An Honourable Rogue

‘There they are, on the bridge,’ Mikaela went on, still squinting. ‘Ben’s green tunic shows up really well.’

‘Yes, that’s Ben.’

The guards were clustered around him and his challenger, Jerome.

Mikaela stared towards the castle. ‘What’s happening, Rose?’

‘Ben and Jerome are being spun round—Jerome is being pointed towards the town and Ben—Ben’s… Oh! He’s climbing on to the guardrail, oh, no…’ Rozenn’s voice trailed off as, with a dramatic flourish, Ben gave one of his dramatic bows.

‘What, Rozenn, what?’

Rozenn sighed. ‘He’s playing to the gallery, as usual.’

Mikaela looked a question at her. ‘You sound upset.’

‘Upset? No. I just wish that, for once, Ben didn’t have to be so…so…’

‘Entertaining?’ Mikaela grinned. ‘But that’s what he does, Ben’s an entertainer.’

About to object, Rozenn snapped her mouth shut. Mikaela was absolutely right, Ben was an entertainer, which was why people loved him so. And it wasn’t just women who loved him, she thought, as she recalled the expectant look in the guards’ eyes and the grins that lit faces that, for the most part, had little to grin about.

The life expectancy of one of Count Remond’s troopers was not good. Captain Denez, one of the oldest and longest serving, was only thirty, but he looked at least forty. At best life was harsh for these men, at worst, brutal. If Ben could bring a little light and laughter into their lives, then well and good.

Across the water, Ben was tripping light as a tumbler along the guardrail, using it as a tightrope, surrounded by smiling faces. A gust of laughter floated downriver towards them. Rose’s sense of misgiving eased. She must not turn into a killjoy. This was what Ben did, it was his raison d’être, and what kind of a friend would she be if she could not accept him for what he was? And since Ben did not have her fear of water, there was no way he would drown.

It is just that, sometimes, it is hard to see him continually playing the fool; and sometimes it is hard to share him with so many others.

Aghast at the possessive nature of that last thought, she snapped her brows together. Where on earth had that come from?

‘Oh, no,’ Rozenn muttered, as Ben unbuckled his belt and lobbed it to one of the guards, its silver buckle flashing in the sun.

‘What?’

Rozenn swallowed. ‘He…he’s taking his tunic off.’

‘I should think so, such a fine tunic, it would be a shame to spoil it. Did you make it?’

‘No.’

Mikaela kept her attention on the group on the Pont du Port. ‘I wish I could see properly.’

Rozenn murmured something noncommittal, her own eyes fixed on the lithe figure balanced on the bridge guardrail. The green tunic was tossed carelessly aside and was immediately followed by a cream linen chainse. That she had made, some years before. She was touched he still wore it.

The guards let out a cheer.

Rozenn cleared her throat. It was at least a hundred yards to the bridge, but even at this distance the sight of Ben’s naked back set curls of tension winding in her belly. Why that should be, she could not imagine, especially since she had already seen his naked back several times before when they were children. And this morning, she reminded herself, heat flooding her cheeks, she had last seen his naked back this morning. She could not seem to tear her gaze from those athletic shoulders, the curve of his buttocks…

Thank God he was keeping on his hose. Wasn’t he?

Hopping on one foot—how on earth did he keep his balance on the rail?—Ben tore a boot off and tossed it at a guard. Its fellow followed. To her relief he made no move to remove his hose.

From the throats of half-a-dozen men at arms, a slow countdown began.

‘Ready!’ Mikaela cried. She snatched her veil from her head and waved like a mad thing. ‘Steady!’ She jumped up and down, her enthusiasm shaking the entire jetty. ‘Go!’

Ben turned to face them, grinned across the water and dived into the river with barely a ripple.

At the same moment, Jerome hared off across the Pont du Port and up the hill towards Hauteville. In a moment, he had run out of sight behind the houses that clung to the escarpment on the other side of the river.

