Master of Desire

by Kinley MacGregor

  The fact that he didn’t move toward her only added to her curiosity about him. And his appeal to her.

  Seeking to distract herself from him, she stopped and stared at a plain room that would rival a monastery for its spartan quality.

  All her tender thoughts of him evaporated.

  “This will not do at all,” she said, horrified at the very idea of spending a night in this uninviting room.

  “You said you could make do.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “I assumed you had a home, sirrah, not a dungeon.” Emily regretted the words as soon as they were out, but he showed no sign of anger, or anything else for that matter.

  He just stood in the doorway, reserved. The fading sunlight caught in the reddish highlights of his hair, and reflected in the icy blue of his eyes.

  He kept his spine ramrod stiff, his left hand on his sword hilt, and looked at her as if assessing her mettle. “I’m afraid Henry didn’t give me time to make more suitable preparations for your stay. I shall send Edmond up to change the mattress and fetch new linens.”

  “Milord,” she said, knowing she should remain silent on this issue, but too repulsed not to speak out. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but your home is dreadful and hardly fit for human habitation.”

  “Tell me, milady, is there a right way to take that statement?”

  “Nay,” she admitted. “But I will not stay here unless changes are made.”

  His gaze hardened. “You will stay here regardless.”

  “I most certainly will not.”

  Anger flared in his eyes, so intense that she took an involuntary step back from it. Still, she refused to cower completely.

  “You will do as you are told, lady.”

  Now that got her dander up. She knew her place as a lady, but with that station came certain rights, and this man was quickly violating every one of them. “I am not one of your men to be dictated to, nor am I your wife.”

  “True, you are my hostage.”

  “Nay, I am the king’s ward. Is that not what he said?”

  If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she saw a light of humor in those icy depths.

  “And my father told me the king said anything done to me would be done to him. Is that not correct, also, milord?”

  “It is.”

  “Then I ask you, would you expect His Royal Majesty to sleep in this room?”

  Draven didn’t know what surprised him more: that she had the temerity to stand up to him or that she made such sense with her arguments. In truth, he knew his home was nothing more than a fetid sty to be endured. His life revolved around war, not country life.

  He had never been able to stand Ravenswood and would gladly be gone from here forever, or see the donjon fall down in disrepair. ’Twas only his duty to the king that kept him here. Ravenswood was one of the corner pieces of the kingdom. Strategically placed between the north and the south, it needed someone loyal to the king to maintain it.

  Even so, he couldn’t very well expect a well-born lady to suffer in his home. Such things had been his father’s specialty. “Very well, milady. I shall give notice to my steward to approve any accommodations you wish to make.”

  “Does that include a housekeeper?”

  “If it is necessary…”

  “It is.”

  Draven nodded and did his best to ignore the sweet floral scent of her flaxen hair. If memory served, ’twas honeysuckle. It had been more years than he could count since he last stood this close to a lady. But one thing he was sure of: no other woman had ever made him long so much to touch the creamy softness of her cheeks.

  There was something about the Lady Emily that reached out to him in a most unsettling way.

  Indeed, he could barely stand here and not lean over to capture her lips with his own. Would they be as sweet and soft as they appeared?

  His need to know bordered on desperation.

  What was it about this woman that appealed to him?

  But then he knew. She was as fair of form as any he’d ever beheld, and she had courage to rival any man. And courage was the one thing he valued most in others.

  “I leave it in your hands,” he said quietly as he tried not to notice the fact that the top of her head reached just below his chin. She was a tall woman, and a perfect size for his aching, hungry body.

  By St. Peter’s hairy toes, he had to get away from her. Anon.

  Why, all he could think of was the bed that waited just a few feet away from them. A bed he had seldom used, but one he wanted desperately to take advantage of while he had her in his room.

  Aye, even with his eyes wide open, he could see himself laying her down on that bed, stripping her clothes from her body, and sampling for himself the wealth of her milk-white skin, the taste of her sweet flesh.

  Burying himself deep within the hot moistness between her thighs.

  His entire body flared with need.

  “I shall send Edmond to see to you,” he said, then turned to leave while he still could.

  She reached out and touched his arm. Draven froze at her hesitant touch. Such gentleness was unknown to him, and few if any ever touched him physically unless it was a deliberate act to wound him in some fashion.

  He couldn’t speak as he glanced down at the tiny feminine hand resting innocently on his forearm. Those fingers, so long, slender, and gracefully tapered, her nails well manicured. It was all he could do not to take them in his hand, lift them to his mouth, and sample the sweet, delicate tips of them.

  Did she have any idea how such a careless caress scorched him from the inside and out?

  “Forgive me for my brashness, milord. I’m not normally so outspoken.”

  He lifted his gaze from her hand to those exotic, dark green eyes of hers that reminded him of a perfect summer’s meadow. “Your father described you as the gentlest maid ever born.”

  A becoming shade of pink stained her cheeks, making him long to brush his lips against her high cheekbones and long eyelashes. To taste her breath on his tongue.

  Not that he would ever find out how she tasted, he reminded himself. Women such as this carried death with them, and he would never lose control of himself. Never surrender his body to the urges that were blistering his loins.

