Page 40 of Rogue Knight
“Mayhap…” said Emma.
When the music stopped and the last of the tarts had been consumed, the guests rose. Helise came to engage Emma in conversation about the plans for the new garden.
Malet drew Geoff aside. “Sir Geoffroi,” he whispered. “I must tell you after watching your lady this evening I do not think she is just any widow in York.”
“I would agree, Malet, she is more comely than the other women of York and what you do not see is her heart, as beautiful as her face.”
“You do not get my meaning,” Malet said in apparent frustration. “For one thing, she speaks French. Did you not see her eyes narrow when Fitz made his unwise remark? Helise pinched me she was so annoyed with the man, but it hardly suited for me to take the earl to task in the middle of the feast.”
“Aye, I had the same impression. She might speak French. So, what of it? We speak their tongue.”
“There is more,” Malet counseled. “’Tis clear the archbishop is well acquainted with her and she has the air of a highborn woman. What do you know of her?”
Geoff grew indignant at the sheriff’s probing. “I know all I need to. She is beautiful, kind and cares for others. She lives with two orphaned children and a young woman she has taken under her wing who was sorely misused by one of William’s more disreputable knights.” He said nothing about the man whose large shoes he saw in the chamber where they had laid the sword-maker. He did not want to consider what it might mean, so he dismissed the thought. Emma was all that was good.
“All to her credit, I admit,” said Malet. “But I cannot help wondering if she might not be acquainted with the leaders of Northumbria we replaced. Earl Cospatric, comes to mind for one. Could she be a rebel spy?”
“I had heard that Cospatric left Scotland but as yet he’s not been seen in England. And no, she is not a rebel spy. What is there to spy upon? There are no secrets here that I know of.”
“Mayhap not, but I would suggest you watch her closely.”
“I intend to, my lord sheriff,” Geoff said with a sly grin, “most closely.”
***
Emma had not imagined the evening with the Normans would be so enjoyable, though as she considered it, the pleasantness must be attributed more to the knight who had accompanied her than to anything else. She had begun to relax in Sir Geoffroi’s presence when her temper had flared at FitzOsbern’s remark. The man’s arrogance was exceeded only by his ignorance.
Her respect for Sir Geoffroi and fear of disclosing who she was had stilled her tongue. She would not embarrass him nor reveal all she knew. To do so would be to betray the two men she held in highest regard, the knight she had come to trust and her noble father. Oddly, it had been the knight who had come first to her mind. But she would not allow herself to consider that her feelings for Sir Geoffroi might run deeper than merely respect.
When they had taken leave of their host and descended the stairs to the bailey, their horses were waiting, along with Sir Alain.
The huge knight grinned, making his scar seem less formidable. “A pleasant evening, I trust?”
“Most pleasant,” said Sir Geoffroi, helping her to mount her mare.
Soon they were retracing their path to her home.
For some time, the three rode along in silence. The streets were darkened, but the waxing moon shining in the star-studded sky was so bright their horses cast dim shadows.
“Thank you for attending the feast,” said Sir Geoffroi.
“’Twas the least I could do for all you have done for me and those I love.”
Sir Geoffroi chuckled. “And now you have another garden to plant.”
“I do not mind. Helise Malet is pleasant enough. And the twins might enjoy her sons, but I cannot promise that Finna will not again refer to your king as a bastard.” She smiled at the memory of innocent Finna speaking with the knight.
“William hates the label, but ’tis what he is. You and Serena, Countess of Talisand, have in common your dislike of the king. She, too, once called him that.”
“She is English?”
“Aye, and has no love for William, but for the sake of the Red Wolf, she tolerates our sire’s presence when he visits.”
Emma could not imagine entertaining the Norman king. Serena must be an unusual woman.
They turned down Emma’s street. It was quiet with nary a candle she could see, save in her own home where the light flickered behind the skins that covered the windows. She was comforted by the knowledge that the hearth fire would still be burning and the brazier in her chamber would be warming the space. Artur, ever faithful, would have seen to it.
They reached her house and Sir Geoffroi slid off his horse to help her dismount. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and allowed him to lift her down, her breasts brushing his chest as her feet met the ground. For a moment their gazes met, the moonlight bathing them in its soft glow. His hands still on her waist, he bent his head and kissed her lightly. His lips were warm and as gentle as she had remembered them. Though tender, there was passion in the kiss and when he raised his lips from hers, he was breathing heavily. So was she.
