Runaway Lady, Conquering Lord. Carol TownendЧитать онлайн книгу.
resumed, he turned to Geoffrey. ‘You are certain you saw Emma of Fulford in here? I thought I told you to help her find work at the castle.’
Geoffrey bit his lip. ‘Yes, sir. I left her with the steward, as you said.’
Richard frowned. ‘Left her? You are saying you didn’t make certain she was given work?’
‘N-not exactly, sir.’ Geoffrey shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I told the steward what you had said and…and—’
‘You went away.’
Geoffrey stared at the floor. ‘I…I am sorry, sir.’
‘That was ill done, Geoffrey, very ill done. Do you even know if she was given work?’
‘No, sir. I am sorry.’
Sighing, Richard dragged off his gloves and held his hands towards the fire. Behind them, the door slammed, candle flames bent in the draught.
Richard acknowledged one of his soldiers with a smile. Belatedly realising who had joined them, a lanky sergeant hastily pushed a girl from his lap. ‘At ease, soldier, you’ve earned a little relaxation,’ Richard repeated. He scowled at his squire. ‘You had better be right.’
‘I am, sir. Look, there at the far end.’
Merde. The lad was right, though Richard could hardly believe what he was seeing. There was Lady Emma of Fulford, flanked on the one side by a huge wine keg, and on the other by Hélène, the madame of the Staple. Emma had been talking to a Saxon giant of a man. Negotiating a price for her favours? Lord.
Oblivious of everyone but Lady Emma—this was Cecily’s sister, her sister and Cecily and Adam would never forgive him if he let her continue on this course—Richard marched towards her. The Saxon giant vanished behind an oak post. Richard paid him no heed. ‘Lady Emma.’
She gave him a hasty curtsy. ‘Sir Richard!’
Taking in her finery, particularly the way the front of her pink gown gaped to reveal far more than it should, Richard’s gaze sharpened. ‘What in hell are you doing?’ Diable, it was obvious what she was doing. In that gown, a gown which set off her curves in a discreet yet, oddly, far more tantalising way than the vulgar yellow gown had set off Frida’s charms, Emma of Fulford could only have been doing one thing. The woman had been selling herself. With difficulty, Richard lifted his gaze from the alluring dip in the neckline, from the gentle curve of her breasts. The smudges of fatigue under her eyes were not visible in the torchlight. A translucent veil failed to hide her hair, which gleamed like dark gold beneath it.
Hidden treasure, he found himself thinking. Here in the Staple, in that gown, Emma of Fulford had the loveliness and the hauteur of a princess of the Norse.
Her brows snapped together. ‘What business is it of yours, sir?’
Richard shook his head. ‘Just look at you. Is this the first time you have…done this, or is it something you make a habit of?’
Her blue eyes were cloudy, perplexed. It came to him that she was not connecting properly with what he was saying, that her mind was elsewhere.
‘My lady, are you drunk?’ He leaned closer, intending to discover if she had the smell of wine or mead about her. Instead, he caught the sweet scent of roses, freshness and roses. Hastily, he drew back.
‘Drunk? Certainly not!’
Her eyes, dark in the uncertain light of the torches, were scouring the tavern behind him. Searching for her lost customer? Richard clenched his fists. ‘You are a thane’s daughter,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘What would your sister say? Lord, have you no shame?’
‘He’s gone.’ Those dark eyes were full of shadows. She put a hand to her head. ‘Saint Swithun, help me.’
Whatever was the matter with the woman? How could the loss of one customer mean so much to her? Was she so desperate?
Firm action was clearly going to be called for.
Pink skirts rustled as she made to move past him. ‘Sir, you must excuse me, I need to go upstairs.’
Richard had her by the arm before he had time to think. ‘A moment.’
‘Sir,’ the madame, Hélène, cut in. She clicked her fingers and another Saxon, all muscle, appeared at her side. Not a threat exactly, but close. Geoffrey’s hand crept to the hilt of his dagger.
Richard gave the woman a direct look. ‘Madame Hélène, I presume?’
‘Sir?’
‘Lady Emma and I have matters to discuss, private matters. She will accompany me back to the castle.’ By Saint Denis, that sounded as though he intended buying Emma of Fulford’s favours, which he most certainly did not. At least…Richard was opening his mouth to clarify himself, but Madame Hélène got in first.
‘Emma, are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes, I am fine.’ Emma smiled, but her smile made a liar of her—it was vague and abstracted. ‘Sir Richard, please, I must go up to the loft.’ She laid a hand on his arm, white teeth worrying her lower lip.
‘No, you are coming with me.’
‘I am?’ Emma gave him one of those distracted looks and a quick nod before returning her attention to the other woman. ‘I am fine, truly, Hélène. I think Sir Richard may even help me.’
At her words, the muscle-bound Saxon effaced himself. Geoffrey let out a breath and his hand fell from his hilt.
Damn right I am going to help you, Richard thought. But not perhaps in the way that you are expecting. Grasping her hand, he led her past the tables, past outstretched legs, past the dogs lazing at the hearth and out into the night. He could not let her continue on this course; his friend Adam would never forgive him.
‘No cloak,’ he muttered as the inn door snapped shut behind Geoffrey and the chill March air rushed into his lungs. ‘We have left your cloak behind.’
‘My cloak?’ She gave a wild laugh and jerked against his hand. She was trying to break free and she would no doubt have succeeded if Richard had not maintained the firmest of holds. The moon was up, the stars were visible behind the roofs of the houses, and her pink veil glowed palely through the dark. Something—a stray?—brushed past Richard’s leg.
‘Please, my lord.’
She tried to shake him off, but he would have none of it. ‘You are coming back with me.’ Swiftly, he removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. When he set off at a brisk pace for the castle, she began to struggle in earnest.
‘No, no!’ Slim fingers twisted and wriggled within his. ‘Please…’ Her voice cracked. ‘I must go back. You don’t understand.’
‘Don’t cry, I am not going to hurt you. I just want to get you away from…that place.’ He stopped dead at the crossroads where what was left of Golde Street met Market Street. Her breath was agitated; her veil lifted as she peered over her shoulder towards the darkness surrounding the market cross.
What, or who, was she looking for? Richard could see little. Here, a few cracks of light crept round the edge of a shutter; there, a slash of yellow escaped through a slit in some planking, but as to the rest—black night.
‘Please, oh, please.’
As she pulled at him, the moonlight fell directly on her cheek where a single tear gleamed like a pearl. Hell.
‘He will find him, I know he will. He will find him and—’
Richard lost patience. EitherAdam’s sister-in-law was a madwoman or she was in desperate trouble. In their interview that morning, she had not struck him as mad. He swept her up in his arms, a struggling armful of woman who smelt charmingly of roses. Closing his mind to the twinge in his shoulder, to the stab of awareness