An Honorable Rogue (27 page)

Though the torchlight was falling directly on Ben's face, his eyes were shuttered and his expression unreadable. For a moment, when Rozenn had first stumbled into the gallery. Ben had seemed upset, deeply upset that she had been attacked. And for one blissful instant she had basked in that knowledge; she had felt loved.

But as Ben released her and turned to retrieve his lute. Rose also recalled seeing, and she would take an oath on this, a man with red hair whisk out of the gallery. A shiver ran down her back.

Lute in one hand. Ben caught her by the elbow with the other. 'Ready,
cherie?"
he asked, urging her back the way she had come.

'A moment." Rose jerked her head towards the other curtain. 'Who was that man?"

'What man?' His face was a studied blank. Too studied.

She looked him square in the eye. 'You were talking to him when I came in. Who is he?'

Ben's lute tapped against his thigh, making a hollow sound. He'd been restringing it, she saw, noticing the curl of spare strings round his fist. She rubbed her forehead. It was very odd to have found Ben up here in the gallery. In truth, Ben
never
actually played from galleries--his music wasn't background music. When he played and sang, he was always centre stage with all eyes on him.

'Ben? I swear I have seen him before."

With a shrug, Ben ran his thumbnail over the frets. Up and down, up and down. It made the tiniest of clicking sounds: click clack, click clack, click clack. 'There
was
someone here,' he agreed, vaguely, tugging her arm. 'Can't say I took much notice. Come on, Rose.'

She held her ground. Ben was lying, he was hiding something from her and that cut her to the quick. It was becoming clear that Ben did indeed have a hidden agenda, but what could it be? Rose gazed up at him, praying he would confess the whole, but his face remained shadowed. Her spirits plummeted.

When Ben had offered to accompany her to England, she had cherished the thought that he had done so because he cared for her as a dear friend. She had neither expected nor hoped for more from him, but since leaving Quimperle, her feelings had undergone such a change. Her heart was no longer fixed on Sir Richard; in fact, she doubted she could countenance so much as a kiss from the man. This 'friend' of hers, this handsome devil standing before her with the torchlight gleaming on his coal-black hair and in his dark seductive eyes, had turned her dreams upside down. But he--this charming,
feckless,
devil of a lute-player--could
not
be the man for her.

Swallowing hard. Rozenn shook her head; she had been listening to too many of his romances. 'Ben, I have definitely seen that man before.' she said, giving him one last chance to come clean on whatever secret he was hiding from her. 'First in Quimperle, then at Hennebont, and now in Josselin. Twice would be a coincidence, but so many times?'

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. 'Most likely he was making his way here because of the horse fair. As you see, it attracts crowds from every village in the Duchy;

The torchlight flickered. Ben shifted and his face fell deeper into the shadows. Not that she could have told anything if Ben stood in the full glare of the noonday sun, not with that blank expression on it. His thumbnail click, clicked against a fret. The lute strings trembled, slender curls that caught the light.

Several thoughts came to her, apparently at random, but they belonged together, if only Rose could find the pattern. She sucked in a breath. At Hennebont, Ben's belongings had been strewn about the bedchamber. Ben had been attacked at their campsite--and not only Ben. What about Gien in the Hennebont stables? And this evening in the tower room...

There had to be a connection between these incidents, but juggle them though she might. Rozenn could not find it. It was like working a patchwork, except that she had been given the wrong template and the pattern would not fit. Another patch floated into her mind--Gien's tunic, the fabric of which was almost an exact match for one of Ben's...

Stepping closer, so she could feel the warmth of Ben's body, she lifted her good hand and ran it over his head, up and over the longer hair of his fringe and down to the shorter hair at the nape of his neck. Her fingers lingered. She loved the texture of Ben's hair, smooth and silky. 'Hair cut in the Norman style,' she murmured. 'Like Gien's. And the colour is very alike too.'

He was pretending to be puzzled, she could read that much. He put his lute back on the stool and took her by the waist. 'Rose?' He smiled.

