An Honorable Rogue (16 page)

But on this journey, she and Ben would be constantly in each other's company. In the whole of Brittany there was no one with whom she would rather travel, yet the question remained.
What would happen tonight?

Unlooping his wine-skin from his pommel. Ben held it out to her. 'Here, it is watered, but it will give you a little strength.' He jerked his head down the road. 'There's a tavern ahead, a good one, it is worth reaching it. Three miles, Rose--can you survive another three miles?'

The wine was a red, rich and sweet even though watered, and it flowed smoothly down her throat. Ben was right, it
was
reviving. Rose flexed her feet and shifted in the saddle, but the sensation did not return to her thighs or buttocks. 'Three miles'? I reckon so, but only if there's a feather bed at the end of it.' An image of her and Ben. entwined on one such bed, flashed into her mind. Her cheeks burned again.
Feather bed? With Ben?

Taking back the wine-skin--why were her fingers trembling?--Ben tipped back his head and raised it to his lips.

Thoroughly discomfited, but glad he could not read her mind. Rose studied him as he refreshed himself, as she had never studied him before. She seemed to notice his every last feature, even the track of a drop of wine as it ran down his mouth and chin. He needed a shave, his chin was dark with stubble, but it was that mouth with its finely chiselled lips that was the most distracting. A small, tickling sensation, not unpleasant, made itself felt in her belly. She looked at his musician's hand, holding the flask. It was browned by the summer sun. She looked at his fingers, shapely and strong, and wondered how many women they had caressed. She frowned. The sleeve of his tunic flopped back. Ben's forearm was shapely and sprinkled with dark hairs. Ben was more than just a musician though; that shortsword was not mere show. He was as athletic as any knight, more athletic in many cases... The unfamiliar sensation in her belly increased.

And yet, sometimes Rose could wish Ben were not quite so frivolous, not quite so light-hearted. Sometimes she had the feeling there could be more to Ben if only he set his mind to it and sometimes she wished...

A feather bed, and a man that I care for...

Shaking her head. Rose tore her gaze away. The wine--it was much too rich on an empty stomach. Tipping her head back, she stared into the endless blue of the sky. Thank God my thoughts are hidden from him, she thought, shocked and surprised at herself. It was not as though she was a particularly sensual person, so why was she having such thoughts?

Rose had never enjoyed the so-called delights of the marriage-bed.

She had heard the women chatter at the Quimperle wash-house down by the river; she had listened, mystified, while they had giggled and boasted of their husbands' prowess and endurance between the sheets. And while Rose had listened and had smiled and had tried to join in, she had had to hold part of herself aloof because she had nothing to contribute to that particular topic. The fault must be in her, she had concluded, for, while Per's touch had not revolted her exactly, she had hardly enjoyed it. And as for endurance, as far as she was concerned, the quicker the whole business was over and done with, the better. Luckily, Per had never taken long; it had always hurt.

So why, Rose wondered, her frown deepening, should the thought of her and Ben lying together in a deep feather bed make her cheeks fire up and her hands tremble on the reins'?

'Rose?' Ben broke into her thoughts. 'If you are exhausted we could camp here for the night.'

'No, no.' Rousing herself. Rose dug her heels into Jet's flanks and urged the mare back to that slow, steady pace. 'The idea of an inn is infinitely more appealing. We'll go on.

Lifting a corner of his mouth, he inclined his head. 'As
madame
commands.'

'Ben? I've just remembered, you have not told me how much I owe you for the hire of this horse.'

'For Jet?' He looked away. Somewhere deep in the forest a woodpecker drummed. 'Nothing. You don't owe me a penny.'

'That can't be right.'

He shrugged. 'Rose, you owe me nothing. I called in a few favours, that's all.'

'But, Ben--'

Abruptly, he turned in the saddle to face her. and for a moment his face was infused with such anger that she drew back. 'You are my friend, my
best
friend." His voice was harsh. 'There are no debts between friends like us.' And then the fierce expression was gone as though it had never been. His eyes gleamed with something of the old familiar devilry. 'You may thank me later, though...in a manner of my choosing.'

She arched a brow at him. 'In a manner of your choosing? That sounds dangerous.'

