An Honorable Rogue (9 page)

'Just about. Someone's throwing down a rope, he's going to climb up it."

'And Jerome?"

Rozenn turned her gaze in the direction of Hauteville, as Jerome hurtled into view. 'Jerome's at the port, but he won't make it. Ben will win easily. We should have bet on him. In so far as Benedict Silvester is reliable, he is reliable in unreliable matters, like the winning of wagers.'

Mikaela sent her a strange look. 'I knew he'd win all along."

And before Rozenn had a chance to question her friend about that look and the peculiar tone of her voice, Mikaela had turned away.

'Now.' Mikaela said briskly, 'where on earth did I leave that eel trap?"

Ben could have kicked himself. What the hell had he been about, making Rose kiss him and in public too? He hauled himself up the rope and back on to the Pont du Port and submitted to a barrage of back-slapping and congratulations from those who had wagered on him winning the race. Moments later, when Jerome ran up, red-faced and sweating, he smiled and gave the man his commiserations, offering to buy him a consolatory jar at the Barge, but his mind was elsewhere--it was back on that jetty in the marshes, reliving that kiss.

Hell. Kissing Rose had never been part of his plan. It was vital she agreed to journey to England with him, and to that end she must trust him, she must feel safe with him as she always had done. Not in a million years did he want her to feel threatened by him. That would not suit him in the least. Drying himself on his linen
chainse,
Ben dragged it over his head and relieved a guard of his tunic and belt.

'My thanks," he said, and, though irritated with himself, managed a grin.

'Any time. Silvester, you've doubled my pay." The fellow grinned back. 'I'll stand you a drink before supper."

If Ben was honest, it was not just that he needed Rose to choose him as her escort. His relationship with her was important and he did not want to spoil it. She was his fixed point, his guiding star in a world where much was chaos. His work for the Duke was vital, and he loved it, just as he loved his music. But proud though Ben was of these two interlinked aspects of his life, they doomed him to a wanderer's life--to the kind of life that was an anathema to a homebody like Rose. As the Duke of Brittany's special emissary, Ben must be eternally on the move between the courts and power centres of France. And now, apparently, England too. He must for ever be tramping the highways.

The point was that wherever his work for the Duke had taken him--and at times he'd visited some dark places-- Ben had always known that, back here in Quimperle, there was Rose. Even when she had married Per, he had known that. It was something of a shock to discover that even after all this time, even while he was hoping to lure Rose to England on false pretences, he did not want to put his relationship with her at risk.

Cursing under his breath. Ben shot a glance downstream towards the jetty, but Rozenn and Mikaela were not in sight. He could see them in his mind's eye, though, clear as day: they would be kneeling on the jetty, reaching down to haul the eel traps out of the water. Yes, he could see them clearly. Just as clearly he could see Rose's face while he had been kissing Mikaela. Her dimples had vanished.

That was where he'd gone wrong. With Mikaela in his arms, he'd glanced across at Rose and for an instant he'd imagined a flash of yearning in her eyes. Wrong, Ben, wrong.

She
had
hesitated, that should have warned him. She had taken a firm backward step. She had even said. 'Oh, no.' He should have heeded that. He sighed and shook his head. He'd been so caught up in the moment that he'd ignored the warning signals.

So much for priding himself on his sensitivity and responsiveness to others. He hoped he hadn't wrecked his chances of persuading her to let him act as her escort. If, that is, she really was going to answer Adam's summons. Denez had heard no mention of Rose's plans, any more than Alis had done.

'See you in the Barge then, Silvester?" Jerome asked.

'What? Oh, yes, yes, right away." Jerome might have heard something. He would ask Jerome. Hastily, dragging on first one boot and then the other. Ben draped a friendly arm around Jerome's shoulder and turned in the direction of the tavern.

Ben could not get Rose out of his mind. He hoped she wouldn't use the kiss as an excuse to deny him house-room. He had kissed her on impulse and, whatever he might want others to think, in reality Ben's strength of will and his habitual rapidity of thought meant that he almost never acted on a passing impulse.

Then why start with Rose?
It was madness given what was at stake, and he prayed she still trusted him. Rose didn't put her faith in many men these days, it seemed. As Ben walked towards the tavern with Jerome at his side, lines formed on his brow. Rose hadn't always been mistrustful of men. Something must have happened during the time she had been married to Per, something that had changed her, and it was more than the matter of a few debts.

He had thought she might confide in him, but that involved closeness and trust. From this moment, he vowed, he must be circumspect. The kiss had been a lapse of judgement, but if he took care it did not happen again, she would regain her faith in him. A reminiscent smile chased his frown away.

Rose--who would have thought it? The feel of her.. .the taste of her... The way he and, he would swear, she too, went still the moment their lips touched...

He shook his head; such a lapse must not happen again. It was vital that Rose should put her confidence in him. Lord help him if she ever found out that he was behind her summons to England. He must take care. Not that it mattered on his own account, naturally, it mattered because of the Duke and his mission. Rose was out of bounds.