  “My father often exaggerates my virtues, milord.”

  “But he didn’t exaggerate your beauty,” he whispered.

  How had that escaped his control?

  Her blush deepened, and the look of pleasure on her face almost undid him.

  Unconsciously, he moved toward her, wanting to inhale more of her sweet, intoxicating, feminine scent, wanting to feel her arms wrap about him as he…

  Retreat! his mind roared before he lost any more control over himself.

  Without another word, Draven did what he had never done before in his life.

  He withdrew from the conflict.

  Not once did he look back as he left his room, descended the stairs, and entered his decaying hall. His entire body trembled from the pent-up lust she had awakened within him, and he shook forcibly with need.

  He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a woman, but it had been primitive and basic and quick, as were all his encounters with the fairer sex. Never once had he wanted to spend any more time with a woman than what was absolutely necessary to pacify his body.

  Yet Emily was different. He couldn’t imagine anything more wondrous than to spend an entire night making love to her, slowly, methodically. Touching every inch of her with his hands, his lips, his tongue.

  Why he felt this way for her, he knew not. They had only just met, and yet…

  It made no sense to him whatsoever.

  Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the cold stone wall. It must be the fact he had sworn not to touch her.

  Aye, that must be it.

  She was his forbidden fruit, and though she might tempt him mercilessly, he would have none of it. He had sworn on the finger bones of S
t. Peter and on his very honor that he wouldn’t lay a hand to her in anger or in lust. And he would abide by his oath even if it drove him insane!

  Alone in her chambers, Emily sat at the small table before the open window, picking at her food. In truth, she was scared to eat any of it. Given how filthy the hall was, she could only imagine how much worse the kitchens must be.

  Edmond, an older youth in his late teens, had changed the straw in her mattress and given her new linens. Her maid, Alys, had swept the old rushes from the room and cleaned the soot from the fireplace. It was still a dismal room lit only by a wall sconce of two tallow candles, but at least it was clean. For that reason she had told Alys to make a pallet for herself in this room until they could see to the rest of the donjon.

  As she took a sip of her bitter wine, the door to her room swung open.

  “Draven, I…” Simon’s voice trailed off as he saw her sitting by the window.

  Emily frowned at his intrusion and set her goblet back on the table.

  His brows knitted, he looked about. “Where’s Draven?”

  “I know not, milord. Why would you seek him here?”

  “This is his room.”

  Emily felt her jaw slacken at his news. With renewed interest, she glanced around the plain bed and austere wooden chairs. Why would Draven give her his bower?

  “He told me I was to stay here.”

  Simon looked even more puzzled. “Forgive me, milady, for the intrusion.”

  And then he was gone. Emily stared at the closed door. Why on earth would Draven have done such a thing? If she didn’t know better, she’d think he had a more lascivious reason for his charity, but the man seemed oblivious of her.

  Nay, his actions made no sense whatsoever.

  Sighing, she pushed those thoughts out of her mind and prepared a mental list of what she needed to do on the morrow to make this place suitable to live in.

  An hour later Alys rejoined her and told her all her belongings had been unloaded and would be brought upstairs on the morrow. The two of them made ready for bed, then went to sleep with the candles still burning lest something more frightening than bedbugs were waiting to scavenge in the dark.

  Emily spent a fretful night tossing and turning. Her body wasn’t used to such a hard, unscented mattress, and since she’d never spent a night outside her own room, she couldn’t quite adjust to the new sounds and smells of the donjon.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, what little sleep she managed was haunted by dreams of a darkly handsome, enigmatic man. A man both beguiling and terrifying.

  She’d never met anyone like Draven, and she was at a loss as to how to deal with him. An aura of danger and strength clung to him, warning her that if he chose, he could be truly terrifying.

  If he chose…

  He had been kind thus far, but so many people feared him, including her father, that it gave her pause.

  Her thoughts turned to Niles and Joanne. Niles appeared to treat Joanne respectfully, but Emily had caught him beating his horse over a broken spur. And when his squire had accidentally dropped his sword, she had seen the extreme backhand Niles had dealt the boy.

  If her father could respect such a man and call him ally and son, then what of the man her father called enemy?

  Was the earl of Ravenswood the ogre of legend?

  How would she ever know?

  When morning came, Emily welcomed it and the release it gave her from those haunting thoughts. She dressed with Alys’s help in her light blue kirtle and white veil, then went below to break her fast.

  Emily paused in the doorway as she surveyed the empty hall. Where was everyone?

  Surely she hadn’t missed the meal? Had she?

  Puzzled, she walked out the front door of the donjon. Draven’s men were already training in the list. And from the look of them, they had been at it for some time.

  Off to the side of the field, Simon sat on the ground, leaning back against an apple tree in repose while he urged two of the knights on in their swordplay.

  She saw Draven nowhere. Gathering her skirts, she descended the steps and headed across the yard to where the men trained.

  As she rounded the side of the keep, she spotted Draven easily enough. The tallest of the men, he seemed to be training much more seriously than the others. The early morning light dappled against the black-colored mail and flashed across his black shield.

