Free April Munday by His Ransom Page B

she spoke to him she looked him in the eye as if she were a man and he could see no desire in her eyes. When they were working together in the still-room, she did not touch him as if accidentally and there were many opportunities for such touching. Once, he touched her to see what her reaction would be. She merely apologised and stepped away from him. It was his own reaction that surprised him, a sudden burning desire of which he was ashamed. He felt that such desire could only tarnish the increasing esteem in which he held her. But he found that desire grew hand in hand with respect and he was constantly looking for opportunities to touch her. He refused to give in to the temptation, however, realising that he would be no better than the foolish women who tried to touch him.
    He was no stranger to desire or the sating of that desire, but it seemed wrong to desire Rosamunde in that way when she treated him so well and relied on his advice. It was becoming clear that Rosamunde was not like other women, but he knew that he was all too much like other men. He had not been surprised to hear that Sir Walter lusted after her enough to kill to get her. It was easy to lust after a woman such as Rosamunde, perhaps even to fall in love with her.
    And he had sworn that he would not go that way again. He had gone that way once before and it had cost him everything. But he did not think Rosamunde would want anything from him. Although he was the son of a count, he had nothing. He had no money to provide for the duke’s daughter and since he was a prisoner and could not fight, he had no means of gaining any money. There was nothing about him that would make him an attractive husband to Rosamunde and he suspected that she would not have him on any other basis and he was not sure that he would be satisfied to have her just as a mistress. So he tried not to notice her beauty.
    He was coming to respect her. She was his equal in intelligence and education. She commanded the men around her with ease and the townspeople went in awe of her. He did not understand this need to find a fault in her, save that she was impossibly perfect. She was a woman and would surely betray him just as Louise and every woman since had betrayed him.
     
     “Why were you not at Poitiers?” Rosamunde asked Richard one night as they sat by the fire in the hall playing merelles. Although most of the household was also in the hall, they had a measure of privacy. Thomas and Margaret had left for their bed some time before and Guy’s horse was ill, so he was looking after it in the stables. The other members of the household kept their distance and they could talk without being overheard.
    “My leg,” Richard answered, as if that was the whole story. Rosamunde waited, looking at him expectantly and he sighed.
     “I was patrolling villages some distance from the English army and we stumbled across an English raiding band. My horse was injured and rolled onto my leg. We managed to defeat the English …” he paused and bit back the epithet that sprung to his lips. He could curse fluently enough, but he did not think Rosamunde would appreciate what he wanted to say. “I was still recovering when the battle took place.”
    He looked deep into the fire and Rosamunde knew he did not want to tell her the rest of the story, but she wanted to know how this man came to be here and why her father had entrusted her life to him.
    “You were not caught in the raid. Yet you are my father’s prisoner.”
    The silence hung heavy between them and neither pretended to play.
    “Please tell me why.” She spoke gently, but she was determined to get an answer.
    He turned his face back to her and his expression scared her. She had understood that he did not want to talk, but it seemed that even thinking about it pained him greatly.
    “You ask me to talk of something shameful.”
    She placed a hand on his arm. “I do not think you could do something shameful.” It was true.