Master of Desire

by Kinley MacGregor

  Heat stung Emily’s cheeks at her maid’s pantomimed expressions.

  At that moment, Draven looked up at Emily, and seeing where her gaze was directed, he turned about to catch Alys still biting her hand.

  Alys’s smile faded and she took her hand out of her mouth and shook it. “Darn fleas. Bit me something silly last night.”

  Lord Draven looked less than convinced as he turned back to Emily.

  Alys locked gazes with her and lifted her brows several times. “Milady has all she requires?” Alys asked in a tone that meant I’ll gladly leave the two of you alone.

  “Aye, Alys, thank you.”

  “Should milady have any further need of me for anything”—Emily cringed at the way Alys stressed the word—“please don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I won’t, Alys.” Emily gave her a pointed glare. “Thank you.”

  Alys made one last kissing face at Lord Draven, then rushed off to the keep.

  Embarrassed to the core of her soul, Emily opened her sewing basket.

  “Tell me, milady, is your maid possessed of some strange demon that makes her dance about so?”

  Smiling, Emily threaded a needle, then set it aside and retrieved her wet towel. “If the demon has a name, milord, I fear we must call it mischievousness.”

  She bathed Lord Draven’s wound. His brow was warm to her touch, and unlike her father, Lord Draven didn’t hiss as the cloth scraped his skin. He merely watched her with an intensity that seared her flesh.

  “Most ladies would beat their maids for such insolence.”

  “Well, I am not hypocrite enough to punish her for a sin that is so dear to my own heart.”

  His gaze softened. “Aye, I have a feeling you could well tutor her on the subject.”

  “Comparatively speaking, she is but a novice and I a master craftsman.”

  As she brushed her hand through his ebony locks to hold them away from his wound, she was struck by their softness. His hair was like fine silk sifting between her fingers. Never before had she felt anything like it or the heat that his presence stirred within her. Her body felt vibrant and warm, and was possessed of a terrible throbbing.

  “You smell like apples and cinnamon,” he said gruffly.

  Emily paused and held the cloth to his brow. “’Tis a perfume my sister wears,” she said softly. “I always told her she would attract more flies and bees with it than men.”

  He frowned. “Then why are you wearing it?”

  “I miss her, and wearing it comforts me.”

  He looked away.

  Licking her dry lips, she dipped the needle and thread in the cup of wine.

  He sat with his legs wide apart and his hands on his knees. Emily tried not to notice the way he surrounded her as she stepped between his legs to stitch the wound. Nor how her breasts, which drew strangely taut and felt suddenly heavy, were level with his gaze.

  And when he chanced to glance at them, she felt a peculiar, powerful ache between her legs.

  Emily swallowed against the strangeness of her body as she prepared to stitch his brow. “I’m afraid this will sting a bit.”

  “I assure you, milady, I have been stitched enough times not to notice.”

  A point he proved well as she completed the first stitch. He remained as still as a statue. Her father would have cursed and jerked, as had any man she’d ever stitched. But Lord Draven just sat, his gaze on the ground behind her, as she made three tiny stitches to close the wound.

  Stepping away, she retrieved her silver scissors from the basket.

  “You have a gentle touch,” he said, his voice deep and strange to her ears.

  “Thank you, milord. ’Tis not in my nature to hurt people.”

  She cut the thread, then reached for the bag of herbs she kept in her basket. While she prepared a poultice to keep the swelling down and reduce the chance for infection, she felt him again watching her every move.

  What was it about that icy gaze that made her both shivery and warm at the same time?

  Again she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Joanne had told her kissing was the best part of a man’s embrace, and something inside told her that Draven’s kiss would indeed be wondrous.

  “What brought milady to the field this morning?” he asked.

  Emily mixed her herbs with the wine. “I was wondering why no one was in the hall breaking the fast.”

  “’Tis not my habit to do so until midmorning.” He glanced away from her and she took a deep breath in relief to have some peace from that searing stare. “I shall have Druce inform the cooks to rise early and have your food prepared for you.”

  “Druce?” she asked as she spread the poultice over his brow. His skin was so different from her own. It was smooth, but not delicate. It was just masculine. And warm. Terribly warm, and very distracting for a maiden’s virtuous welfare.

  “My squire.”

  “Ah,” she said as she finished her ministrations. When she bent down to reach for the towel, her hip inadvertently grazed his inner thigh.

  He hissed sharply, then sprang to his feet so quickly she gave an involuntary shriek.

  Before she could apologize, he was out of her hearing range.

