Читать книгу An Honourable Rogue - Carol Townend, Carol Townend - Страница 9

Chapter Four

That afternoon, Mikaela came to the Isle du Château to ask for Rozenn’s company. As was her custom when entering the castle precincts, she was wearing her veil. She came directly to the solar, where the Countess, having tired of sewing, was happy to wave Rozenn away.

It was a Friday, a fish day, and every Friday since Per’s death, Rozenn had got into the habit of accompanying Mikaela to the fish market, which was held in Basseville on the quayside. There she would help her friend choose fish for the tavern and load them on Anton’s cart. In return for her assistance, Mikaela usually sent Rozenn a portion of whatever dish resulted such as baked cod, or mussels in wine.

Leaving the keep, the girls walked through sunlit streets towards the Pont du Port. Count Remond’s guards stood sentry at the gateway that led from the castle to the quays. Ben was with them, hip propped against the wooden rail of the bridge, dark hair ruffled by the breeze. He was apparently deep in conversation with Denez, the guards’ captain. Rozenn thought she heard her name mentioned, but at that moment Ben noticed her and turned her name into a greeting so smoothly, she wondered if she had imagined it.

‘Mistress Kerber!’ Ben’s brown eyes were laughing as he straightened and swept her a bow worthy of a duchess. ‘Good afternoon to you. And Mademoiselle Bréhat.’

‘Holà, Ben.’ Mikaela smiled. ‘Distracting the sentries from their duties?’

‘Naturally.’ Ben resumed his position propped against the handrail. His lips drew Rozenn’s gaze, and, as she looked, they twitched upwards. Colouring, she met his glance, gave her head a slight shake, and made to step past him. Had he been talking about her? She must be mistaken—why would Ben have been talking to Denez about her?

Ben put out a hand. ‘Want to earn a couple of deniers, Rozenn? Mikaela?’

‘How so?’

‘I propose a race—swimming versus running.’

Rozenn gave Ben a level look. She couldn’t swim— all her life she had been terrified of water—but Ben swam like a fish. He was pointing to where the jetty in the marshes was sited, lost in the tall reeds on the east bank.

‘I reckon I can swim to the jetty and back in the time it takes Jerome here to run to and from St Michael’s in Hauteville.’

Captain Denez snorted. ‘You take us for fools, Silvester, but we know you of old. You’d cheat, and since we can’t exactly see the jetty from here, what’s to say you never actually reach it?’

‘Me? Cheat?’ Ben puffed out his chest and affected to look affronted, but Rozenn knew he was no such thing. He was teasing Count Remond’s troopers, enjoying it almost as much as they were. ‘As if I would…’ He winked at Mikaela, who flushed prettily and gave a little trill of a laugh. ‘But in case you are worried, I have an idea. One of your men can run round to the marshes and wait for me on the jetty. Jafrez, be my witness?’

Denez rubbed his chin. ‘You have to actually touch the jetty, mind.’

Mikaela stirred. ‘I set some eel traps by the jetty,’ she said thoughtfully.

Ben gave Mikaela a soft smile. ‘You wouldn’t want to check them, would you, chérie? Then you could be my witness since these disbelieving oafs won’t accept my word. They will accept yours, won’t you, Denez?’

‘Aye.’

‘I thought we were going to the fish market,’ Rozenn put in, her voice sounding more disgruntled than she had intended.

Mikaela shrugged. ‘Eel counts as fish, you know that. If caught some, I could smoke them or make a pie.’ To Rozenn’s dismay, Mikaela slanted Ben just the sort of look that Rozenn would have expected Lady Alis FitzHubert to give him. It startled her coming from her friend.

She tamped down a flare of anger. It was one thing for Ben to flirt with Lady Alis who ought to know better, but quite another to flirt with Mikaela. He should not encourage her in this way. Mikaela was very young and she might not realise that Ben’s smiles were just another of the tools of his trade, they did not necessarily mean anything. She hoped Mikaela was not taken in.

Mikaela was smiling happily up at him. ‘We’ll go— we’ll witness you reach the jetty, won’t we, Rozenn?’

Brown, thick-lashed eyes looked her way. He cocked a brow at her. ‘Rozenn?’

‘Oh, yes. I suppose so.’

Ben laid his hand on his heart. ‘My thanks, mesdames. And if you’d care to lay a wager of your own…’

‘Certainly not!’ Rozenn said tartly. ‘We can’t afford to be throwing hard-earned money around.’

‘Your money’s not at any risk.’ Ben’s smile was confident. ‘I’ll reach the jetty and be back before Jerome even makes it to St Michael’s, never mind returns. And, I must say, talking of witnesses, how do I know I can trust Jerome to run all that way without cheating? He might turn back early and who would know? Fair’s fair, I demand a witness too. Any volunteers?’

One of the guards stepped forwards. ‘I’ll go.’

