

Something warm and soft was nuzzling Richard awake.
'Emma.' Richard's lips curved, he reached out.... and got an armful of hound and a wet tongue in his eyes.
With a grunt, he sat up and rubbed his face. No Emma, not a trace. The dawn light fell on his cloak. It looked as though the entire garrison had trampled it into the hay. There was Roland, his grey ears twitching over the top of his stall. There was no lantern on the hook; she must have taken it with her.
'Run off, did she, boy?' It was only to be expected. That shyness, Richard was certain, was genuine.
Guilt rushed at him, sobering as a pail of cold water.
What had he done? He had bedded Lady Emma of Fulford as though...Lord, this had not been his intention. He had suspected she found their arrangement awkward, embarrassing, but he had decided that a little temporary embarrassment on her part was a small price to pay if it got her out of Winchester and clear of whatever was haunting her. Once they reached Beaumont, Richard had fully intended releasing her from their supposed arrangement. But now...
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Rising, he shook out his cloak with a frown. He had treated her badly and must somehow make amends. Although...his lips formed a smile, she had not seemed to object. Quite the contrary....
His brow cleared. And he had slept last night---how he had slept! He glanced at the indentation their bodies had left in the straw. Lying with Emma of Fulford had given him the soundest night's sleep in months. If only he could keep her...surely the nightmares would leave him? No, he must be realistic. The reality was that he could not keep her. There was his cousin's obligation to Lady Aude, which he might have to honour, whatever he might say. Hell. He wanted to keep Emma, he wanted her to be his mistress in truth.
Richard nodded as he caught the eye of a sleepy stable-boy as they crossed on the threshold. 'Bonjour.'
The boy flattened himself against the door frame. 'Bonjour, M'sieur Le Comte.'
The yard was lost behind grey swirls---a sea fret. The air was damp with it.
Yes, the best cure for his nightmares would surely be to go on sleeping with Emma of Fulford. Somehow he must arrange it.
And Adam and Cecily? How will you explain it to them?
He would find a way. He had to keep Emma of Fulford. Only the next time they slept together, he would make sure they were in a proper bed. He wanted that rare thing in this world, privacy with a woman. Asa could look after the boy while he and Emma...What did she look like naked? His loins ached.
Lord. Grimacing, Richard adjusted his chausses. The sooner he found a decent bed, the better. She wouldn't be running away from him so quickly next time, if he had to tie her down to keep her in place.
Emma was in the habit of running away, it seemed. She had run away from marriage with Adam Wymark in 1066. Richard was under no illusions about her desperate need to accompany him to Normandy. It was only because she was in effect running away again. From that former lover of hers, from Judhael of Fulford. At the end of that first year in England, that man's name had, Richard now recalled, been on everyone's lips. Back then he was known to be ruthless, dedicated to the lost Saxon cause. Time would not have altered that. Richard grimaced, as an unpleasant thought hit him like a blow to the gut. Emma was running away from Judhael---would the time come when she would run away from him?
Thrusting the thought to one side, Richard strode through the mist towards the inn. So what if she ran away again? His heart was not engaged and it never would be. The woman did not live who could capture him mind and soul. His mind was fixed on his county, and his service to Duke William. And after his duties were done? There was little room for anything else.
He squinted skywards. Everything was grey, it was impossible to see past the sea fret. His nostrils twitched---bacon, someone was frying bacon. His stomach growled.
But even though Richard knew it should be an easy matter to replace Emma of Fulford in his life, when he pushed open the door of the Mermaid and saw her at table next to Henri, his spirits lifted.
