The Damsel's Defiance. Meriel Fuller
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Geoffrey’s normally amiable voice held a warning as he pawed at her sleeve. ‘Forgive me, sire, I had not thought to introduce you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Lord Talvas of Boulogne, may I present Emmeline, Mademoiselle de Lonnieres, the owner of La Belle Saumur.’
‘Enchanté,’ Lord Talvas murmured indifferently as he removed his gloves, his warm, strong fingers enclosing her own cold ones as he bowed low over her hand. He didn’t appear to be enchanted. As she watched his head come nearer, a lock of raven hair falling over his brow, she resisted the urge to pull away, instead clenching her teeth against the awkward situation. He lifted his head to meet her agitated perusal.
‘You should have told me who you were, mam’selle,’ he growled softly, trying to conceal his surprise. It was a rare event indeed to find a woman in charge of her own income.
‘You gave me no chance, jumping to your own conclusions.’ Her chest constricted unexpectedly as she stared into the exhilarating blue depths of his eyes, conscious of the firm pressure of his fingers on her own. She wrenched her hand away, dropping her gaze abruptly.
Geoffrey frowned, sensing the animosity between the couple, but unsure as to the cause of it. ‘Lord Talvas’s mother is the King’s sister-in-law, Emmeline. He has just returned from visiting his lands in England.’ Geoffrey laid heavy emphasis on the words.
‘And why have you returned?’ Emmeline made little attempt to keep the rudeness from her voice, despite Geoffrey’s desperate reference to King Henry I. She refused to be bowed by this man’s superior status; there was such a thing as good manners and she still rankled from his insulting treatment of her.
‘Emmeline, a word.’ Geoffrey jerked her away from Lord Talvas. ‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me aright. Lord Talvas’s own sister is married to Stephen de Blois, grandson of William the Conqueror. He is as good as royalty. You would do well to show the proper respect.’
‘Respect!’ she hissed. ‘This man has no knowledge of the word! He believed me to be a dockside whore—’
‘Much as I’d like to stand about all day exchanging pleasantries,’ Lord Talvas cut across their whispered exchange, ‘I must bid you adieu. My horses have arrived.’
Lifting their hooves between the bulky hessian sacks and weaving a path around the towering wine casks, a pair of glossy chestnut mares picked their way across the crowded quay, led by a tall, blond-haired man. He dropped the reins abruptly when he recognised Lord Talvas, his clean-shaven face breaking into a wide grin.
‘My lord! I’m mighty pleased to see you, sire. Praise be to God that you are safely returned.’ With the broad flat of his palm, he slapped Lord Talvas heartily on the back.
‘I’m glad to see you, as well, Guillame. Grab those horses’ reins before they wander off!’ Talvas returned the back slap; a friendly, intimate gesture that surprised Emmeline. ‘How did you know I would be here?’
Looping the reins over one hand, Guillame replied. ‘I knew you would come into either Boulogne or Barfleur. Your father’s men wait in Boulogne, so I took the liberty of securing lodgings in this town. I’ve been down every morning for the past two weeks, awaiting your arrival.’
‘Every day?’ Emmeline blurted out, astonished at the squire’s loyalty to his master. She realised now that she recognised his smiling face, for she had seen him, too…every morning…‘But you didn’t come on your own ship, did you, my lord?’ She turned petulantly to Lord Talvas. ‘You came aboard mine.’ Placing her hands on her hips, she waited for an explanation.
‘My ship was damaged in the journey across to England. I had to leave her there for repairs. I was fortunate to meet with Captain Lecherche, who offered me passage on La Belle Saumur.’ His eyes glinted down at Emmeline’s tight-lipped expression, languorously tracing the well-defined bow of her lips as he awaited her inevitable verbal challenge.
‘Against his better judgement,’ Emmeline replied, churlishly. ‘He knows not to take passengers.’
‘He made sure I paid handsomely for his kindness. You have done well out of my misfortune, mistress.’
‘It’s not the gold—you could have been anyone…a pirate, a brigand. You could have stolen the ship.’ She knew her argument to be petty; in truth, she welcomed any extra income. The debts from Giffard’s gross mismanagement of the business still needed to be paid off and she and her mother needed to eat.
He grinned wickedly in the weak sunlight, his white teeth gleaming against the black shadow of his beard. ‘Ah, but I am not anyone, mistress. I am Talvas of Boulogne and no stranger to your captain.’ The deep sea of his eyes linked with her dark-fringed orbs; her heart somersaulted. Nay, he was not anyone; he was someone, someone of whom she had to be careful. Upon the stars! She folded her arms defensively across her chest, as, unnerved by her reaction to this man, the confidence spilled from her.
‘After a few days of waiting, I realised something must have happened to your ship,’ Guillame explained, ‘so I asked all the shipowners who still expected vessels back from England. None of them did, apart from Mam’selle de Lonnieres.’ That was it! She remembered him from a few days back, asking questions.
‘Then Fortune smiled on me that day,’ Lord Talvas said, amused by Emmeline’s scowl. Obviously the maid held more concern for the fate of her ship than common courtesy toward strangers. Impudent imp! ‘I was lucky to find a ship sailing back so late in the season.’ He turned back to Guillame. ‘Do they expect us?’
‘Tomorrow, sire. I have good lodgings in the town for tonight.’ Guillame steadied the horses as a screaming bunch of seagulls flew close, pushing his broad body up against one shining flank in an effort to keep the animals in one place, and lowered his voice. ‘My lord, something has happened, but I don’t know what. The Empress announced yesterday that she needs to reach England as quickly as possible. She needs to find a ship to take her across.’
Talvas’s expression turned immediately to one of alert suspicion, frowning at Emmeline and Geoffrey. ‘I’m sure she’ll enlighten me tomorrow,’ he murmured, throwing a guarded, careful look at Guillame, silently warning him not to speak further as he strode to the nearest horse and stuck his toe in the iron stirrup. Swinging himself up on to the animal’s back, he drew back on the reins as the horse skittered under his weight. The folds of his cloak spread over its shining rump as he looked down at Emmeline, before clapping his battered, water-stained hat to his head. ‘Mam’selle, I bid you adieu. It’s been a pleasure, but one I’d care not to repeat.’ He swung away through the bustling crowd, Guillame following closely.
‘My sentiments exactly,’ Emmeline muttered to his broad back.
‘You would not believe it, maman. The rudest, most boorish man I ever had the chance to meet!’ Emmeline fidgeted on the stool, her limbs still icy cold from her experience on the dockside. She felt shaken, unnerved by her experience, annoyed that Lord Talvas had effectively sabotaged her foolish notion that she could deal with any man. Her fingers, still numb from the cold, fumbled for the jade amulet that hung from her neck. To hold the precious stone within the palm of her hand steadied her, reminded her of her father and his wise words. Occasionally, Anselm Duhamel would accompany one of his own ships on a trading voyage; on returning from the Baltic, he had presented her with the necklace. Not long after, the ship he travelled on went down, with all souls lost, just before her fifteenth birthday. Emmeline missed his gentle presence with a keenness she would not often admit, but knew he would have been proud of the way she kept his ships afloat. She tucked the amulet back into the neckline of her pale green bliaut.
‘Keep still, child, or your hair will end up in a worse tangle,’ her mother admonished. Felice Duhamel attacked her daughter’s long coils of hair with vigorous swipes of the ivory comb. ‘What did you say the man’s name was?’
Emmeline’s slender fingers reached for the earthenware cup of spiced cider that steamed gently on an adjacent table. The puffs of heat rising from the surface bathed the icy skin of her face. Tentatively,