She smiled back, for his face had opened up. Ben might be affecting puzzlement, he might have matters he wanted to keep from her, but he did want to kiss her.
That
was real. His eyes had dropped to her mouth and he was pulling her by the hips, pressing himself gently against her, causing a delicious swoony feeling in the region of her belly. No one else had ever had that effect on her. And his lips had not yet met hers...

With Ben's head lowering, until there was only an inch between them, it was becoming increasingly hard to recall why his evasiveness was so distressing. Rose had wanted Ben to be her escort and
only
her escort. Yes, that was it, she wanted Ben to have no other business in the world but her. In other words, she wanted what in her heart she had always wanted, but had refused to see because she could
never
have it. She wanted all of him.

As Ben's broad shoulders blocked out the torchlight, his scent filled her nostrils, seductive and dizzying. Her senses were greedy for him and only him. there was scant room for thought. She wanted Ben, all of him, as she had always done.

Perhaps she had better make the most of him while she might. Closing her eyes, lifting her lips to his, Rose sighed. It was utterly impossible in the long term, of course.

Ben's lips closed firmly over hers. With a moan, Rose held his head tightly in place, opening her mouth the instant his tongue sought entrance.

It is not impossible, a little voice whispered, and somehow Rozenn found the strength to ignore the voice and draw her lips fractionally away from his. 'You must have seen him."

'Mmm.' Warm lips found her ear and slid down to press a chain of meltingly sweet kisses round her neck. 'Who?'

'The...the red-haired man with the sharp nose. You must have seen him before.' Gripping a handful of dark hair, she tugged his lips from her collar-bones before her legs gave way.

He shook his head and smiled, his eyes--they genuinely looked glazed--moving straight back to her mouth. 'When I am with you,
ma belle,
I can see no other."

Thumbs under her chin, he tipped up her face, and though Rose knew that Ben had to be lying and that he did remember the red-haired man. indeed, had probably intended to meet him all along, she let him have his way. She would give him her kisses while he wanted them, but she must keep in mind that even though Ben enjoyed kissing her, that did not mean she had his heart. If Ben had ever had the ability to love and remain faithful to one woman and one woman alone, his life on the road had probably destroyed it.

But, as his caresses heated her blood and weakened her knees. Rose realised she had little choice. She did love him, which was why she would take what little he offered. As Ben's lips moved over hers, she surrendered to the sensation. Hot. She pressed closer, breathing him in. Aching need. His hand ran up and down her back, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Desire. He stroked her hips, drawing her closer, so that she could feel...

A slow hand clap...a whistle...

They had an audience!

Ben raised his head and grinned at someone over her shoulder. Rose turned, cheeks burning. William Steward stood there with his thumbs hooked over his belt and a knowing smile stretching from ear to ear.

Gritting her teeth in embarrassment, Rozenn wrenched herself out of Ben's arms. 'How long was he there, Ben?' she hissed, under her breath. 'How long?'

'Huh?"

Ben had the grace to look confused, but Rose was not mollified. Anger took her. 'Were you kissing me or performing for William Steward? Do you ever do
anything
with a whole heart?'

Glaring at the steward, Rose picked up her skirts and, head high, swept from the gallery.

William Steward stared after Rose, brows drawn together as the door curtain swung to and fro in her wake. 'What's upsetting the girl?'

'She... She..." Ben could not give William the whole truth which was that he suspected Rose realised there was more to him than music and wanted him to confess it. He did not doubt William's loyalty, but the fewer people who knew about his work for Duke Hoel, the better. 'Rozenn has hurt her hand. Her knife slipped at supper. I would be grateful if you could send someone to look at it. I would hate it to become inflamed."

'Of course, my boy. I would be pleased to help. Especially if you undertook to stay at Josselin a few days more."

'What about Alfonse and his troupe?'

'They're leaving the day after tomorrow, once the horse fair is over, and we enter a positive desert with no booked entertainments.'

'My apologies, William, I cannot.' The longer they tarried here, the more danger there might be--the man who had attacked Rose might well strike again. The Abbot's messages had left Ben's hands, but Normandy's men did not know this. And Ben could only pray that England's new king had no inkling of his real reasons for travelling to Wessex.

'You will be well paid, I swear.'

