An Honorable Rogue (20 page)

She was going to England to realise her ambitions to marry a knight, to marry Sir Richard. Adam's good friend and sponsor, she knew and liked him. Yet the more Rose thought about it, the less she could imagine the act of love with Sir Richard. In her present state of mind, she was far from ready even to contemplate it with him, never mind to actually do it.

Lifting her head from Ben's shoulder, wanting to read his expression, she peered through the dark, but it was absolute and she could see nothing, not even his profile.

Ben. She breathed in his scent. Spices, wine, the sandalwood from the bathhouse, Ben. How fortunate to have him as her travelling companion. She didn't mind kissing
him.
That kiss on the jetty in the marshes might have only been for show, but it had been the first real kiss that had not repulsed her. She sighed. To be honest, she
adored
kissing Ben. Tonight, the slightest, most subtle response from him had had her melting, practically melting, into the mattress. And when she had caressed his neck and he had groaned and shivered...she had been lost,
lost.

Her head fell back. It must be part of his charm. Women of all ages and of all classes flocked to him--witness Irene here, little Soaz in the bathhouse. Barbe. Paola and her friends. Lady Alis, even the dour Countess Muriel... They all loved him. Ben had something that drew women to him like moths to a flame. Ben could bring out the wanton in a stone.

Perhaps with Ben the act of love would be a joy.

Her breath caught.

Perhaps Ben could teach you how to enjoy it. He would not mind. Ben cares for you
-As a brother, Ben cares for me as a
brother
--

How brotherly was that kiss you have just shared?

Rose chewed the inside of her mouth.

Think about it. You know how Ben enjoys women
--
he can never have enough of them. Sexual
savoir-faire
oozes from his every pore. Why not put that ill-gotten knowledge to some use? Let him teach you to
enjoy
the act of love. Sir Richard would not want a frigid wife. Ben can teach you to be the kind of woman that Sir Richard would want, and he would enjoy teaching you. You could give him the carnal love that all men hanker for and he would have no worries about being constrained to marry you afterwards.

She could ask Ben for help. She could get him to teach her. In this, Ben would be a good teacher.

Ask him.

But...

'Rose, are you all right?'

'Mmm, just thinking.'

A warm hand ruffled her hair; it slid down her neck and her arm, down to her hand. He linked his fingers with hers.

'If you want anything, I'm here,' he said, on a yawn.

Rose opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. It was so confusing. She settled against the satin warmth of his shoulder and listened as the rhythm of his breathing gradually softened. She knew the moment when sleep took him, because the hold on her fingers slackened.

Ben could help you be a good lover. Ben could help you...

Tomorrow. She would ask him tomorrow, if her thoughts had untangled by then. Her affection for Ben had always been sisterly, but she was not actually his sister in blood. But still, doubts remained.

Coward.

Lying in bed listening to a peel of church bells, Ben winced at the unmelodious blurring of the top note and opened his eyes. That bell definitely needed to be re-cast, it was cracked. The strength in the spears of light slanting through the window slit told him that dawn had passed some time ago--they had overslept.

They.
Rose was in the bed next to him. He could feel her warmth, he could hear her breathing. Inhaling her scent, he was startled to find himself wishing that he could inhabit this moment for ever. She was sleeping in her habitual pose, curled on her side a mere handspan away. Her hair, which he vaguely remembered loosening in the night, trailed across the white linens like brown silk, and one strand curled across his chest as though it were embracing him. The tie at the neck of her nightgown was loose--had he done that too?--and the fabric had slipped, baring a shoulder that seemed to him to be begging for a kiss. He could see the tempting shadow of her cleavage and had to fight the urge to gather her into his arms.

Dangerous indeed.

Shifting his head, he pressed a delicate kiss to her shoulder and inhaled deeply for the second time. Hell, he was hard as a rock. He only had to look at the girl and he was rigid with desire. Lust for Rose was a complication he had not planned on and one this journey could do without. This latest commission for the Duke was the most important of his life and he wasn't about to foul it up. In any case, he had long since buried any deep longings for Rose. Hadn't he?