‘Good man.’

Mikaela walked boldly up to Ben and put her hand on his. ‘I’ll be wanting a kiss for my pains,’ she said.

Denez whooped, Rozenn looked heavenwards.

Ben sent Mikaela a slow grin. ‘It will be my pleasure, chérie, my pleasure.’

‘When’s the wager taking place?’

‘As soon as you and Rozenn reach that jetty?’

Eyes alight with laughter, Mikaela grabbed Rozenn’s arm. ‘We’re on our way.’

‘My thanks. We should be able to see you standing on the jetty, but just in case we cannot, wave your veils when you get there. That can be our starting signal—agreed, Jerome?’

‘Agreed.’

Mikaela turned Rozenn back to face the bailey, for the way to the footpath into the marshes lay back past Ste Croix and off the island via the East Bridge rather than the Pont du Port. As they stepped off the Pont du Port and back into the bailey, Mikaela grinned over her shoulder at Ben. ‘A kiss, remember?’

Ben’s smile was warm. ‘Chérie, how could I forget?’

Rozenn said nothing, nothing at all, but she couldn’t help wondering if Ben was ever serious. A thought which saddened her for no reason that she could point to.

A few minutes later, with the sun on their backs, the girls stepped onto the jetty and looked back towards the Isle du Château. They had hurried all the way, picking up their skirts when they reached the wooden walkway through the marshes. Some of the planks were rotting and the walkway was springy underfoot, but they arrived without mishap, though the hems of their skirts were dark with damp. There was more breeze here in the marshes; it rattled the reeds and tugged at their veils.

‘Look!’ Mikaela pointed, screwing up her eyes.

Some years ago, Rozenn had discovered her friend’s eyes were slightly weak. They were not weak in the same way that Ivona’s eyes were weak, for seeing close to— no, it was distances Mikaela had difficulty with.

‘There they are, on the bridge,’ Mikaela went on, still squinting. ‘Ben’s green tunic shows up really well.’

‘Yes, that’s Ben.’

The guards were clustered around him and his challenger, Jerome.

Mikaela stared towards the castle. ‘What’s happening, Rose?’

‘Ben and Jerome are being spun round—Jerome is being pointed towards the town and Ben—Ben’s… Oh! He’s climbing on to the guardrail, oh, no…’ Rozenn’s voice trailed off as, with a dramatic flourish, Ben gave one of his dramatic bows.

‘What, Rozenn, what?’

Rozenn sighed. ‘He’s playing to the gallery, as usual.’

Mikaela looked a question at her. ‘You sound upset.’

‘Upset? No. I just wish that, for once, Ben didn’t have to be so…so…’

‘Entertaining?’ Mikaela grinned. ‘But that’s what he does, Ben’s an entertainer.’

About to object, Rozenn snapped her mouth shut. Mikaela was absolutely right, Ben was an entertainer, which was why people loved him so. And it wasn’t just women who loved him, she thought, as she recalled the expectant look in the guards’ eyes and the grins that lit faces that, for the most part, had little to grin about.

The life expectancy of one of Count Remond’s troopers was not good. Captain Denez, one of the oldest and longest serving, was only thirty, but he looked at least forty. At best life was harsh for these men, at worst, brutal. If Ben could bring a little light and laughter into their lives, then well and good.

Across the water, Ben was tripping light as a tumbler along the guardrail, using it as a tightrope, surrounded by smiling faces. A gust of laughter floated downriver towards them. Rose’s sense of misgiving eased. She must not turn into a killjoy. This was what Ben did, it was his raison d’être, and what kind of a friend would she be if she could not accept him for what he was? And since Ben did not have her fear of water, there was no way he would drown.

It is just that, sometimes, it is hard to see him continually playing the fool; and sometimes it is hard to share him with so many others.

Aghast at the possessive nature of that last thought, she snapped her brows together. Where on earth had that come from?

‘Oh, no,’ Rozenn muttered, as Ben unbuckled his belt and lobbed it to one of the guards, its silver buckle flashing in the sun.

‘What?’

Rozenn swallowed. ‘He…he’s taking his tunic off.’

‘I should think so, such a fine tunic, it would be a shame to spoil it. Did you make it?’

‘No.’

Mikaela kept her attention on the group on the Pont du Port. ‘I wish I could see properly.’

Rozenn murmured something noncommittal, her own eyes fixed on the lithe figure balanced on the bridge guardrail. The green tunic was tossed carelessly aside and was immediately followed by a cream linen chainse. That she had made, some years before. She was touched he still wore it.

The guards let out a cheer.

Rozenn cleared her throat. It was at least a hundred yards to the bridge, but even at this distance the sight of Ben’s naked back set curls of tension winding in her belly. Why that should be, she could not imagine, especially since she had already seen his naked back several times before when they were children. And this morning, she reminded herself, heat flooding her cheeks, she had last seen his naked back this morning. She could not seem to tear her gaze from those athletic shoulders, the curve of his buttocks…

Thank God he was keeping on his hose. Wasn’t he?