Their party had broken their fast and Emma and Asa were packing their belongings for the journey, though truth be told, Emma's mind was not on the task---it was back in the stable reliving her moments with Richard. Her previous experiences had left her apprehensive about what she might expect when he bedded her, particularly as she and Richard hardly knew each other. She need not have worried. She was unable to keep a reminiscent smile from playing about her lips as she folded one of Henri's tunics and put it in a saddlebag. Her reticence had been no match for Richard's eagerness. The attraction that she felt for him had undoubtedly weighed in his favour, but one moment above all lived in her mind, the moment when they had become one. He had hesitated, only briefly to be sure, but there had been that heart-warming vulnerability in his eyes when he had looked at her, making certain that she had been content. She sighed. It might be wishful thinking on her part, but she was beginning to think she had found a rare man indeed. Not only was he strong and powerful, but it seemed that he was also a man who at the very moment of their joining took care to see that she was content.
Noticing an unnatural quiet, Emma looked up. Henri was no longer with them. Frowning, she dropped the saddlebag on to the bed. 'Asa, where's Henri?'
Asa glanced across to the space in front of the tables where only moments ago Henri had been playing with Prince. 'I am not sure, he was by the fire with that white dog, he must have wandered off. I am sorry, my lady, I didn't notice. Shall I go and find him?'
'No, I'll go. Asa, take our things to the stables, if you please, the Count is anxious to leave. I won't be long.'
'Yes, my lady.'
Grabbing her cloak, Emma hurried to the door, struck by the irony that since she had agreed to become Richard's mistress, she had in some measure regained her former status. Other people were following his lead in addressing her as 'my lady'.
Outside, a fine drizzle was washing the mist away and the wooden walls of the houses were dark with damp. Emma shrank into her hood and looked to right and left. There were plenty of townsfolk, cloaked like her against the rain, hurrying about their business. A man pulling a handcart; a baker with a tray of loaves shrouded in sacking; a handful of people around a fish stall. But no Henri. Heavens. A cold hand clutched her heart. This was a port and there were dangers in a busy port for a small boy, particularly when that small boy was dangerously fascinated by boats....
By the time Emma reached the harbour she was out of breath. Rain gleamed on the quays. Masts pointed skywards, sails were tightly furled. Ribbons of mist trailed over the sea, but the breeze was strengthening; soon it would blow them away.
The ship they had come in on remained at its mooring, next to another, which Emma had not noticed the previous day. There was no sign of Henri here, either.
On another quay, a group of fishermen, faces darkened with sun and wind, were sitting on packing crates under an awning, mending their nets. Further off, at the end of one of the jetties, men in one of the fishing boats were getting ready to sail, apparently confident the sea fret would not last.
Wheels rumbled over the planks. Another handcart, a boy taking a load of fish baskets to market---proving that at least one of the fishing boats had been out early, braving the mists. In the cart's wake, a couple of seagulls fought over fallen scraps.
A dog barked. A man shouted.
Prince! The white mongrel was loping along one of the jetties, a fish fast in his mouth and Henri---Henri!---was skipping alongside him, grinning from ear to ear.
His path was taking him dangerously near the jetty's edge.
Grabbing her skirts, Emma hurtled towards them. 'Henri, come here!'
'Mama!' Henri, still grinning, waved and turned towards her.
Her son had drawn level with a dockside tavern when the door opened and two men emerged, one with a bucket. The man with the bucket tossed the contents---a stream of fishguts and innards---into the water. Seagulls appeared out of nowhere, screaming, wings flashing.
Henri slipped on the mess and went hurtling towards the edge.
'Henri!'
The other man broke step and glanced idly towards Henri.
Emma's heart stopped.
Azor! Azor was in Honfleur? The nightmare was back.
Time seemed to freeze. There was movement, though; the man with the bucket got to Henri first, Emma reached him a moment later, and while she gathered him to her, she was dimly aware of Azor's gaze on her.
When she lifted her head from Henri, Azor was at her side, staring down at her. 'My lady?'
The man with the bucket retreated.
'Azor.' Emma knew her smile must be as frozen as her wits. Azor, here? She had not been granted the reprieve she had prayed for. Her heart began to thump.
