‘I know.’
‘Besides, I can converse with him, my French is as fluent as his.’
‘Your mother,’ Hélène murmured.
‘Exactly—which of your girls can speak his language as well as I?’
‘None, but that doesn’t mean—’
Emma took Hélène’s hand. ‘Send me. He won’t turn me down. I won’t let him.’
A knowing light entered Hélène’s eyes. ‘You like him.’
Emma dropped Hélène’s hand as though it scalded. ‘Sir Richard?’ His image flashed before her, a vivid image of him as he had been in the stable. That thick brown hair, those grey eyes that surely were more clever than cool, that broad chest, so pleasingly—yes, privately Emma would admit to this—his chest was most pleasingly muscled…‘No. That is, I…I agree with Frida, Sir Richard can be distant, as if his mind is elsewhere.’
‘Do not lie, Emma, you are not good at it. You like Sir Richard.’
‘I scarcely know him.’
Hélène made a dismissive movement. ‘What has that to do with anything? You are attracted to him, that much is plain. When you stormed in, I knew something had happened, and by that I mean something significant, not merely that the castle steward had no employment for you. You find Sir Richard attractive.’
‘I do not!’
Hélène lifted an expressive brow and smiled an infuriating smile. ‘You are attracted to him and, what is more, I believe you like him also. I know you, Emma of Fulford, and you would not be asking me to send you to him if you did not. You may have a bast…this child here, but you are not like us. And if you are considering, even for one moment, becoming that man’s concubine, it is because in some quiet corner of your soul you feel more than a passing liking for him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Have it your own way.’ Rising, Hélène shook out her skirts. ‘You must excuse me, I need to ask Inga if she has enough in the way of provisions for the evening meal. We are busier now the garrison’s full up again.’
‘Hélène, will you help me?’
‘You really believe you have it in you to play the part of his whore—because that is what you would be—his whore?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
Shaking her head, Hélène rested a hand lightly on Emma’s son’s head. ‘Take Mama back to the mill, Henri, and help her pack up your belongings.’
‘Why?’
‘You are coming to live at the Staple for a time.’
Henri’s face brightened; he did a little jig. ‘Honey on bread, honey on bread!’
Hélène laughed. ‘Yes, sweetheart, every day.’
Emma bit her lip. ‘I cannot pay you…’
‘We can discuss that later. I don’t think that is a situation that is going to last.’
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