Hopping on one foot—how on earth did he keep his balance on the rail?—Ben tore a boot off and tossed it at a guard. Its fellow followed. To her relief he made no move to remove his hose.

From the throats of half-a-dozen men at arms, a slow countdown began.

‘Ready!’ Mikaela cried. She snatched her veil from her head and waved like a mad thing. ‘Steady!’ She jumped up and down, her enthusiasm shaking the entire jetty. ‘Go!’

Ben turned to face them, grinned across the water and dived into the river with barely a ripple.

At the same moment, Jerome hared off across the Pont du Port and up the hill towards Hauteville. In a moment, he had run out of sight behind the houses that clung to the escarpment on the other side of the river.

Ben’s dark head remained visible as, sleek as an otter, he cut his way through the water with the swift, clean strokes that Rozenn remembered from their childhood.

‘It’s easier this way, he’s swimming with the stream,’ Mikaela said. ‘He will find it harder on the way back.’

Absently, Rozenn nodded, holding her breath lest she lose sight of that dark head, of those strong, well-formed arms… If Ben drowned, if Ben drowned… Though she reminded herself that, unlike her, Ben swam well, the fear remained. Ridiculous. Ben would not drown.

Reeds rustled by the jetty, and she caught a flash of red as a water-rail squealed. A dragonfly darted. The sun was hot, it was shining in the water droplets falling in silver arcs from Ben’s arms.

Mikaela tucked her veil in her belt and approached the edge of the jetty.

‘Take care, Mikaela, that plank doesn’t look very secure,’ Rozenn warned, even as Ben reached the jetty and proved her wrong by hauling himself out of the river in one swift movement.

Shaking water from his eyes, Ben put his hands on his hips and grinned. ‘A kiss,’ he said, looking at Mikaela. ‘I claim my kiss.’ He was barely out of breath.

As Mikaela stepped up and offered Ben her lips a distant shout from the bridge reminded those on the jetty that there were men who had wagered their pay on Benedict Silvester winning the race. He had to get back…

‘Hey, Silvester!’

‘Shift yourself!’

Playing to his audience, Ben swung Mikaela dramatically into his arms—his wet arms, Rozenn thought waspishly— and gave her a smacking kiss on the lips. A piece of weed clung to one well-muscled shoulder like a hank of wet wool.

A pain in her breast, Rozenn jerked her head away and glared into the dark water drifting past the jetty. A rousing cheer from the Pont du Port told her that Ben’s audience approved of what he was doing. Which she, most certainly, did not. She huffed out a breath. As for Mikaela, she should know better…

Releasing Mikaela, Ben looked her way. Mikaela’s dress was dark with damp from breast to knee, not that she was looking. ‘Rose?’ Ben murmured and held out his hand. ‘Your turn.’

Rozenn stumbled back a pace, but then, and she was not quite sure how he managed it, Ben stepped forwards and in a trice she was standing hip to hip with him on the jetty, gazing into those long-lashed eyes, so close she could see the green and grey flecks. Her hands were resting on his naked shoulders, his were on her waist. How had that happened? Her mouth went dry.

‘Oh, no.’

He tilted his head to one side, eyes on her lips. ‘No?’

She shook her head. ‘Y…you’ve already had your kiss. From Mikaela.’

The crowd on the bridge screamed encouragement.

The hands at her waist were cool from the water and were drawing her closer. His eyes were dark as night and—surely not? Was there just a hint of uncertainty in his smile, a hint of vulnerability? No. This was Benedict Silvester, the showman who had never known a day’s uncertainty in his life.

‘Why settle for one kiss, when I might have two?’ His voice went low and intimate, for her ears alone. ‘Rozenn, I would swim to England for your kiss.’

No… Her ears must be deceiving her. Ben could not have said that, and in so serious a tone—he had to be teasing her. And then thought fled as he whirled her around so she had her back to Castle Hellon and the audience on the bridge. He lowered his lips to hers. Rozenn did not struggle, though her heart was pounding as though it was she who had swum from castle to marshes, not he.

His kiss began light as thistledown, so light that she could barely feel it. Her body went quite still, as if it were curious, as if it wanted to know what kissing Benedict Silvester would be like.

We shouldn’t be doing this, her mind protested, while her body hung limp as a rag doll in his arms and experienced what it was like to kiss him.

Achingly gentle. How surprising. Warm lips, despite the swim, lips that moved softly over hers and made her want to melt into him and… A lock of his hair flopped forwards and the chill drip of river water ran down her cheek and into the bosom of her gown. He tasted of heaven, he tasted of everything she had ever dreamed of, he tasted of…Ben.