He nudged Piper closer so there was no gap between them. 'It is. Rose, it most certainly is." Pointedly, he looked at her mouth and raised an eyebrow at her, the flirt. Leaning forward, he dropped a swift kiss on her lips, a kiss that was over before Rose had time to do more than close her eyes in anticipation and...

He laughed and her eyes flew open, but he had kicked Piper back into a walk and his eyes were back on the road. 'I shall claim my thanks properly later.'

She could not be certain, because Piper and Jet had just ridden under the shade of a large oak and he was slightly ahead of her. but she thought that his cheeks were tinged with colour. It was probably a trick of the light.

The sun was sinking by the time they rode into Hennebont. Aching in every muscle, Rozenn at first thought she had no energy left to take in her surroundings. Lifting her head, what she did see was reassuring in its similarity to Quimperle. Like Quimperle, Hennebont was built on the steep banks of a river, in this case the Blavet. And reassuringly, as at Quimperle, the sky above it was alive with swifts and martins. The river basin at the bottom was so big that William of Normandy's entire fleet could have moored there, though of course Rose hoped it never would. However, Normandy had England fast in his grip--who could say where he might look next?

On leaving the highway--it had broadened out as it led up to the town gates and passed through the outer walls-- their horses' hoofs struck cobbles and they entered a market square that, despite the late hour, was filled with activity. Rozenn blinked away her fatigue. There were people, lots of them, talking and shouting as they finished their business in the last of the light. Geese cackled, dogs barked, children laughed and shrieked in turn.

This was more like it. People. The loneliness of the road had made her nervous. Naturally, none of the faces of these townsfolk were familiar as they would have been at home, but it was easy to guess most of their trades by their clothes and their manner. That thickset man, with the face tattooed by flying stone-chips, he could only be a mason or mill-stone dresser. In a church doorway a robed priest was deep in conversation with a black-garbed Benedictine. A knight in chain-mail with a couple of links missing was riding ahead of them. The battered shield slung over his shoulder was covered in black chevrons on a white ground, and his grey stallion looked as exhausted as she was. The knight was accompanied by his squire, a gangly dark-haired youth on a brown mare he had outgrown several years earlier, for his feet almost reached the ground. Idly, Rozenn wondered if the knight might have met Adam or Sir Richard.

And there--a man on foot with a blue cloak and a shock of red hair like... Red hair? Arrested by a sense of familiarity, Rozenn watched the man slip into an alley between two houses.

That man--surely she had seen him before? His blue cloak was cut in an unusual manner. It was semi-circular and. though she had only seen him from the back, she knew it fastened under the chin with a silver brooch. As a seamstress. Rose was sensitive to cut and quality, and she had seen that cloak, not to mention that shock of red hair before. That man, she would swear, had a nose as sharp as a blade....

Brow furrowing, for to her knowledge no one she knew lived in Hennebont, Rose peered up the alley when they rode past. It was empty; there was not even the swirl of a blue cloak.

'Ben, did you see...?' But Ben's mind was elsewhere. Naturally. His attention had been snared by a pretty woman selling eggs by the roadside. The woman clearly knew him. Her face was split by a delighted smile, her cheeks and eyes were bright and she looked happy--no, she looked ecstatic. Rose amended, with an odd cramping sensation about her heart.

Ben grinned and gave the woman a casual wave.

'Benedict! Benedict!' The woman's voice cut through the general hubbub. You would think, by her expression, she had stumbled across a crock of pennies that were hers for the keeping.

'Cherie?'

'You are singing tonight at the Bridge?'

'So I hope.'

The woman's smile broadened. And, unpick that previous thought, the woman had found a crock containing pure gold, not pennies. "Til tonight then,' she said, beaming. 'I'll bring the girls.'

'I look forward to it, Paola.'

Heaven blast him, he knew her name. Ben probably knew the name of every last woman in the Duchy. Gritting her teeth. Rose glanced back at the alley. Ben had been too busy being his usual heartbreaking self to notice the red-haired man, but surely that man had been the twin of the fellow she had seen in Castle Hellon's stable yard and again by the clocks at Quimperle?

'Look. Rose--' Ben had shortened the leading rein so there was not an inch between them '--see how these houses are built on the edge of the precipice? No need for city walls in this quarter."

