him feel as though they’d been friends for ever. Tearing his gaze from her, he focused on the men behind them. If it came to a fight it was three against two. He was confident he could protect her, provided she wasn’t sitting before him when they came to blows. ‘They won’t take you. My lady, you may be at ease, you are coming with me to Monfort.’
‘I really don’t want to see my father. Nor do I want to be given to Sir Breon.’
Eric was irritated Lord Faramus was checking up on him after promising otherwise, however, it wasn’t her fault. And he supposed it showed some measure of care that the count wanted to know his daughter had come to no harm. He gave her as reassuring a smile as he could muster. ‘You won’t be. I am sure that your father has sent us an escort simply to make certain that I get you safely back to the manor.’ His mouth twisted. It would be good to think Lady Rowena was happy to come with him because she had a sincere liking for him. He couldn’t delude himself though—he and she had hardly spoken in years. She was only happy to accompany him because she disliked Sir Breon more than him. ‘He wouldn’t want you to be carried off by anyone but me.’
She gave him a straight look and surprised him with a laugh that wasn’t echoed in her eyes. ‘Likely that’s the truth. Father only asks knights he trusts to do his dirty work.’
It didn’t sit well with Eric that Lady Rowena had decided he was doing her father’s dirty work. ‘My lady, I thought you understood, I am only appearing to fall in with your father’s plans. He will change his mind, I am certain. You will be back at the convent before you know it.’
Those large blue eyes searched his before she gave a little shrug and released his arm. ‘So you say.’
Her tone irked him. If she didn’t believe him why was she agreeing to accompany him? Why had she called him Eric? As she turned to face forward once more, Eric put his hand carefully back on her waist. This time she made no move to ease her body from his. He wasn’t sure what she thought of him—she had liked him when she’d been a child, but now? Had her view of him changed so much? If so, why? Was it simply that they were no longer children?
She dislikes men. Had she always done so? Her relationship with her father had always been fiery. In the past Eric had seen this as a sign of her spirit, two strong wills were bound to clash from time to time. Was there more to it than that? Had something happened in the years since he’d seen her? Something that had given her a mistrust of men?
Eric’s thoughts regarding the woman sharing his saddle were rapidly becoming confused. It should be a simple matter to take her to Monfort and keep her safe until her father had cooled down. Sadly, Eric hadn’t bargained for the effect she would have on him. Lady Rowena was a pretty child no longer, she had grown into a woman of rare beauty. There was no confusion there. The difficulty was that Eric found her convent aloofness something of a challenge. She was using it as a shield, too innocent to see that it made him ache to push it aside and see what lay behind. Was she as prim as she appeared? He was enjoying the neat way her body nestled against his far too much. He was enjoying the softness of her hair when it brushed against his face, not to mention the scent of summer. Her dainty, ladylike body was far too appealing for his peace of mind. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d imagined.
She wanted to be a nun. He found himself staring at the back of her head, frowning as he wished he could see into her mind. It seemed so wrong. Did she really want to take the veil? Or was this just her way of thwarting her father?
As a young girl at Jutigny Castle, Lady Rowena had been a favourite with the retainers’ children. She’d shown no airs and graces. Night after night the children had flocked round her, demanding stories before they settled down to sleep. She’d been happy to oblige, producing story after story. Naturally most of them had been Bible stories, but the occasional fairy story and chivalric tale had crept in among the parables. If it weren’t for Lady Rowena’s insistence on taking the veil, she would make a fine mother. Mon Dieu, it chilled his blood to think of her mouldering away in the cloisters until the end of her days.
Eric urged Captain on. As the fields slipped past, he glanced back from time to time. The horsemen didn’t draw any nearer, nor did they fall behind, they kept their distance as though measuring it to the inch. When Eric’s small party had passed through Monfort village and reached the manor, Eric hailed the guard at the gatehouse and glanced back up the road. Their unwanted escort had stopped about half a mile away on the edge of the village, near enough for Eric to see their horses’ tails swishing to and fro.
Lady Rowena followed his glance. Her brow clouded. ‘My father is the most stubborn man alive,’ she muttered. ‘I wonder which of his men he sent to follow us, it’s odd I don’t recognise the horses.’
Eric shrugged, hailed the guard at the gatehouse and they clopped into the manor yard.
Lady Rowena looked about with interest and Eric wondered what she was seeing. She’d been to Paris; she was used to Provins with its upper and lower town, with its huge market and square. Compared to that, Monfort village was simple indeed—two straggling lines of cottages; a church; a smith; an alehouse. As for Eric’s manor, it couldn’t compare to Castle Jutigny or indeed to her father’s other holdings in Sainte-Colombe. To her eyes—the daughter of a count—Monfort must seem a mean and shabby place.
Eric had had the stables repaired when he’d arrived; the main tower had been scoured top to bottom; a pair of extra privies had been built into the north wall, none the less he was achingly conscious that it lacked many of the comforts she had known at Jutigny or Sainte-Colombe. His household was relatively small. The cookhouse was tiny and the food that came out of it was good, honest fare, if somewhat basic.
‘Welcome to Monfort, my lady.’ He found himself braced for her reaction.
‘Thank you.’
He helped her down and she looked about with interest, giving him no sign that she saw anything amiss about her surroundings. She gave him a candid look. ‘Eric, if you imagine my father will change his mind whilst I am lodged beneath your roof, you are very much mistaken. He means to make you marry me.’
He put his hand on his heart. ‘My lady, I wouldn’t dream of standing between you and your wish to be clothed as a novice. I swear you will be safe here.’
She gave him a faint smile. ‘You intend to observe the proprieties.’
‘But of course.’
‘Where will I sleep?’
Eric gestured at the tower. ‘There is a chamber off the minstrel’s gallery, I have given orders for it to be made ready for you.’
‘Thank you, sir. You’ve arranged for a maid?’
Eric felt his face fall. ‘You want a maid?’ Bon sang—good grief—naturally, she would want a maid. Likely Lady Rowena hadn’t dressed herself in years. Swiftly he ran his gaze over her grey gown. The lacings were at the back. Tight lacings. She was probably too innocent to realise how those lacings showed off every curve. Beautiful.
She tipped her head to one side and the cross at her breast gleamed. Eric received the distinct impression that she had seen his gaze linger on her body. ‘Sir, I am capable of dressing myself. However, if the proprieties are to be observed, you ought to arrange for a maid to sleep in my bedchamber. And most of my things are at the convent, I shall need more clothing.’
‘It shall be arranged.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Do you care to see the bedchamber?’
* * *
The hall at Monfort was nowhere near as large as Rowena’s father’s hall at Jutigny, but it was well proportioned with heavy beams criss-crossing the roof. Rowena saw an oak table set before a stone fireplace. A young woman was kneeling on the hearth, shovelling dead ashes into a leather pail. The table was clean, though Rowena would swear it had never been polished—the mark of the adze showed clearly on the wood. She glimpsed side tables and a couple of stools by the fireplace. The walls were whitewashed, again they looked clean. However, there were no tapestries, indeed, no linens of any kind.