one of her uncle’s men-at-arms when they had come here and expected to ride that way once more. However, to her surprise, Sir Thomas led a lovely chestnut mare forward.
‘I believe you can ride, lady?’ ‘Yes, sir. Is this fine mare for my use?’ ‘Yes, if you can manage her.’ He smiled but something in his manner caused a shiver at Rosamunde’s nape. Had she not overheard their plan, she would have wondered why she was being so favoured. Now she understood why she was being given new clothes and a horse to ride. She must look the part of the count’s real daughter to fool the evil Lord Mornay.
Rosamunde longed to tell them that she knew what they planned, but her only chance was to reach England and her father. If he knew that she was being sacrificed to save her cousin from shame, he would surely not allow it. So, steeling herself not to flinch, she took Sir Thomas’s hand and allowed him to help her mount.
Rosamunde took the reins. Despite her anger, she felt a surge of pleasure at being able to ride independently. Not since her mother’s death had she had the joy of riding her own horse. Until that unhappy day her father had kept horses for both Rosamunde and her mother’s use, but afterwards he had sold them in an effort to stave off ruin.
Rosamunde took her place amongst Sir Thomas’s train. She saw that Angelina’s maid, Margaret, was riding pillion behind one of the grooms. The men-at-arms rode at the head and tail of the small procession, guarding their lord and his promised bride. Rosamunde followed just behind her cousin. It was a lovely warm afternoon and pleasant for riding. A few hours in the saddle would bring them to the coast where the ship would be waiting. How much she would have enjoyed the prospect, had she not understood what awaited her when they reached England.
Somehow she must find a way to get away from them once they reached England. Surely her father would be pleased to see her and would protect her?
Sir Raphael de Valmont sat his horse and looked out to sea. The ship that was to have taken him and his companions from France to England had been battered by a storm in mid-ocean and its mainmast was now being repaired. Unless he could find another vessel with space for five passengers, he might be forced to linger here another week.
‘The Southern Star sails with the morning tide,’ a voice said to his left and he turned to look at his friend Broderick. ‘But her captain says he has been asked to take a knight and his entourage to England and there is no room for us.’
‘Would he not let us find a corner of the deck on which to sit?’
‘He says that if we wait until the knight comes he will enquire how many there are in his party. Should there be room he might allow us to sleep on deck.’
Raphael nodded, his gaze brooding as he saw a party of horsemen arriving. His journey had become urgent ever since the news of his father’s illness had reached him as he had journeyed through France.
‘I believe the knight has arrived,’ Raphael said, his eyes narrowed, intent. ‘There are three ladies, a knight and ten men-at-arms, besides some five servants. The Southern Star is not large enough to take us all as well. We should search elsewhere.’
‘I’ve been told there is a cove just down the coast and two merchant ships are in port,’ Jonathan de Vere said as he rode up to them. ‘It will take us no more than thirty minutes to ride there. If we cannot find a berth for us all there, you must go on alone, Raphael.’
‘We vowed we would stay together until we reached England.’ Raphael’s mouth was unsmiling as he looked at his four friends: Sir Broderick, Sir Jonathan de Vere, Sir Michael Borthwick and Janquil. He had been some months on the journey from the Holy Land to Normandy, for it had now been a year since Messalina’s death. His friends had pledged to journey with him so that he might place his claim to recover from the goldsmith what should now have been his. In return, Raphael had promised that he would take them all into his service if he became rich.
They had eventually found the wealthy but elusive goldsmith. Markoff had at first been reluctant to part with the money and jewels lodged with him, but after verifying Raphael’s proof of marriage and the subsequent death of the whole family had admitted that he was the rightful owner. Raphael had considered making his home in Normandy, where he had purchased an estate, but then a message had reached him: his father was very ill and wished to see his son as soon as possible.
‘I have no intention of leaving you behind, my friends,’ Raphael continued. ‘My father may even be dead for all I know. The messenger told me that he had been searching for us for several weeks.’
‘Your father may have yet recovered. Tis a pity the ship did not wait here for you as was promised.’
‘The captain returned to England with a cargo. No doubt he intended to meet us here on time in the Broken Vows but the weather was against him.’
‘Shall we ride in search of these other ships?’
‘I shall speak to Captain Middleton and advise him of our intention.’ Raphael dismounted, giving the reins of his horse to his squire. ‘Wait here, Janquil. I shall not be long.’
Approaching the captain of the Broken Vows, Raphael told him of his intention to seek a berth elsewhere.
‘I shall be ready to sail in two days, sir, once the mainmast is mended,’ the captain said. ‘If you do not return before then, I shall seek another cargo and sail for England.’
‘Yes, you should do so. We shall return in good time if we fail to find berths elsewhere.’
Raphael turned away, intending to rejoin his friends. As he did so, he saw that the ladies had dismounted and were waiting to go aboard their ship. One of them was very beautiful with golden hair and a proud bearing; one was clearly a serving woman, but the other was less easy to place. She was very lovely but in a quieter way, her hair hanging down her back in a thick plait and the colour of burnished copper. Her eyes were green, her mouth soft and generous, and there was something about her that made him wonder if he’d seen her before. Her tunic was more modest than the proud lady’s and yet she had the bearing and look of nobility. Perhaps she was a relation rather than a serving woman.
The knight’s party was moving towards the ship as Raphael left the water’s edge. Just as they were about to pass one another, the woman with red hair seemed to stumble. Instinctively, Raphael reached out his hand to steady her.
‘I caught my heel.’ Her cheeks were flushed as she looked down at her boot, the heel of which had wrenched from its socket and was hanging loose. ‘Forgive me, sir.’
‘It was nothing. That boot will need mending,’ he commented.
‘Yes, I should have worn my others …’ She glanced up, her eyes widening, as if shocked. For a moment she seemed to hesitate and he thought there was a look of appeal in her eyes, but then her gaze dropped. ‘Excuse me, I must join my friends.’
‘Yes, of course—as must I.’
She moved away towards the ship but Raphael stood where he was, staring after her as she boarded the ship.
She seemed to become aware of him staring at her and for a moment she turned towards him. Their eyes met and another delicate flush touched her cheeks but she did not immediately glance away. Raphael felt a stirring of interest; he crushed it immediately. She was not a whore to be taken to his bed and dismissed the next morning, and he would never allow himself to care again.
As memories of his dead wife stirred, his expression hardened and he averted his gaze. The woman was lovely but she could never be anything to him. The memory of that night when he’d found the family home burned to the ground and his wife’s body lying in the yard was so strong and so sharp that he actually felt a stabbing pain in his chest.
Raphael realised that he had been staring at the English knight’s party without really seeing them. The women were being taken belowdecks now. Raphael felt a sudden sense of loss. He did not even know her name—the woman with the plait—yet it could not matter. They would never meet again. As her turn came to go