  A group of four men surrounded him and he was doing a remarkable job of fending them off as they attacked him almost simultaneously. Never before had she witnessed such agility or speed. No wonder people sang his praises, she thought as he twirled his sword from one attacker to meet the blow of the man behind him.

  Why, she hadn’t known a man so large could move with such grace and ease. She doubted if even Mars or Ares could fight better.

  In awe, she watched as he deflected each blow with astounding precision while whirling in a macabre dance to meet the next assault and drive his assailant back on his heels.

  And in that instant she knew he could easily defeat her father in battle. In spite of her father’s incredible strength, she had seen him train enough times to know he was no equal for Lord Draven’s skill.

  The thought made her nauseated.

  “Good day, fair Emily!” Simon called in greeting to her.

  At her name, Draven turned in her direction and paused in his fighting. As soon as he stopped, one of his men hit him across the head from the side.

  Draven cursed loudly as he whirled on the man and raised his sword.

  Emily, who had rushed toward him when he’d been hit, hesitated at the fierce battle cry. Never had she heard such rage. She couldn’t imagine having to face the brunt of Draven’s sword.

  The man who had hit Draven dropped his sword, fell to his knees in terror, and raised his shield over his head in expectation of the oncoming blow. The other three knights hurriedly withdrew from the exercise.

  Draven’s sword arced toward the cowering man, and just as she was certain he would have the man’s head, he stopped the blade a fraction of an inch from the man’s raised shield.

  Everything seemed frozen in time as the sword just hung there. So close, and yet not quite touching.

  Draven stood as still as a statue. She had no idea how he had managed to bring the massive blow under control before he shattered the poor knight’s shield and arm.

  After a pregnant pause, Draven planted his sword in the ground before the cowering knight.

  Emily approached them at a slower pace, amazed that Draven wasn’t even breathing heavily from the exercise.

  “On your feet, Geoffrey,” he said in a calm voice. “I realize you are new to my company, but you should know I would never strike you for a wellplaced blow just because I was distracted. I turned on you only because I thought you would strike again.”

  The knight lowered his shield, then removed his helm. He wiped his arm over his sweat-covered brow. “Forgive me, milord. My last trainer was not so understanding.”

  Draven extended his arm and helped him to his feet. “Go on and break your fast.”

  Geoffrey quickly did as he bade.

  Emily frowned as Simon paused by her side. Lord Draven didn’t appear harmed and yet the force of the blow had been significant.

  “Are you all right, milord?” she asked.

  “I fear the worst of it is the ringing in my ears,” Draven said as he pulled his helm from his head.

  Emily gasped as she saw the blood trailing down his temple. “Nay, milord, I fear the worst of it is the gash upon your brow.”

  Her father’s enemy or not, she wasn’t about to stand still in the face of an open wound and do nothing. She turned to Simon. “My maid is upstairs in my chambers. Please ask her to fetch my sewing kit and a cup of wine.”

  With a nod, Simon obeyed.

  Emily took Lord Draven’s hand to lead him toward a shaded spot, but when she stepped forward, he didn’t budge.

  Confused, she turne
d back to face him.

  He gave her a suspicious frown. “Why do you touch me?” he asked.

  Emily looked down at their joined hands in surprise. She immediately let go. “I didn’t mean to offend you, milord. I was only thinking that I could better tend your wound if you were seated.”

  “My squire can tend my wound.”

  She lifted her brow at him. “Milord, if the scar on your neck is a testament of the boy’s handiwork, then I beg you please allow me to stitch your forehead. I shudder to think of the scar he would leave there.”

  As if hearing his name, his squire appeared from the side of the donjon. He had a stool in his right hand, a bowl in his left, and a linen towel draped over his shoulder.

  “Lord Simon told me to fetch this for you, milord,” he said to Draven. “I also brought a cloth and water.”

  Lord Draven stood a moment as if debating with himself, then he finally spoke. “Where would milady like the stool placed?”

  For some reason Emily felt as though she’d won a skirmish with him.

  “Over there, please,” she said, pointing to the spot where Simon had been resting earlier.

  The boy ran to obey her.

  She led the way with Draven no more than a step behind. As she walked, she could feel his gaze on her like a gentle caress. She sensed that he wanted to touch her and yet the very idea seemed ridiculous, especially given the tone of his voice when he asked why she’d touched him to begin with.

  His squire placed the stool where she told him, then quickly ran off to fetch his master’s sword and helm from the training field.

  Draven settled himself on the stool while Emily dipped one corner of the towel in water.

  No sooner had he removed his mail gauntlets and balanced them on his thigh than Alys came with her basket and wine.

  “Thank you, Alys,” she said, taking them from her and placing them on the ground next to the bowl of water.

  To her consternation, Alys, who stood directly behind Draven, looked at the back of his head, then met Emily’s gaze and patted her chest to indicate her heart raced the way Emily’s did. If that wasn’t bad enough, Alys balled her hand into a fist and bit her forefinger as her lustful, hungry stare followed the length of his body.