LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Rozenn, I would swim to England for your kiss.’

      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 the audience on the bridge. He lowered his lips to hers.

      His kiss began light as thistledown, so light that she could barely feel it. Her body went quite still, as if it was 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 in his arms and experienced what it was like to kiss him. Achingly gentle. Warm lips, despite the swim, lips that moved softly over hers and made her want to melt into him. He tasted of heaven, he tasted of everything she had ever dreamed of, he tasted of…Ben.

      Pulling back with a shaky laugh, she smoothed his hair from his face. Hands firmly gripping her waist, Ben smiled down at her, eyes warm.

      I would swim to England for your kiss.

      What a tease.

      ‘You’re all wet,’ she said, clearing her throat. She gave him a little shove. ‘Go, go! You have a wager to win.’

      Carol Townend has been making up stories since she was a child. Whenever she comes across a tumbledown building, be it castle or cottage, she can’t help conjuring up the lives of the people who once lived there. Her Yorkshire forebears were friendly with the Brontë sisters. Perhaps their influence lingers…

      Carol’s love of ancient and medieval history took her to London University, where she read History, and her first novel (published by Mills & Boon) won the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Award. Currently she lives near Kew Gardens, with her husband and daughter. Visit her website at www.caroltownend.co.uk

       Author Note

      In 1066 William, Duke of Normandy, seized the English crown. Many Franks came with him, including knights from Brittany and elsewhere in France. The hero of my last novel was one of these, and I wondered how it might have been for the family and friends he left behind.

      This novel opens in Brittany in the summer of 1067. Politically, the Breton Duchy is in chaos. Rival counts are jostling for supremacy and allegiances change like lightning. What if William also attacks neighbouring Brittany? In AN HONOURABLE ROGUE two young Bretons are drawn into this political maelstrom. A lute- player, Benedict Silvester, is one. He carries out secret missions for the Duke of Brittany—which means a journey to turbulent England. Rozenn Kerber, Ben’s childhood friend, is another. Knowing that Rose is ambitious, Ben arranges for her to receive a ‘proposal of marriage’ from a knight in England, and together they set off…

      Minstrels would both sing and recite the ancient epics, stories in which heroes and heroines are tested to their limits. On his travels Ben recites The Romance of Tristan. He also sings a version of The Song of Roland, originally made famous by a renowned minstrel known as the dwarf Turold. Turold can be seen on the Bayeux Tapestry.

      I hope you enjoy reading about Ben and Rose as they embark on their journey, a journey which will put them to the test…

      AN HONOURABLE ROGUE

      Carol Townend

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

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      To Mick, with thanks

      for the Bosham connection,

      and Tim for help with the horses

      Chapter One

       Quimperlé, Brittany

      Even though it was Witches’ Night, the first time the door latch rattled Rozenn was not alarmed. The sun was yet to set, and she was expecting her young friend, Mikaela.

      In any case, Hauteville, the quarter of Quimperlé in which Rozenn lived, was scarcely the town slum. At the top of Quimperlé, built on the edge of a rocky outcrop overlooking the main town and castle, Hauteville remained a reasonably safe place in which to live—even the lawlessness that followed the recent killing of Duke Conan had not reached Hauteville. However, this was 1067 and the times were uncertain, so just in case it wasn’t Mikaela, Rozenn shoved the silver coins she had been counting back into their pouch and draped some sewing over them. Her little hoard—except that now it was not so little—was growing.

      Perhaps today was the day to tell Mikaela she planned to leave Brittany, possibly for ever….

      As she expected, it was Mikaela outside; she was busily fastening a garland to the door in the fading evening light. Overhead, screeching swifts traced arcs in the sky; house martins darted in and out of their nests under the eaves.

      ‘You’ve come straight from the tavern,’ Rozenn observed.

      ‘Mmm.’ Mikaela’s fingers were busy with the garland, tweaking, adjusting. ‘How did you work that out?’

      ‘No veil.’

      Mikaela and her father ran the local tavern, the White Bird, and since a veil was not practical for cooking and cleaning, Mikaela often dispensed with it and forgot to put it back on when she went out about town.

      Rozenn glanced at the garland, a Midsummer’s Eve garland. Yellow St John’s wort gleamed against glossy bay leaves; corn marigolds winked out from between trailing strands of ivy; yarrow and elder flowers nodded in the warm breeze that was drifting up the narrow street from the river and port below….

      ‘Pretty.’ Rozenn smiled. Mikaela was using the same rusty nail she had hung her garland on the previous year, and the year before that. Mikaela was a creature of habit. And very superstitious.

      Mikaela shoved her plait over her shoulder and threw her a look. ‘Pretty’s not the point, Rose. This is meant to protect you.’

      ‘Against witches.’ Rozenn managed not to laugh.

      ‘Of course. Don’t roll those brown eyes at me. This—’ Mikaela flicked at the St John’s Wort, dusting her fingertips with the heavy pollen ‘—will see you safe till the feast of St John the Baptist on the morrow and this—’ she indicated a sprig of bay ‘—wards off witches and evil spirits—’

      ‘Oh, Mikaela…’ Rozenn shook her head with a smile ‘…you’re wasting your time. I don’t believe in the old tales.’

      Mikaela gave the garland on Rozenn’s door a final tweak and stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘Maybe that’s your problem,’ she murmured, wiping pollen on to her skirts.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      Mikaela shrugged. ‘Too serious, that’s your trouble. You could come down to Saint Columban’s tonight, find out who your true love is.’

      Rozenn’s

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