An Honourable Rogue. Carol Townend

to the hearth where Stefan’s pie was warming in a dish. Honesty compelled her to add, ‘At least, not in the way you mean. I love him as a brother, in the same way that I love Adam.’

      Mikaela tipped her head to one side. ‘I thought at one time you would marry Ben, you and he seemed so well suited, but you married Per and—’

      ‘Ben and I? Well suited? You link me with a feckless lute-player who has seduced half the women in Brittany! You flatter me…’

      Mikaela did not respond. Her finger tapped on her mouth.

      ‘Besides,’ Rozenn said, frowning, ‘I haven’t seen Ben in two years. Not since that quarrel that flared up between him and Adam.’

      ‘Yes, that was odd. Until then they had been very close. I wonder what it was about?’

      ‘I have no idea, Adam would never say.’

      ‘So there has to be someone else who hasn’t been in Quimperlé for some time,’ Mikaela said thoughtfully. ‘Someone else whom you love?’

      ‘Yes. And it really is not Benedict Silvester. Think again.’

      Mikaela sipped at her wine and eyed Rozenn over the rim of her cup. ‘This is good. Did you buy it from Father?’

      ‘Countess Muriel gave it to me. Come on, Mikaela, guess again.’

      Setting her cup down, Mikaela shook her head. ‘Lord knows, if it’s not Ben. Mark?’

      ‘Mark Quémeneur? No, he’s more of a business associate.’

      ‘One of Adam’s cronies then? Didn’t you have word from him a week back?’

      ‘Yes and yes. Your aim is improving!’

      ‘So, this paragon is a knight? Aye, you would have it in mind to marry a knight…’

      Setting the pie on the table, Rozenn pulled up a stool opposite Mikaela.

      ‘Not that knight who gave you that gold cross, the one with a lute like Ben’s? Not Sir Richard of Asculf?’

      With a flourish, Rozenn cut a large slice from Stefan’s pie. ‘The very same, well done! You, dear friend, have won yourself some of the best chicken pie in Quimperlé.’

      Later that night, Rozenn lay in the bed by the wall in the living room, unable to sleep. Sticky and hot, she thrust back the bedcovers and stared through the blackness at the rafters. Next door, baby Manu was crying. Someone ran past the house, their boots ringing loud on the cobbles. She heard a soft murmuring, the baby stopped crying, and then silence settled over the street. She tugged at the chain round her neck and pulled the cross out of her nightshirt. A gold cross. Gold. Sir Richard had given her a gold one because he held her in high regard.

      The heat was stifling. It was an August heat rather than a June heat, and it seemed to rise up like a fog from the port and linger in Hauteville’s narrow alleys. More wind, they needed more wind to carry off the heat. From the bottom of the hill, from Basseville, other sounds drifted in the air: a snatch of a drunken soldier’s ditty, a howl of laughter. Men from Count Remond’s garrison most likely, returning to the barracks after a session in one of the port taverns.

      After Mikaela had left, Rozenn had smothered the fire down as much as she dared without putting it out completely. It glowed softly in the hearth, the only light in the room. It gave out too much heat, heat that was not needed tonight, but Rozenn liked warm water to wash in in the morning and it took too long to start a fire from scratch.

      Mikaela. Rozenn smiled into the gloom, and as she shifted, the straw in the mattress rustled. Her friend had long been fascinated by the thought that Rozenn’s gold cross had been a gift from Sir Richard and not from her husband. It had been easy to divert her, and then the conversation had moved on, and suddenly the evening had passed and Rozenn still hadn’t told Mikaela of her plans to take her ‘mother’ Ivona to England to find Adam and Sir Richard. Since Rose had been a foundling, and had been put into Ivona’s care nineteen years ago, Ivona was not Rose’s blood-mother any more than Adam was her real brother. But Rose loved them both as family. She was lucky to have them—not all foundlings were treated half so well.

      What had been the exact wording of the startling message that Adam had sent her?

      While Rose racked her brain to recall the precise words, she drew an image of Adam’s messenger in her mind as, travel-stained and weary, he had caught up with her by the town well…

      ‘Mistress Rozenn Kerber?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Your brother, Sir Adam Wymark,’ the messenger had said, ‘sends loving greetings. He has asked me to inform you that he has important news for you and your mother, Ivona—’

      ‘What news—he is unhurt?’ she had asked, pleased at this evidence that Adam still considered her his sister.

      ‘He is perfectly well, mistress. He requests that you and your mother prepare to journey to England later in the year.’

      Rozenn had rubbed her forehead. ‘Ivona and I are to leave Brittany! But…but…’

      Her mind had whirled, and two thoughts emerged from the maelstrom. The first was that her adoptive mother would be thrown into utter confusion by Adam’s request, and the second that she herself was interested, very interested, in this idea. ‘Adam must have said more…?’

      ‘Indeed, mistress, and this is the meat of it: your brother has received an offer for your hand in marriage.’

      ‘An offer, for me?’

      ‘Yes, mistress. His friend Sir Richard of Asculf has asked if you would marry him.’

      Rozenn had blinked, absently reaching for the cross at her neck. ‘Sir Richard wants to marry me?’

      The messenger had nodded. ‘Your brother would like you to consider this offer most carefully. But in any case, whatever your decision regarding Sir Richard, he would be pleased to welcome you to his new holding. Sir Adam has some business to put in hand before he can send you an escort, but by early autumn he should be in a position to do so.’

      ‘So soon? We are to join Adam this autumn?’ Adam must have taken leave of his senses! Ivona would never agree to leave the castle that had been her home for so many years, never. And as for Sir Richard wanting to marry her—a knight, a knight… It was beyond anything she had dreamed of.

      The messenger had simply nodded. ‘Yes, mistress.’

      Yes, mistress. As if it were a little thing, an everyday thing, for Adam to summon Rozenn and his mother across the sea to England and for her to receive an offer of marriage from a Norman knight.

      ‘B-but I’ve never even left Quimperlé…’

      The messenger had given her a strange look and he had sighed. He was holding himself in such a way that told Rose his back was aching. His throat had to be parched, he must be longing to put his feet up in a tavern. ‘I’m telling you all I know, mistress,’ he had said. ‘Make preparations, your brother will send you an escort… Sir Adam also stressed that if anything were to happen to him, you must put your trust in Sir Richard, who has your best interests at heart.’

      Rose could scarcely believe it, but it must be true. Sir Richard has your best interests at heart. Would Sir Richard have given a gold cross to a woman who meant nothing to him?

      ‘H-how did Adam find out that I have been widowed?’

      ‘I do not know.’

      Shortly after that, having attempted with a fair degree of patience to respond to a barrage of questions, the man had bowed and had made his escape, leaving Rozenn staring after him, her thoughts in turmoil. Adam had done well in