An Honourable Rogue. Carol Townend

perhaps that helps him infuse the song with meaning.’

      Rozenn found herself shifting away from Ivona, towards the Countess. ‘Don’t, Mama,’ she muttered, at a loss to know why she felt compelled to rush to Ben’s defence. She had never been able to fathom it, but in recent years Ivona seemed to hold Ben in dislike. ‘It’s not his fault everyone adores him.’

      Her stepmother sniffed and picking up a hank of primrose-coloured wool, began winding it into a ball. ‘It’s his fault he acts on their adulation, though,’ Ivona went on in an undertone. ‘Particularly with the young women. Benedict Silvester has had more lovers than the whole of the garrison put together.’

      Not trusting herself to comment, especially after what she had witnessed in the stables only that morning, Rozenn turned to the Countess to help her pick out some more thread.

      The love song was finishing, which was a blessing because, oddly, it felt as though Ben had been directing it at her.

      ‘Rozenn, dear?’ Countess Muriel gave her a strange look, a look that said she’d already addressed her and Rozenn had missed what had been said.

       ‘Comptesse?’

      ‘You really ought to move back into the keep. I hear there were disturbances last night. It’s not safe for a young woman to live alone in the town.’

      Rozenn stiffened. Not this again. Ever since Per’s death, both the Countess and Ivona had been asking for her return. But, like Ben, Rozenn had no particular liking for sleeping in common. She had enjoyed the privacy her marriage with Per had given her; it was rare and precious and she was not about to give it up. And, in any case, it would not be for much longer.

      ‘With respect, Comptesse, Hauteville is perfectly safe.’

      Countess Muriel looked down her nose at her in the way she always did when she was displeased. ‘Why is it, Rozenn, that when you answer me with one of your “with respects” I have the suspicion that you do not respect my views in the least?’

      A choke, swiftly smothered, came from the fireplace and, a heartbeat later, Ben struck up another tune.

      Ivona leaned forwards, surreptitiously digging Rozenn in the ribs. ‘Comptesse Muriel, Rozenn has ever been independent, she did not mean any disrespect.’

      ‘No, indeed,’ Rozenn murmured agreement. ‘But I must say that Ivona is correct. I do enjoy living in the town. I have friends there, Comptesse, and I would miss them if I moved back to the keep.’

      ‘You have friends here,’ Countess Muriel said softly.

      Rozenn caught her breath. ‘I know, but—’

      ‘Friends who are, I think, your best patrons…’

      The Countess’s insistence was unnerving. Thoughts racing, Rozenn concealed a sigh. She had hoped a simple refusal would suffice, forgetting how Countess Muriel liked to get her way. But if the Countess knew that she intended leaving, perhaps even she would not be so insistent. Rozenn glanced at the ladies clustered round the great canvas. This was not the time to break the news, either to her mother or to the Countess, not when they were surrounded by a roomful of women.

      ‘Yes, Comptesse,’ Rozenn said. ‘I am grateful for that, but—’

      ‘Friends whom you may be loathe to lose, Rozenn.’

      Rozenn swallowed. The warning was clear. This might not be the moment to discuss her proposal and Adam’s summons, but she was not about to be bullied. ‘Indeed, Comptesse, but—’

      ‘Your husband left debts, I understand. Have you cleared them?’

      Rozenn relaxed; here she was on firmer ground. ‘Almost. One more day at market should see the tallies set straight.’

      ‘Good.’ Countess Muriel smiled. ‘Then you can concentrate on your sewing—a much better occupation for a young woman than hustling at a market stall. Besides…’ another smile, this one directed at Ivona ‘…I should not like to see Quimperlé’s best seamstress arraigned at my husband’s court for debt.’

      Wishing the Countess would focus on someone else, Rozenn squirmed on her stool. A ripple of notes drew all eyes as Ben finished the song with a flourish. Rozenn blinked. Surely he’d missed a couple of verses?

      ‘Excuse me, Comptesse,’ he said. ‘What would you like me to play next?’

      Bless you, Ben. Glancing over her shoulder, Rozenn flashed him a smile.

      ‘I should like a story this time, Benedict,’ the Countess replied. ‘Tell us the one about Tristan and Isolde.’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ Lady Alis breathed, blue eyes wide. ‘Tristan and Isolde, I adore that one.’

      Rozenn gritted her teeth and stared blindly at a knight on the wall-hanging, so she would not have to see Ben exchange smiles with the girl he had met in the hayloft. Then, unable to bear it any more, she turned her head and shot him a brief glance.

      He had laid his lute across his knees. Opening his eyes wide—he was not looking at Lady Alis—he began to recite. ‘Once upon a time, King Mark…’

      As Ben’s seductive voice filled the solar, conversations drew to a halt. Needles froze over the canvas. Heads turned in the direction of the fireplace, old heads as well as young. Rozenn pursed her lips. Was no one proof to his charms?

      Ben’s voice, she had to admit, was his chief asset—it had a way of reaching deep into your heart. At least, that was how it was for her, and, given Ben’s success and popularity, she assumed others felt the same. Reaching for a length of sage-green wool, Rozenn threaded a needle and shuffled closer to the table. Her stool leg squeaked.

      Countess Muriel tutted.

      ‘My apologies,’ Rozenn mouthed, and bent over the canvas.

      Yes, his voice was perfect. It was clear, it was carrying and it was somehow caressing. Like his fingers. A memory of the previous night flashed in on her, when she and Ben had been talking to each other with only her table between them. He had held her hand and his fingers had moved gently over hers. So gently. She could almost feel the warmth of his fingertips as she would feel them if he were to lift her hand to his lips. Later, he might lean forwards across the table and reach for her…he might slide his other hand round her neck, he might bring his lips to hers, he might…

      Her needle ran into her finger and she gasped.

      ‘Rozenn, do be still.’ The Countess frowned. ‘And mind you don’t bleed on the canvas.’

      Nodding an apology, Rozenn blinked at the welling blood and lifted her finger to her mouth. What was she about? Just because Ben’s voice had the power to seduce half of Brittany did not mean it had the power to seduce her.

      He had reached the point in the story when the lovers were sleeping in each others’ arms, deep in the forest.

      With rather more of an effort of will than she would have liked—the picture of Ben’s arms around her was worryingly compelling—Rozenn made herself think of another pair of arms.

      Richard of Asculf’s. It is Sir Richard I yearn for in that way. And then, for one heart-sinking moment, she was utterly unable to recall the colour of Sir Richard’s eyes. Brown? Blue? No, brown. Or was it grey? Lord. A knight, he’s a knight, she muttered to herself, trying to close out the distracting sound of Benedict Silvester’s voice.

      Lady Josefa—Rozenn’s jaw clenched—had abandoned all pretence of embroidering, and was sitting with her hands resting idle on the wall-hanging, gazing at Ben as though he were her only hope of salvation.

      Hunching her shoulder—really, Josefa was embarrassing—