Azor's gaze was intent as he took in Henri's features. 'This is your son?'
Emma swallowed and wished for a miracle.
'How old is he?'
She hugged Henri to her, tears stinging at the back of her eyes. No words. What could she say? Despite being one of her father's housecarls, Azor had always been Judhael's creature.
Azor caught her arm. 'My lady...this boy...your son...how old is he?'
'Two. I am two and---'
Emma clapped a hand over Henri's mouth. Too late.
Azor's gaze met hers. 'Judhael has a son,' he murmured. His grip tightened and he began pulling her towards a gap between the tavern and the next building. 'Take care, my lady, lest Judhael see you.'
Dread was a wave of nausea that weakened her knees. 'Judhael is in Honfleur as well?' Of course he was, she had known it the moment she had seen Azor.
'Aye. Judhael...as I tried to tell you at the inn, my lady, Judhael is determined to have you back.'
'Someone saw me leave Winchester.' Emma's heart was banging like a drum, her mouth was dry with dread. If she called out, would anyone hear? 'I feared as much.'
'Yes.' Azor's expression softened. 'But do not fear me, my lady. I know your time with Judhael is over.'
'You do?'
Azor nodded. 'I came to the Staple to speak to you. It is true that Judhael wants you back, but I wanted you to know that I am doing my utmost to persuade him on to another path.'
She stared. 'Truly?'
'Aye, it is no longer safe for us in England.' Azor lowered his voice, a great, shaggy bear of a Saxon with a gentle voice. Why had she only now remembered that? Azor had always had a gentle voice. 'That is what I was trying to tell you. I wanted to warn you to stay out of sight for a few more days. England has nothing to offer us and Judhael...Judhael is a man who needs an occupation.'
'Yes, he always has.' Azor was trying to help her!
'So I thought, if we were to become mercenaries, Judhael would have something to fight for, to get involved in. The life of an outlaw has twisted him, but if he found a leader willing to trust him, perhaps he would no longer dwell on the past, on what might have been....'
Emma nodded. Azor was making sense. Richard employed Saxon mercenaries; indeed, lords in many corners of Christendom were beginning to do the same. And it was beyond question that Judhael's febrile energy had always needed a harness.
'There is much demand for Saxon warriors in other lands,' Azor continued. 'I hope to persuade Judhael to come with me to Apulia.'
'Apulia? Isn't that part of the old Roman Empire, far across the Alps?'
'Not any longer it isn't, not since Robert Guiscard...Never mind, my lady, that is where I hope to take him, Apulia.'
'It must be weeks away.'
'Aye.'
Emma was so startled at what she was hearing that she made no protest when Azor drew her deeper into the alleyway. Dimly she recognised that he was indeed trying to protect her, trying to keep her out of Judhael's sight. As well as the white strands in his beard, there were lines on Azor's face, lines that had not been there when she had known him in Fulford.
'My lady, the Normans in Apulia are carving out kingdoms for themselves. The Eastern Emperor has a fight on his hands.'
'Apulia?' It wasn't easy absorbing the full import of this. Saint Swithun help them, Azor was hoping to take Judhael with him to Apulia....
Azor jerked his head in the direction of the harbour and released her. 'Get away from the port as quickly as you can, my lady. Judhael wants to see you, but I am working on him, trying to make him see that the life of a mercenary is the only thing left for a pair of housecarls who have lost their lord.' He grimaced. 'It is a long road persuading him.'
Emma glanced towards the port and the screaming gulls. 'But surely he knows where to find me? It is no longer a secret where we are going.'
'You go to Beaumont.' Azor's eyes filled with regret. 'Is it true that you have become Beaumont's whore?'
Emma lifted her chin. 'Richard has offered me his protection.'
Azor sighed. 'So it is true. I did not want to believe it, but I can see how such a life might have its appeal.'
Emma drew her head back. 'You are not shocked? Not going to throw names at me?'