  Draven took long, deep breaths as he struggled with the lust coursing through the entire length of his body. His thigh ached as if someone had placed a hot iron to it. And his taut groin burned as if the fires of hell had descended into his lap.

  Had he stayed one more instant with her, he would have dishonored them both.

  With no thought save to put as much distance between them as possible, he headed into the stable, which unfortunately was occupied by Simon.

  “I thought you were in the donjon,” Draven snapped at his brother, who was standing over the makeshift pallet Draven had made the night before.

  “I heard from Druce that you had moved your things in here and sought to verify that fact.”

  Draven tried to ignore him as he removed his surcoat. “Where is my squire?”

  “Eating last I saw. Here, let me assist you.”

  Draven gave Simon his back so that his brother could unbuckle and unlace his armor.

  “Why did you give the lady your solar?”

  Draven felt his jaw flex. “’Tis none of your business.”

  “I know, but I’ve never seen you act so strangely.”

  Closing his eyes, Draven wished for once that Simon would just go away. But he knew him well enough to know Simon wouldn’t leave until he had whatever answers he sought. ’Twas the most annoying habit of a man who had numerous annoying habits.

  “I gave her my solar because ’twas the cleanest room in the donjon, and I moved my things out here because if I stay away from her I won’t be able to harm her.”

  He felt Simon grip his mail hauberk in his fist. “How many times must I tell you, you are not your father?”

  Draven shrugged his grip off, then jerked the heavy hauberk over his head. “You don’t know me as well as you think, brother.”

  Simon gave him a feral glare of anger. “I have never once seen you strike out in anger. Why—”

  “What of your arm?” Draven asked, interrupting him.

  The anger fled from his features as his face paled considerably. “We were children, Draven, and it was an accident.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said, trying to banish the sight of his brother lying on the ground, wounded by his own hand. “I almost killed you that day.”

  “You’ve never raised a hand against me since.”

  “Because you’ve never made me angry.”

  Simon snorted. “Well, it certainly wasn’t from lack of effort on my part.”

  “I don’t find you amusing.”

  “See,” Simon said triumphantly. “You’re angry at me now and yet you do nothing to harm me.”

  “’Tis not the same,” he insisted. “I cannot—nay,” Draven corrected, “I will not take such a chance with her welfare. Not when I’ve sworn to see no
harm befall her.”

  Simon sighed. “More’s the pity then. I was hoping her presence here would make you realize that you can be with a woman and not hurt her.”

  Draven wished he could believe that. But he knew better. He was possessed of the same rage as his father and as powerless to stop it.

  How many times in battle had he killed without even feeling it? Once his rage took root in him, he became its pawn. He felt nothing, saw nothing, knew nothing until it passed.

  And then ’twas too late for the poor soul who had crossed his path.

  Having seen his own mother fall to that kind of rage, he would never knowingly jeopardize a woman’s life for the sake of himself or of a need for heirs.

  Nay, the curse of his blood would stop with him. He would make sure of it.

  With a disgusted look on his face, Simon pushed himself away from the wooden post, then made his way from the stable.

  Draven finished removing his armor and dressed in a black tunic and breeches.

  As he left the stable, he caught sight of Emily heading back toward the donjon with Druce by her side. The two of them were laughing over something. The sound of her musical laughter rang in his ears.

  What he would give to be free to make jests with her as well, and to see her eyes light up with humor.

  With her head held high, and her pale blond hair and veil flowing behind her, she was a graceful, beguiling creature.

  And for the first time in his life, he wanted Simon to be right.

  What would it be like to have the life of a normal man? To sit before the fire while his lady went about her duties and tended his children?

  To have her turn to him with a smile meant only for him?

  He would sell what little soul he had left for it.

  But it was a dream he’d left behind long ago out of necessity. Now with Emily’s presence here it had resurfaced with such vengeance that he cursed Henry for his decree.

  On my honor, I, Draven de Montague, earl of Ravenswood, will never lay hand to the Lady Emily in violence or in lust. She will leave my company in the same manner with which she was brought, or I shall surrender myself to the king’s justice whatever it might be.

  If it was the last thing he did, he would uphold that oath, his body and wants be damned.

  Chapter 4

  Emily had just sat down to break her fast with Alys when the door to the donjon swung wide. She frowned at Alys as people began rushing into the room in a flurry of activity.

  A wiry man of about a score and ten years led the way, clutching a small black book to his right side. His black hair was thin and short, and a shock of his bangs continually fell into his eyes no matter how much he brushed it aside. He wore a bright orange tunic and whipped orders off his tongue with amazing speed.