'I am sorry, but it is out of the question. Rozenn and I...' may God forgive him for the lie. but after tonight Ben did not want Rose staying in Brittany a moment longer than she had to '...we have already booked our passage to England. We must make haste or we will miss the sailing.'

William's face fell. 'I am sorry for that, lad. I had a mind to hear my favourite songs again.'

'You are very kind,' Ben murmured. 'But we must make that sailing." It was. Ben was learning, one thing to work for Duke Hoel when he only had himself to think about, but quite another when in Rose's company. He ran his hand round the back of his neck. Travelling with Rose was making him jumpy and he needed time to think. Jerking his head in the direction of the roof stairs, he said, 'Would anyone object if I took a turn about the ramparts?'

'Be my guest.' William grinned. 'Let the filly cool off, eh, while you do a spot of star-gazing?'

'Something like that.' He turned for the door, but swung back. 'William?'

'Aye?'

'You will send someone to see to Rozenn's hand?'

'Consider it done."

'My thanks. And, William, ask them to stay with Rozenn until I get there, will you? I won't be long;

'Of course, Benedict, if that's what you want."

Ben grasped the steward by the hand. 'My thanks.'

'Think nothing of it. You just be sure to pass this way again. You would be wasted on those heathens in England."

Smiling, committing himself to nothing. Ben bowed and left the gallery.

Star-gazing indeed. Ben thought with a sigh as he stepped out on to the castle ramparts. Resting his lute against the outer wall, he eased his hips into a crenellation and tipped back his head to gaze at the heavens. Jewels on black velvet, he thought, smile twisting. The image would probably appeal to Rose.

Rose. The woman was a mystery. One moment melting in his arms, as warm and loving as a man might wish, and the next snapping at him like a harpy. Had Per mistreated her so badly? Was that the problem? There was the matter of Per's debts, and clearly she had found no joy in the physical side of their marriage, but he did not think Per had beaten her. Was she mistrustful of all men, or was it just him? He gazed at the shimmering blackness. How he regretted having deceived her into making this journey.

Lord. Women. The trouble was, despite his so-called notoriety, Ben knew little about them. Oh. he knew the shallow short-term things: he knew how to entertain them; he knew how to seduce them. But he was woefully ignorant of what he was beginning to see were the deep things. He did not know how to conduct a long-term intimate relationship with one. Ben was shocked to discover that today Rose was as important to him as she had been when he had offered her marriage. He had thought all that was past. Apparently not.

A warm southerly breeze was lifting his hair. Shifting his position in the crenellation, for the stone beneath him was cold, Ben scoured the heavens for constellations he recognised. The Plough. Cassiopeia. Orion the Hunter. And there, brightest by far, Venus, Goddess of Love.

Goddess of confusion, he thought. No wonder the blindfolded Cupid with his arrows was entangled with the whole sorry business. Love.

Raking his hand though his hair. Ben grimaced into the night. Was that what he felt for Rose--love? It couldn't be, he couldn't afford to think of Rose in those terms. As a wandering minstrel who had lost both his father and his mother on the road, he had not the right. And as the Duke's special envoy? Too dangerous, far too dangerous. Ben could deal with danger himself, but as far as Rose was concerned--no. For her safety, their summer tryst must draw to an end.

And that, he realised with something of a jolt, saddened him more than it should. Ben had planned to take Rose to Rennes, to show her the capital of the Duchy-- she would have enjoyed meeting Duke Hoel. But with Brittany crawling with Norman spies, and the need to keep the Duke's interests in England dark...

The sooner he got her out of Brittany, the better.

Ben's gaze rested on the dark line of the horizon as the image of his father Albin took shape in his mind. Albin's work for Duke Hoel's predecessor had brought about his early death. He must have been mad to put Rose at risk.

And how would Rose react when she learned she had been manipulated into making this journey? Every instinct he had was screaming at him that this was the moment to confess, and yet he could not.

Merde.

Had his father felt torn like this while his mother had been alive? Ben shook his head. He would never know the answer to that one. Throwing a last look at the glittering sky, Ben eased himself out of the crenellation and picked up his lute. He only had the vaguest remembrance of his mother, a soft, shadowy female figure with a warm smile and gentle hands; he could not even recall the tone of her voice.