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.’

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