An Honourable Rogue. Carol Townend
was padding back to bed, the wooden stool dangling from her hand, when something thudded against one of the shutters. Someone let out a grunt. Her heart thumped.
Oh, God, the thief was back! He, whoever he was, must have found out that she was a widow and had singled her out as defenceless. Well, she would show him…
Renewing her grip on the stool, Rozenn faced the shutter.
Wood creaked. Another grunt. The darkness seemed to shift, and a whisper of warm air across her skin warned her that the shutter was being forced. A sliver of silver flashed as a dagger slipped through from outside. Metal scraped on wood. The latch gave with a pop, and moonlight streamed in.
A black shape took form; it thrust an object through the opening and dropped it carefully on the floor. Other objects followed. He was trying to be quiet.
Taking a shaky breath, Rozenn raised the stool. She was trembling all over and every instinct was screaming at her to run, but the back door of the house was bolted fast, and by the time she reached it and struggled with the bolts, the intruder would be upon her. Whoever he was, she must face him here.
The draught of warm air increased. Breath frozen, she heard movement. A dark shadow shifted…
There!
No, there!
Breathing…
Behind her!
About to whirl about, strong arms caught her by the waist, her hair was nudged aside and a warm kiss was pressed to the nape of her neck.
‘Guess,’ came the soft murmur. ‘Guess who it is.’
The relief—she knew the voice after one word— weakened her knees. Dropping the stool with a crash, Rozenn gripped the arms wound about her middle. She didn’t have to see the long fingers that moved to cover hers; she didn’t have to feel the calluses the lute-strings had formed on the pads of his fingertips; she didn’t have to look into his brown eyes and see those tiny grey and green flecks to know who was holding her pressed so closely to him.
‘Ben!’ Her voice cracked, and to distract him from reading too much into that, for his hearing was subtle and he knew her so well he could read all of her moods, she thumped at his forearm. He winced, but she ignored this and let her body relax against his. ‘You fool, Benedict Silvester, you scared me half to death.’
Another warm kiss was pressed into her neck. Since it had been so long since he’d sought her out, and she really was very fond of him, Rozenn did not object.
‘Sorry, little flower, but I was in something of a hurry. No time to send out the heralds.’
Twisting round, she grasped his shoulders. ‘Some poor cuckold of a husband after you, I expect,’ she said lightly. It was too dark to read his expression, but he stepped back.
‘Ah, Rose, you cut me to the quick. Always you think the worst of me.’
‘Isn’t there reason?’
Silence. Then, gently, ‘Rose, I won’t stay if I’m not welcome.’
Impulsively, guiltily, she found his hand in the dark and lifted it to her cheek. ‘No, Ben, I am sorry, you are welcome. It has been too long.’ She softened her tone. ‘My house is yours. Treat it as your home.’
‘I don’t have a home, chérie,’ Ben said, adopting what she termed his flirtatious voice. He carried her hand to his heart. ‘But if I did, you would be its flickering flame, toasting a man’s toes on a winter’s night.’
Rozenn shook her head, smiling at him through the dark. ‘You’re a rogue, Benedict Silvester, to try to flatter me. Haven’t you learnt I’m proof against your wiles?’
‘I live in hope, I live in hope. Rose?’
‘Mmm?’
‘May I stay here while I’m in Quimperlé?’
‘Won’t you be bedding down at the castle?’
‘I’d rather not; there’s never much rest to be had for a minstrel in the hall of a castle.’
Forgetting he could not see her in the dark, Rozenn nodded. She knew how it was—he would be constantly in demand at the castle, as a musician, a singer, a drinking companion and… No, she would not think about that. It warmed her to think that Ben could relax in her house, but then, they had been friends for ever.
‘Of course. You don’t need to ask.’ The words had slipped out before she had time to question the wisdom of letting Ben—a man with the most appalling reputation— stay in her house now that her husband had died. Moving past him, Rozenn led the way into the private family room. Fumbling for a taper, she lit a candle and mocked him. ‘Do enter, kind sir.’
‘My thanks, little flower.’
Ben fetched the things he had tossed through the shutter and, as the light strengthened, Rozenn recognised his lute bag among them. She ought to, having stitched it herself years ago. It was the first and the last thing she had ever made in leather, and by the time she had finished it, she had gone through two thimbles and her fingers were pricked to the bone. Never again, she had sworn, vowing to stick to fabric thereafter.
Ben tossed his cloak on to a stool and frowned at her empty bed. In the candlelight she could see that his hair was cut in the fashion favoured by the Normans—shaved short at the back. It was longer at the front though, so long that his dark fringe flopped into his eyes. With an impatient gesture, he shoved it back.
He has been running, Rozenn reminded herself, deliberately turning her attention to his clothes to stop herself staring at his face, like just another of his lovestruck women. But even a furtive glance had told her that Benedict Silvester remained more handsome than a man ought to be. It wasn’t fair, but Mikaela was right, those dark looks, especially his eyes and the way they appeared to soften when they regarded one, were almost irresistible. His face was leaner than it had been; it was no longer the face of a boy, but that of a man coming into his prime. He needed a shave and this gave him a faintly disreputable air that hinted of danger, but typically, since it was Ben, this was not unattractive. His looks were as much his stock in trade as was his talent with a lute.
Shaking her head, Rozenn forced her attention to his clothes, assessing them with the eyes of a woman used to judging the quality at a glance. Under that unremarkable cloak that was surely too dowdy for Ben and far too hot for a night like tonight, they were showy. This was more like it, this was the Ben she knew. Ben’s clothes had always been fit for a prince—they were the clothes of a man who earned his bread by entertaining noblemen. And, a little voice added waspishly, by pleasing noblewomen too. The candlelight shone on a tunic that was a rich kingfisher blue. It had the sheen and drape of silk. Both the tunic and the belt at Ben’s waist flattered his form—wide shoulders, slim waist. A silver buckle glinted. Ben’s chausses were of fine grey linen, and the leg bindings matched the blue of his tunic. His boots…
‘Rose…’ he was looking around, apparently puzzled ‘…where’s Per?’
Rozenn took a deep breath and looked into Ben’s eyes and wished the night was not so hot and airless; it was very hard to breathe.
‘Oh, Ben, there is so much to tell you…’
Thus it was that Ben found himself sitting at Rozenn’s board, tasting rich red wine and chicken pie while he pretended her news was new to him.
Ben listened while Rozenn talked about Per’s death, about how swiftly the sickness had taken him, about how she had tried to nurse him, all to no avail. He watched the sadness enter her eyes, shoved aside his empty plate, and reached for her hand.
‘You’d come to care for him very much, hadn’t you?’
Rose’s hair was unravelling