Rose looked. It was true. 'Just like Hauteville by the White Bird.' she murmured.

'I thought you would find it familiar.' Reaching across, he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Her heart stuttered, her cheeks burned and she had to drop her gaze as the vision of a wide feather bed swam into her mind. 'Not far now, you've done very well. See, over there...'

Outside one of the wooden buildings, a painted signboard was swinging in the evening breeze. It showed an improbable-looking bridge spanning an enormous gorge. The bridge was crudely drawn, in clear bold lines. This must be the inn. From the roof of the inn itself, smoke was curling in soft plumes. Inside, several lanterns had been lit. Rozenn could see their quiet glow through the windows and door.

Reaching the forecourt, the horses came to a standstill. Ben dismounted with his usual lithe grace. How did he
do
that after a full day in the saddle? Even knights like Adam and Sir Richard would grunt and flex muscles grown stiff after a day riding. He tossed Piper's reins to a boy sitting with his back against a water trough, cutting a reed.
'Hola,
Tom. Making another whistle?'

The boy flashed him a gap-toothed grin, and nodded.

'We can test it later, if you like,' Ben said, absently resting a hand on Rose's thigh. His thumb caressed her, once, twice, thrice; she could feel it through the linen of her skirt, sending tiny darts of sensation all the way to her belly, which was something of a miracle, given that she was so numb she had thought she must be dead to all feeling.

The boy. Tom, grinned. 'Yes, please, Benedict!'

Ben held his hand up to help Rose dismount. She blinked blankly at it. She was swaying in the saddle, quite certain that none of her muscles had any movement left in them.

'Rose?'

'Ben, I don't think I can...'

Ben shook his head and reached up both his hands. 'It's all right,
ma belle,
lean towards me. I have you."

She practically fell into his arms and when her feet met the ground they buckled. She clung to him and, flirt that he was, he made the most of the moment, grinning down at her, and taking her firmly by the waist. 'My apologies,' she muttered, 'my legs have gone to sleep."

'They will waken in a moment.' Dropping a light kiss on her nose. Ben went down on his haunches with his back to the inn. Before she realised what he was about, he had slid his hands, both of them, under her skirts and was massaging her calves. It was heaven. 'Sorry to push you so hard today,' she dimly heard him saying as she looked down at his dark head and the ball of his thumbs pressed deep into her muscles. 'But I thought, on our first night of our journey, you would appreciate being safely ensconced in a decent inn."

Almost groaning aloud with a mixture of both pleasure and pain as the blood returned to her legs, it was a struggle to recall they were in the very public yard of a strange inn in an unfamiliar town. What would people think?

Rose looked up to see that a young woman had appeared in the inn doorway and was wiping her hands on her apron. Her sleeves were folded back and she was watching them, head tilted on one side. A curious, knowing smile played about her lips as she looked at Ben's back.

Rose felt herself blushing and tried to extricate herself from Ben's massaging hands. They were rubbing the life back into her limbs, but she was still hobbled by weakness. Grabbing one of his broad shoulders for balance, she tugged at his hair. 'Ben!
Ben!'

The woman raised a plucked eyebrow, amusement in her eyes. 'Good evening, mistress. Is that Benedict Silvester you have on his knees before you?"

'I... Yes.' It was a long time since Rozenn had spoken to someone who was a complete stranger, but out of the blue it came to her that this was a good woman, and she could trust her, might even like her. She laughed. 'And a rare sight, I am sure. Ben on his knees.'

The woman inclined her head. 'Indeed.' she said, eyes lighting up. 'It is a moment I shall treasure."

Ben stopped whatever magic he had been working on her calves and rose. 'Irene!' Unhooking his lute from Piper's back, he shouldered it and strode across.

Rozenn did not crumple at his abrupt departure, which was astonishing given how wobbly she had felt moments earlier. Ben took Irene by the hands and kissed her on both cheeks and finally, with a swift glance over his shoulder at Rozenn, on her lips.

'You are a provocative rogue, Benedict Silvester,' Irene murmured. 'Are you staying?'

Ben stepped back. 'If I may. Is the best bedchamber free?"

The plucked eyebrow arched and Irene sent Rose a considering look. 'The private one?'