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then drew a swift breath. ‘When the funeral was being arranged, I had cause to check our strongbox. Ralf always kept the keys himself; he wouldn’t let me near it, so I never knew until he was dead how rich we actually were - too rich for our standing. I know he made a good profit from the horses, but not to the tune of what was in that chest.’
    Adam looked at her sharply. ‘You mean it was ill come by? Heulwen, how much?’
    ‘Two hundred marks.’
    Adam whistled. ‘Christ, if I had that much to my name, I’d be a happy man! That’s more than an inheritance relief on some baronies!’
    ‘A great amount for a “nothing”,’ she said savagely.
    Adam’s lips remained pursed. ‘But,’ he mused, ‘was he being paid to keep it a “nothing”, or was he being paid to reveal it in all its glory? Or perhaps both?’
    Her voice was alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Ralf travelled far and wide. He was renowned for his skill and valued for it by men of much greater estate than himself. I know for a fact that on more than one occasion he carried messages between Henry and Fulke of Anjou . . .’ He paused. Her eyes had gone wide with shock. ‘You didn’t know?’
    The wine shook in one hand, while the other was clenched in the folds of her gown. ‘I was ever the last one to know,’ she said bitterly. ‘I suppose it is common knowledge.’
    ‘Not common knowledge,’ he said gently, ‘except to those of us involved in that kind of game.’
    ‘Adam?’
    He gave her a quick, vinegary smile. ‘It’s a night for surprises, isn’t it?’
    ‘You are saying that you and Ralf were - are spies for Henry?’
    ‘I wouldn’t quite say that. We have occasionally carried messages - verbal ones that could not be entrusted to parchment.’ His look became thoughtful. ‘But the payment for such was never a tenth so high.’
    ‘Then betrayal . . .’ she whispered, appalled.
    Adam shrugged. ‘I’d certainly say he was dabbling his fingers in a murky broth, but how deep I don’t know.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Have you spoken to anyone else about this?’
    ‘No, I’ve kept it to myself - half the reason my temper has been so foul. Papa has too much on his trencher already, and it was easier to pretend it didn’t exist.’ She shivered. ‘But it does, and I’m frightened.’
    It was the lost, forlorn note in her voice that finally undid him. Until then he had succeeded in maintaining a neutral front, but the sight of her so close to tears, trembling with fear, her spirit subdued, was unbearable and before he could rationalise the move, think better of it and step away, he had put his arm around her and drawn her against him. ‘It’s all right, Heulwen,’ he said with a mingling of tenderness and desire, ‘I won’t let any harm come to you.’
    A sob wrenched from her throat, followed by another. She pressed her face into his chest, stifling her grief in the dark wool of his tunic. Adam murmured reassurances and stroked her braid. Her hair smelt faintly of herbs and he was intensely aware of her body pressed to his. He slipped his arm down to her waist. ‘Heulwen . . .’ he muttered and lowered his head, seeking sideways, finding and kissing her cheek and temple, and then, as she raised her head in surprise, her mouth. It opened beneath his, pliant and warm, sweet as wine. His hand slipped down over the curve of her buttocks, moulding her closer. For less than the space of a heartbeat her body undulated and yielded to his, and then she jerked like a skittish horse fighting a saddle, tore her mouth from his, and shoved herself violently out of his embrace.
    ‘Adam no!’ She dragged her sleeve across her mouth. ‘Dear God, no!’
    ‘Heulwen . . .’ He took a step towards her, hand outstretched in entreaty. ‘It’s not . . .’
    Quivering, she backed away, grabbing her cloak off the stool where she had flung it. ‘I’m not some wide-legged slut to be tumbled at your whim. If you want that sort of