Ben’s dark head remained visible as, sleek as an otter, he cut his way through the water with the swift, clean strokes that Rozenn remembered from their childhood.

‘It’s easier this way, he’s swimming with the stream,’ Mikaela said. ‘He will find it harder on the way back.’

Absently, Rozenn nodded, holding her breath lest she lose sight of that dark head, of those strong, well-formed arms… If Ben drowned, if Ben drowned… Though she reminded herself that, unlike her, Ben swam well, the fear remained. Ridiculous. Ben would not drown.

Reeds rustled by the jetty, and she caught a flash of red as a water-rail squealed. A dragonfly darted. The sun was hot, it was shining in the water droplets falling in silver arcs from Ben’s arms.

Mikaela tucked her veil in her belt and approached the edge of the jetty.

‘Take care, Mikaela, that plank doesn’t look very secure,’ Rozenn warned, even as Ben reached the jetty and proved her wrong by hauling himself out of the river in one swift movement.

Shaking water from his eyes, Ben put his hands on his hips and grinned. ‘A kiss,’ he said, looking at Mikaela. ‘I claim my kiss.’ He was barely out of breath.

As Mikaela stepped up and offered Ben her lips a distant shout from the bridge reminded those on the jetty that there were men who had wagered their pay on Benedict Silvester winning the race. He had to get back…

‘Hey, Silvester!’

‘Shift yourself!’

Playing to his audience, Ben swung Mikaela dramatically into his arms—his wet arms, Rozenn thought waspishly— and gave her a smacking kiss on the lips. A piece of weed clung to one well-muscled shoulder like a hank of wet wool.

A pain in her breast, Rozenn jerked her head away and glared into the dark water drifting past the jetty. A rousing cheer from the Pont du Port told her that Ben’s audience approved of what he was doing. Which she, most certainly, did not. She huffed out a breath. As for Mikaela, she should know better…

Releasing Mikaela, Ben looked her way. Mikaela’s dress was dark with damp from breast to knee, not that she was looking. ‘Rose?’ Ben murmured and held out his hand. ‘Your turn.’

Rozenn stumbled back a pace, but then, and she was not quite sure how he managed it, Ben stepped forwards and in a trice she was standing hip to hip with him on the jetty, gazing into those long-lashed eyes, so close she could see the green and grey flecks. Her hands were resting on his naked shoulders, his were on her waist. How had that happened? Her mouth went dry.

‘Oh, no.’

He tilted his head to one side, eyes on her lips. ‘No?’

She shook her head. ‘Y…you’ve already had your kiss. From Mikaela.’

The crowd on the bridge screamed encouragement.

The hands at her waist were cool from the water and were drawing her closer. His eyes were dark as night and—surely not? Was there just a hint of uncertainty in his smile, a hint of vulnerability? No. This was Benedict Silvester, the showman who had never known a day’s uncertainty in his life.

‘Why settle for one kiss, when I might have two?’ His voice went low and intimate, for her ears alone. ‘Rozenn, I would swim to England for your kiss.’

No… Her ears must be deceiving her. Ben could not have said that, and in so serious a tone—he had to be teasing her. And then thought fled as he whirled her around so she had her back to Castle Hellon and the audience on the bridge. He lowered his lips to hers. Rozenn did not struggle, though her heart was pounding as though it was she who had swum from castle to marshes, not he.

His kiss began light as thistledown, so light that she could barely feel it. Her body went quite still, as if it were curious, as if it wanted to know what kissing Benedict Silvester would be like.

We shouldn’t be doing this, her mind protested, while her body hung limp as a rag doll in his arms and experienced what it was like to kiss him.

Achingly gentle. How surprising. Warm lips, despite the swim, lips that moved softly over hers and made her want to melt into him and… A lock of his hair flopped forwards and the chill drip of river water ran down her cheek and into the bosom of her gown. He tasted of heaven, he tasted of everything she had ever dreamed of, he tasted of…Ben.

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