A smile of understanding lightened his expression. 'Shocked? When I have put my sword up for hire, the sword that I swore would serve only a Saxon king? No, my lady, you do not shock me. And you have your son to think of. In any case, I hear that Count Richard is not a bad sort---for a Norman.'
'He has hired Saxon mercenaries himself. Two have come with us from Winchester.'
'They could do worse. They say your Count is a good commander, a fair man.'
'Yes.'
'I am hoping Judhael and I shall meet more of his kind in Apulia, men who are ready to give seasoned Saxon warriors a chance. Such men deserve loyalty. I pray he appreciates his good fortune in you.'
Emma blinked away a rush of tears, Azor's matter-of-fact acceptance of her altered, immoral status moved her. 'You won't tell Judhael about Henri?'
'Not I. I was trying to warn you back in Winchester, so that you might stay out of sight until we had gone. Judhael can be like a terrier the way he gets hold of things, and should he learn about the boy...' he shook his head '...I will never convince him to go to Apulia, never. He is still trying to chase after you. His reactions were never temperate.'
'No.' Her smile was sad. 'At the time I thought him moved by great passion. But you are in the right, Azor, Judhael is not a temperate man. You do swear not to mention Henri to him?'
'You have my word.' Azor gave her a gentle shake. 'Get you gone, my lady, and quickly. I will win him round to my way of thinking in the end.'
Emma did not need telling again. The dark bruises on Bertha's wrists and the smoke writhing about the yard at City Mill flashed into her mind. She looked up the alley. 'I can get to the Mermaid that way?'
'The Mermaid? Ah, yes, I saw it last eve. It was too dear for us. Yes, continue down here, turn left, then left again at the end, the Mermaid should be ahead of you. God be with you, my lady.'
'And with you.' Emma started down the alley, Henri tight in her arms.
When she turned, Azor was watching her, a giant bear of a Saxon with premature lines on his face. 'Take care of him, will you, Azor?'
'Don't I always?' He made a shooing motion with his hands. 'Go, and quickly. He could return at any moment.'
Judhael was in Honfleur! The very thought made Emma trip over her skirts as she flew into the stable yard with Henri. Richard was standing at the stirrup of the Saxon mercenary named Godric, deep in conversation. Relief flooded her entire being when she saw him.
He was frowning, but as he looked across his frown cleared. 'My lady, you have kept us waiting.' His words were for his men, but the touch on her arm and the searching look he gave her were for her and her alone.
'I am sorry, my lord, Henri was looking at the boats.' It was a struggle not to look over her shoulder. Judhael---in Honfleur! The saints had surely been watching over her when they let her bump into Azor and not Judhael.
Richard lifted an eyebrow at Henri. 'Would you like another ride this morning, young man?'
Henri held out his arms. 'Please! Henri be squire!'
Richard lifted Henri from Emma, and the part of her mind that was not occupied felt relief that Henri went so easily to him. 'A squire is it today?' Richard grinned. 'I thought you wanted to be a sailor.'
'Squire! Squire!'
'Well, you have some growing to do before that might happen. But if you sit up with Godric here and do everything he says, we shall see. One day, perhaps.'
Emma hovered at Richard's elbow while Henri was settled before Godric. Godric's mount must be a Saxon packhorse---it was shorter than Roland by several hands---but there was still a long way for a boy to fall.
'Not too high for you, Henri?' she asked.
Henri grinned and clung to the front of Godric's saddle, looking, Emma had to admit, as happy as a lark.
'He's fine,' Richard said, leading her away. 'Which is more than can be said for you, ma petite. What's amiss?'
Emma focused on a leaky water trough, on the moss growing beneath it. 'Amiss? Nothing, I was concerned that we had been keeping you waiting, that is all.'
Catching her chin, Richard made her meet his gaze. 'No, that's not it, something has...flustered you. What happened?' His mouth became grim. 'Someone accosted you?'