Merde.
If he wasn't careful, this journey was going to be more pain than pleasure.

Fortunately Ben had other things to think about. Shaking his head, he disentangled himself from Rozenn's hair and rolled away. He groped under the bed to ensure that his lute was lying where he had put it. It was. He lay back against his pillow--not prolonging the moment for more than a second or two--put his hands behind his head, and gazed blindly at the rafters.

'Rose,' he muttered under his breath, vaguely irritated that his mind insisted on giving her so much attention, when in all honour he should be concentrating on working out the safest route to his
rendezvous. '
Rose who does not like to be pounced on. Rose who has her heart set on Sir Richard.' He drew his brows together.

She had fallen in with his plan so eagerly. He should not complain at that, it had been his idea. Nevertheless, his brow darkened. Naturally, Rose would not in truth marry Sir Richard, particularly since the man did not have the first idea that his name was being used to provide Ben with cover for the journey.

Hell. Ben would feel happier if Rose had
not
embraced the thought of marriage to Sir Richard quite so easily. Not on his own account, of course not. Marriage was not for him. He had realised that years ago, when he had put thoughts of settling down with her to one side. The Duke's special envoy could not put down roots and therefore he could not marry. And, in any case, Rose had chosen Per. Her choice had been a clear indication of her need for a settled life. As for himself, he had been mad even to consider marriage, especially with Rose.

And now she wants Sir Richard and, you, Benedict Silvester, have yourself to blame for that.

And when she discovers that Sir Richard has no intention of marrying her?

And when she discovers that
you
are to blame for misleading her and dragging her to England?

Merde.

Carefully pushing back the sheet. Ben got out of bed, but it was not so easy to get Rose out of his mind. Last night, she had enjoyed his touch. It might have driven him mad to have held back as he had, but it had been worth it.

Lord, this would
not
do. Last night, someone had been through his belongings. It might just have been thieves, thinking to steal his nightly takings, but he could not be certain. He must think. It would not do to put Rose in danger....

Hurriedly washing in the ewer on the stand, Ben dressed and slung his lute over his shoulder. Then he slipped through the curtain, leaving Rose to her dreams.

Coming swiftly clown the stairs into the tavern proper, Ben scanned the room. Last night, a down-at-heel knight with a scarred face had come in, accompanied by his squire. Judging from the state of the knight's arms, he was landless and as such might be glad of the chance to earn a penny or two....

Yes, they were at that trestle by the window. Irene was sharing a bench with the squire, a lad with some pretensions to fashion for his dark hair, like Ben's, was cut in the Norman style. Before them stood a jug of wine, half a loaf of bread, a pat of butter and some cheese. A battered white shield with black chevrons lay on its side against the wall, along with a couple of saddlebags and the knight's chain-mail and helm.

Casually, Ben wandered over, but one glance at Irene made the hairs on his neck stand up.

Something was wrong. Irene was not, as he had first assumed, breaking her fast with the knight and his squire. The bowl at her elbow was a washbowl, and she had twisted her veil back over her shoulders to keep it out of the way. Face filled with concern, she was dipping a bloodstained cloth into the water. She wrung out the cloth and dabbed gingerly at the squire's face. It came away covered in more blood.

The squire--a gangly youth of about thirteen--had an ugly cut on his cheekbone and a bloodied nose which fortunately did not appear to be broken. His knuckles were raw and his green tunic--the colour was almost an exact match for one of Ben's--had been ripped from shoulder to waist. His undershirt was torn.

The knight--who was watching Irene like a hawk-- was wearing a thunderous scowl, which only made the livid scar across his cheekbone more prominent. For a moment, Ben wondered if the knight had given his squire one buffeting too many, but a more searching glance revealed that his anger was not directed at the boy.

Catching his eye, Ben gave him a sympathetic nod and joined them. Too many knights were careless with their squires, and under the guise of discipline beat them mercilessly for the smallest transgression. Not this one apparently.

'What's going on?' Ben asked, hoping that the fact that these two had listened to his singing for a couple of hours last evening would gain him admittance into their circle. He reached for some bread.

