as baked cod, or mussels in wine.

Leaving the keep, the girls walked through sunlit streets towards the Pont du Port. Count Remond's guards stood sentry at the gateway that led from the castle to the quays. Ben was with them, hip propped against the wooden rail of the bridge, dark hair ruffled by the breeze. He was apparently deep in conversation with Denez, the guards' captain. Rozenn thought she heard her name mentioned, but at that moment Ben noticed her and turned her name into a greeting so smoothly, she wondered if she had imagined it.

'Mistress Kerber!' Ben's brown eyes were laughing as he straightened and swept her a bow worthy of a duchess. 'Good afternoon to you. And Mademoiselle Brehat.'

'Hola,
Ben.' Mikaela smiled. 'Distracting the sentries from their duties?'

'Naturally.' Ben resumed his position propped against the handrail. His lips drew Rozenn's gaze, and, as she looked, they twitched upwards. Colouring, she met his glance, gave her head a slight shake, and made to step past him. Had he been talking about her? She must be mistaken--why would Ben have been talking to Denez about her?

Ben put out a hand. 'Want to earn a couple of deniers, Rozenn? Mikaela?"

'How so?'

'I propose a race--swimming versus running.'

Rozenn gave Ben a level look. She couldn't swim-- all her life she had been terrified of water--but Ben swam like a fish. He was pointing to where the jetty in the marshes was sited, lost in the tall reeds on the east bank.

'I reckon I can swim to the jetty and back in the time it takes Jerome here to run to and from St Michael's in Hauteville."

Captain Denez snorted. 'You take us for fools, Silvester, but we know you of old. You'd cheat, and since we can't exactly see the jetty from here, what's to say you never actually reach it?"