'No, my lord. It...it was Henri, he got too near the edge of the quay and he slipped. For a moment I thought...' She trailed off. Those grey eyes were very searching at times. 'It is the truth, don't look at me like that!'
Fortunately at that moment, Geoffrey emerged from the stables, leading a mare. Eagerly, Emma turned towards it and made her voice light. 'Is this the horse you have hired for me, my lord? Isn't she pretty?'
With an effort, Emma wrenched her mind out of the obsessive channel it had fallen into. They had been riding for a couple of hours now and for almost every moment of it she had been thinking about the past. About Fulford and Judhael. About Judhael and Henri.
Was it cruel to deny a father sight of his son? No, it was not cruel, her mind answered back. Think about Bertha's wrists and the fire at the mill. Judhael was lucky to have Azor, a loyal friend who was trying to help him. But, friend though he was, Azor had not claimed that Judhael had reformed. And he would have to reform for Emma to want to see him.
After the Saxon defeat in the Great Battle, Judhael had taken to lashing out at her; indeed, he had gone so far as to beat other women, including taking his anger out on the Fulford cook, Lufu. The Norman invasion had turned the hot-headed Judhael into a dangerous stranger---a bully given to browbeating his fellow rebels, a man who hit women, herself included. What might he not do to a little boy?
Miles had passed unnoticed on the pretty brown mare, Emma realised, while her mind had been looping round and round like a Celtic knot pattern. Round and round and no escape. She forced her gaze outwards.
The road was following the course of a stream and the land hereabouts was thickly wooded. There were no familiar landmarks. This was Normandy, and that was the sum of her knowledge. The last shreds of mist were twisting through the trees---had the sea breezes blown it from Honfleur? Had the fishermen set out to sea? As far as she could tell they had got away from Honfleur without being seen, but was Judhael already on their trail?
Emma ought to feel safe. She was at the centre of a cavalcade currently headed by Richard and a couple of his Norman knights. They were bearing full arms---the shiny helmets, the leaf-shaped shields, the heavy swords. Geoffrey must have been swift to have Richard's shield repainted, for the silver pale running through the crimson field had been replaced by a gold one. Similar pennants fluttered at either end of their troop. And why not? This venture had Duke William's blessing.
This purposeful parade through Normandy was, she supposed, like the trumpeting of a herald, Richard announcing his altered status to any with eyes to see. But Emma could no longer delude herself that she was safe. Judhael knew her destination, and if Azor failed to convince him to set off for Apulia...
The horses' hoofs thudded over last year's dead leaves and beech mast. In the thickets, wood pigeons cooed.
Godric rode beside her with Henri on his lap while the other Saxon mercenary, Theo, followed immediately behind with Sir Jean and Asa. Geoffrey and the other squires brought up the rear.
At the outset, Henri had been wide-eyed and alert, but his eyelids were beginning to droop and the way he was slumping against the mercenary's front warned Emma he was entirely reliant on Godric to hold him in place.
'Are you all right, Godric? Henri is half-asleep.'
Godric smiled. 'Do not worry, my lady. I have him.'
Richard's helmet caught the light as he turned and drew rein to fall in beside her. The way was narrow; he waved Godric ahead.
'Tired, my lady? You have been very quiet.'
'I am fine, thank you.'
'You ride with confidence.' Richard pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. 'You must have ridden much at one time.'
'We had ponies at Fulford. I have missed it.' She shot him a sharp look. It was easier than she had imagined to meet the grey eyes behind that noseguard. Last night when Emma had crept out of the stables, she had been filled with a complex mixture of shame, guilt and delight. Shame at what she had done, at what she had become, and guilt and delight because this man's touch had given her such pleasure. She might have entered into this relationship for protection, but his body delighted her. Saints.
Her mother, Philippa, would turn in her grave if she knew, just as she would have done if she had ever learned about her illegitimate grandson. And if her father had been alive? Thane Edgar would have beaten her, no question.