Tossing and turning on her mattress that night, Rozenn waited for Ben to come in. She had not laid eyes on him since he had kissed her on the jetty and dived back into the Laita to win his wager. He was very late.

A discordant howl cut through the night air. By the sound of it, a battalion of drunks were toiling up the hill from one of the port taverns, yowling like tomcats. Tensing, Rozenn listened for the sound of a key turning in the lock, but it never came. Of course not. Even in Ben's worst moments, he would never howl so discordantly. Drunk as a lord, Ben could hold a tune.

Absently she touched her fingers to her lips. Why had he kissed her? Their friendship had never been on that sort of footing, and, as far as she was concerned, it never would be. So why the kiss?

The answer came in a flash. As show. Both she and Mikaela had been but part of the show he had laid on for the entertainment of the Count's men; to him the kisses had meant nothing.

To her, though... Gently rubbing her lips with her finger, Rozenn closed her eyes against the glow of the banked-down fire. Ben's kiss had melted her bones; she had wanted to press close and closer still. She had wanted more, and when he had lifted his lips from hers, it had taken every ounce of will-power not to reach up and draw his head back down again.

I had no idea, she thought. No idea a kiss could be so...so compelling. With Per... She repressed a shudder. She would not think about kissing Per, not now, and soon, when she left Quimperle, she need never think of him again. Once away from this town, there would be no reminders, nothing to point out that marrying Per had been the biggest mistake of her life.

Kissing Ben, though... Kissing Ben on the jetty had been nothing short of a revelation. Kissing Ben had been disturbing, but not in the way that kissing Per had been disturbing. No wonder women fell over themselves to gain Ben's attention...

She bit hard on her finger. Was Ben regretting kissing her? Was that why he was so late coming back? Could he not face her?

Perhaps he had decided to sleep elsewhere. If he had, she would have liked to know. She would have double-bolted the front door. Worrying about that unbolted door was what was keeping her awake. But tonight, lest he return, that door must remain unbolted. If Ben wanted to sleep here, she would hate to lock him out.

Turning her head, Rozenn peered through the dark in the direction of the street. The drunks' caterwauling was fading as they progressed up the hill; heading, she expected, for one final drink at the White Bird.

A log shifted. Rolling on to her side, Rozenn tried to compose herself for sleep. No sense waiting up half the night. Ben was most likely celebrating his winnings by the broaching of a few barrels himself. Unbidden, the features of Alis FitzHubert swam into her mind, with her pretty blue eyes and her yellow hair. Rose grimaced-- please God, let him not be celebrating with Lady Alis.

Rose would think about Sir Richard of Asculf as she usually did when falling asleep; she would recall his kindness; she would think about the gold cross that he have given her; she would remind herself how strong he was.

But despite her best intentions, Rozenn's last conscious thoughts were of a dark-haired lute-player singing love songs. His eyes were tender and, impossible though that might be, he was gazing at her, and
only
her.

I would swim to England for
your
kiss.

He was such a flirt.

When Rozenn woke the next morning, the light slanting through the cracks in the shutters told her that the sun had risen. There was no sign of Ben and his pallet did not appear to have been slept on. But she had things to do. Firmly suppressing any suspicions as to where he might have passed the night and in whose arms, Rose dressed quickly. It was market day. and she was determined to sell as much of her husband's stock as possible--nothing was going to distract her.

By the time Anton had arrived at the front of the shop, handcart in tow, Rose had broken her fast and had the cloth piled up by the doorway.

'Morning, mistress.' Anton indicated the heavier of the bales of cloth. 'These first?'

'If you please.'

After helping Anton load the cart, Rozenn accompanied him down the hill towards the Pont du Port, one hand resting on her stock to steady it.

Captain Denez was again on guard by the drawbridge.
'Hola,
Mistress Rozenn," he said, his usually dourexpression lighting when he saw her. 'Not with Silvester this morning?'

Rozenn gave Denez a searching look, but she could find no malice in his expression. She was pleased to be able to reply without a blush, 'Ben and I are friends, Denez, no more."

'Aye, mistress, as you say." But a fractional twitch to the man's lips told Rozenn that he was controlling a broad grin and that he disbelieved her. For a moment she seemed to hear a faint echo of the raucous cheering that had accompanied Ben's kiss on the jetty.

Lifting her chin, Rozenn gestured at Anton to continue and the cart, laden with her cloth, rattled over the bridge at her side. Passing through the gate in the castle's curtain walls, they stepped into the bailey.

Market Square was a small cobbled area squeezed in between the Abbey of Ste Croix and Count Remond's keep. The rest of Basseville, the part of the island where the ordinary townsfolk lived, lay behind the Abbey.

The keep towered over them. The window of the solar was high up near the top. only visible if you tipped your head back and craned your neck. As Rozenn and Anton rounded a corner, the bells of Ste Croix rang out, calling the monks to matins. The Abbey was still being built and it was bristling with wooden scaffolding, but Abbot Benoit insisted that the services should take place in their proper order.