The Damsel's Defiance (2 page)

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.

‘Y
ou 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 rec
ognised 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 Lon
nieres.’ That was it! She remembered him from a few days back, asking questions.