But, disconcerting though it had been to meet Azor at Honfleur, Azor's ready acceptance of her current status---Count Richard's woman---somehow made it easier for her to come to terms with it, too. How strange. These were difficult and dangerous times.
Four years ago, Emma would have died rather than consider selling herself.
Four years ago, she had been a complete innocent. Four years ago, England had been Saxon.
'Will we reach Beaumont today, my lord?' she asked, careful since they were in company to use his title.
Removing his helmet and looping the strap round the pommel, Richard shook his head. His face was stern; he remained very much the commander, but she could see behind the commander's mask and his grey eyes sent her a look of such warmth that a pang of longing shot through her. It was so powerful it pained her. Would he look at her like that if he knew that Judhael was chasing after her? She did not like keeping secrets from him and longed to confide in him. Foolish girl. Confide in a Norman count?
He ran his hand through his hair. 'Today? No, Beaumont is two or three days' solid riding and maybe longer with your son and the maid.' He grimaced at Asa sitting behind Sir Jean, clinging to the knight's swordbelt as though her life depended on it. Asa was not a natural horsewoman. 'Tonight we will be lodging at Crèvecoeur.'
'Crèvecoeur? The home of your cousin's fiancée?' A hard lump formed just below her breastbone.
'Yes, Lady Aude was indeed born at Crèvecoeur. Her brother Edouard, Count of Corbeil, has held it since their father's death.'
'You go to discuss your cousin's obligations to Lady Aude,' Emma said. Even to her own ears, her voice sounded small. The news discomfited her, badly. But this should not affect her...when they had made their agreement, Richard had told her about Lady Aude, making it plain that he was in some way obligated to the woman. Politically and morally. Back in Winchester, she had thought nothing of it. But that had been before...before...
The grey eyes were fixed on Sir Stephen, the knight at the head of their conroi. Richard had much to think about and his mind had left her again.
Emma watched him covertly. He needed allies and it made sense that the Count of Corbeil's sister should marry him. Count Richard of Beaumont would think nothing of taking a wife he could not warm to if it would bring him prestige and advantage. Emma found herself contemplating the line of Richard's nose---so straight---and the thickness of his hair, hair that had felt soft and springy under her fingers. And his hand on the reins, that casual strength, his easy stance on the big grey. All of it attracted her.
Heavens, what was she doing, making an inventory of the man's physical attributes! His political ambitions were far more pertinent.
'Do you need Count Edouard's support, my lord?'
A broad shoulder lifted. 'It could be useful, but he needs mine more. His grandfather was disgraced for a time and his lands declared forfeit.'
'Forfeit?'
'Yes, even today, many of Count Edouard's holdings remain in dispute. His title---Count of Corbeil---is merely a courtesy title.'
'I see,' Emma said, though she didn't see at all. Surely Count Edouard's support must be questionable, if his family had been disgraced?
'However, Lord Edouard will be able to brief me on the latest developments in Normandy. Some news does, of course, cross the Narrow Sea, but more may be gleaned from someone who is making Crèvecoeur his home.'
Emma nodded. 'I expect Lady Aude will be useful to you in that regard also.'
'She will. Despite their ancestors' dark past, some prestige still attaches to the family. Emma...' he smiled '...I think we should discuss your position in my household. I would have you understand, I will honour my obligations towards you, but I will not flaunt you at Crèvecoeur.'
The hard lump in her chest began to burn, as though she were jealous. Of Ugly Aude? Of a woman Richard did not really want?
'As you will, my lord,' she said, bowing her head. It was then that she was taken by the urge to lash out. It had the force of a tidal wave. Why, she could not imagine, for Richard's words had not hurt her---how could they when he was nothing to her? He was simply a man with whom she had made an agreement, for their mutual benefit. She looked up, narrowing her eyes. 'Crèvecoeur---it is an oddly apt name that Lady Aude bears.'