The knight clenched his fists. 'Bastards,' he muttered. 'Bastards lay in wait for Gien at the stables.'

Wincing, the squire jerked away from Irene. His skin was milk-white and against it his hair stood out, a dark crest above pale eyes, eyes that were so light as to be almost translucent. They were watching Irene warily. 'My thanks, mistress, but it is not that bad. I do not think I need stitching.'

Shaking her head. Irene persisted. 'Let me be the judge of that, Gien. You may be right, but I cannot tell until I have cleaned away the blood. Hold still.' She smiled. 'You have survived being set upon by three men--surely you are not afraid of my little washcloth? Lift your head.'

With a shrug, the squire did as he was told. Under his chin was a thin red line--a knife had been held to his throat.

'You are lucky to be alive by the look of it,' Ben said. 'Thieves, was it?'

'Bastards,' the knight muttered.

'It is me who is the bastard, Eudo,' the squire said, in a bitter voice.

It was not lost on Ben that Gien had not used the knight's title when addressing him. This could mean one of two things: either the boy was deliberately trying to anger his master, or the affection between them was deep. Ben leaned towards the latter explanation.

Gien was indicating the purse strings at his belt. They had been cut. 'As you say, thieves."

That slash in the boy's green tunic was long. Ben narrowed his eyes. 'Did you lose much?'

'Didn't have much to lose,' Gien mumbled, flushing. 'An old dagger given to me by my father, a silver ring of my mother's...' for an instant his voice wavered, then he had himself in hand again '...and a couple of deniers. Hardly worth their while, I should have thought."

'They lay in wait, you say?' Ben was conscious of a distinct prickle of unease. Last night someone had gone through his pack. It might be a gang of thieves, it might be something more sinister. 'They were after you personally?'

'No, no,' the squire said, 'it was my ill fortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I would wager they hoped for bigger fish than me.'

'Would that I had gone,' the knight said, fiercely, 'I would have filleted them top to tail." Clumsily, he reached across the trestle and patted Gien's arm. 'We'll replace your things at the market, lad." He glared around the room, daring anyone present to mock him because he, a knight, had been seen expressing sympathy to his squire. He removed his hand from Gien's arm.

Irene resumed her gentle bathing of Gien's face. 'This is not too bad. You will have bruises, but the scars will fade.'

'No need for stitching?' Gien asked.

Irene smiled. 'No, lad, no need. You won't frighten the crows yet a while, though--' she lifted a thin, teasing eyebrow at the knight's scarred countenance '--that time may soon come if you insist in remaining on Sir Eudo's company."

The knight grunted and helped himself to a generous portion of cheese. 'Boy chose to serve me. Told him I'd done without a squire for so long, I wouldn't know what to do with one. Told him I couldn't afford to mount him properly. Boy's like a burr, though, can't shake him off.'

'Where are you bound, sir?" Ben asked, reluctant to voice the question he really wanted answering in case it should offend--namely, was the knight currently bound in service to an overlord, or was he, as Ben had surmised, a landless knight in search of employment?

'Ben!' Rose was weaving her way through the tables towards them. Green gown, black silk girdle, cream veil, and pretty as a princess. As she drew near everything else seemed to fade into the background. Bobbing a swift curtsy at Si Eudo, she slid on to the end of the bench next to Ben. He could feel the warmth of her thigh next to his. 'Good morning, mistress,' she said, smiling at Irene.

'Good morning.'

Rose nudged Ben with her elbow and whispered, 'You should have woken me. I thought we intended setting out at dawn." Leaning forwards, she gave the knight a direct look and reached past Ben to offer him her hand. 'How do you do. sir? My name is Rozenn Kerber."

'Eudo Belon.' The knight briefly touched his fingers to hers. 'And this is my squire, Gien.'

'Hola,
Gien." Her eyes flickered unobtrusively from the hurts on Gien's face, to Irene, to the washcloth in Irene's hand, absorbing everything in her quick way.

'Hola,
Mistress Kerber.'

'While we are at it.' Ben said. 'My name is--'

'Benedict Silvester, yes, we know. Irene reminded us last eve,' Eudo said. 'But we have heard you play before.'