'Hmm?'
'Crèvecoeur means heartbreak, does it not?'
'You know it does, your French is as fluent as mine. What of it?'
She tipped her head to one side. 'It may not have struck you, my lord, because you have always known her by that name, but it is a cruelly ironic name for a lady who has lost the love of her life.'
That beautifully carved mouth twisted into a bleak smile, but he did not reply. Silence, save for the plodding of the horses' hoofs and the creak of leather.
Already Emma was regretting the urge to wound him. For one thing, she sensed she had not truly hurt him, and she must bear in mind at all times that it was in her interests to keep him sweet, not to alienate him. Whatever had come over her?
'Why that name, though, my lord? Your cousin died only recently, and I take it their family have long been known by it.'
'The name could in some way be connected with the forfeiture of their land...but, no, it cannot be that. The family bore that name before the land was lost. I do not know its origins. I have yet to meet Lord Edouard personally.'
'Oh.'
The pain in Emma's chest was beginning to ease. She sucked in a breath. Good. Because that proved she was not beginning to like him more than she ought to. Her position in his life was uncertain, and, despite his promises about looking after her, he could set her side at whim. She must ever be charming, she must ever entertain. With Judhael at her back she---and Henri---needed Richard de Beaumont more than ever. She was his mistress and only if she remembered that---must charm, must entertain, not wound---would he honour her and keep her safe in his castle at Beaumont.
The land they were riding through was thickly covered with trees. Tall oaks with wide trunks stretched their branches across the road. There was a stream to one side with ash trees marching along its banks. Ahead of them, the forest looked as dark and deep as any in Wessex.
'Where are we, my lord?'
'A few miles outside Pont-l'Evêque.'
A prickling sensation at the back of Emma's neck accompanied the return of that most unwelcome of thoughts---had Judhael seen her running away from the port, was he following them? Gritting her teeth, she fastened her eyes on Sir Stephen at the head of their column and willed herself not to look back. Don't look back. Remember Lot's wife.
'Emma, what are you thinking about?'
Sweet Mother, this man's perceptions were subtle indeed for a soldier---he noticed her slightest shift of mood. She snatched at a likely answer, one he might accept. 'I think I will miss England, my lord.'
Leaning across the gap, he briefly ran a finger down her cheek. 'You may return any time you wish.' He smiled. 'Though, naturally, I hope you will choose to stay.'
His shield bumped her thigh. Emma held his gaze, conscious that even the lightest of his touches melted her every defence. His hair was ruffled by the breeze, beautiful thick hair with a chestnut glint to it, and as a lock fell into his eye, she squashed the impulse to smooth it back. He was dangerous, was Count Richard de Beaumont. He fascinated her, and that disarmingly subtle intelligence seemed to invite confidences. Not to mention that his person was attractive enough to undermine the will of a saint. Emma bit her lip. And she was definitely more sinner than saint, as last night had so conclusively proved.
Richard distracted her so much, she was in danger of losing sight of her motives in accompanying him to Normandy. Henri must be kept safe, and to that end she must start a new life which might or might not---her heart contracted---involve remaining with this man.
He touched her nose, the gentlest of touches.
More defences melted inside.
His hand fell away, his shield nudged her hip. 'In any case...' he stared over Roland's ears and cleared his throat '...you have become my mistress in truth.'
She frowned, conscious of a sinking sensation. 'Was that not what you intended from the first?'
'Not exactly. I...' the lean cheeks darkened '...I confess I misunderstood your motives for being in the Staple.'
'You wanted to save me from myself.'
'Yes. I had no intention of making you my mistress in truth. Last night was not meant to happen. I am sorry.'
He was apologising? Did this mean he no longer wanted her? No, no, she needed him! Emma gripped the reins. 'You are trying to go back on our agreement?'
But he had abruptly ceased to listen. At a shout from the head of his entourage, he had spurred forwards and the intimate moment was lost.