  “You, there,” he said to one of the fifteen women. “You pick three others and immediately start cleaning the upper floor. I want four women in the kitchens scrubbing, and the rest of you can start in here. Master carpenter.” He turned to the bearded older man at his right. “See that this hall is completely redone.” He threw his left arm wide as he gestured toward the stark, faded gray walls. “They need to be reinforced, painted, and, well, whatever you think. I want it light and airy. Homey. Aye,” he said with a satisfied smile, “let us strive for a homey feel.”

  “Milady?” Alys asked. “Who are these people?”

  “I don’t know,” Emily said. “But I suspect the man in orange must be Lord Draven’s steward.” Or he was a lunatic to come unbidden into Lord Draven’s hall and start making such changes.

  Nay, he would have to be the steward.

  As if sensing her thoughts, the man moved to her side. “Good day, milady,” he said, his face bright and cheerful. “I am Denys, Lord Draven’s steward.”

  He drew forth the book, opened it to the page that was marked by a small quill pen, and set it on the table next to her. He took a vial of ink from the satchel on his girdle and opened the top. Dipping the quill, he paused and looked up at her. “I was told to ask after your particular needs.”

  Before she could answer, there was another commotion at the door.

  “Out of the way,” someone shouted.

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea as a group of four men hefted a large headboard through the door. The men paused just inside the hall and rested the intricately carved mahogany piece against the far wall. “Would someone tell us where to put this?” a young man asked as he panted.

  “Well it certainly doesn’t go in the hall,” Denys muttered under his breath. He crossed the room and gestured to the stairs with his quill. “Up the stairs to the lady’s room on the right.”

  Denys turned to one of Lord Draven’s servants and instructed the man to show them the way.

  Stupefied, Emily watched the men struggle up the stairs with her new headboard.

  “What is going on?” she asked Denys when he returned to her side.

  He smoothed his sleeve meticulously, then met her gaze. “Lord Draven woke me an hour before sunrise and bade me start preparations for your stay. He said the donjon was to look as if the king himself were staying with us.”

  Denys ran his finger down the list of items he’d written in his book. “I was told to find a housekeeper, a better cook, a baker, another brewer. There were shrubs and flowers to be ordered and a gardener. More cattle and hens,” he said, frowning as he looked up from his list. “I was told to get a lot of hens.”

  “Hens?” she asked, confused as well.

  “Aye, red ones, His Lordship said. Nothing but red hens for the lady.”

  Emily laughed at the very thought.

  Denys looked back at his notes. “The housekeeper is named Beatrix and said that she could be here this afternoon. She’s a widow woman who seemed very nice. If you have any problems with her, let me know and I shall deal with her forthwith. Now, what other items do you require?” Again he positioned his quill for her orders.

  Emily sat perplexed. When she had spoken to Lord Draven the night before she had assumed she would be the one to put things in order. The best she had hoped for was a housekeeper and maybe a village girl or two to help with the cleaning. Never had she expected an army of helpers to descend on the keep, let alone all the other items Lord Draven had ordered.

  “I can think of nothing,” she said. She looked to her maid whose face mirrored her own amazement. “Alys?”

  “Nay, milady. ’Twould seem His Lordship thought of everything.”

  Satisfied, Denys returned his vial of ink to his satchel and closed his book. “Very good, then. You and your maid may relax and know that I have everything in hand. Should you think of anything you need, please let me know.”

  “Thank you,” she said, overwhelmed by Draven’s generosity.

  Denys had started away from her table when a thought struck her.

  “Wait, Denys?”

  He literally hopped back to her side.

  Thinking what a peculiar man he was, Emily gestured toward where the lord’s table should be set. “Did His Lordship perchance order a table and a dais?”

  She could swear the steward’s face lost some of its color. “Nay, milady, he did not.”

  “Then perhaps you should add that.”

  He hesitated. “I don’t think that would be wise, milady.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “Draven has little use for the pompousness of the aristocracy,” she heard Simon say.

  Emily looked over her shoulder to see him standing behind her with his hands behind his back.

  How long had he been there?

  “’Tis not pompous, Simon,” she said. “’Tis expected.”

  “In other halls mayhap. Not here.” Simon surveyed the activity. “As usual, Denys, I am impressed by your meticulousness.”

  “My pleasure is to please you, milord.”

  Simon laughed aloud. “And so you have. Draven on the other hand…”

  “’Tis what he ordered,” Denys said d
efensively.

  “Aye, but I can’t wait to see his face when he enters this fray.”

  Denys nodded as if understanding whatever it was Simon meant.

  Emily, on the other hand, was quite lost.

  “Well then,” Denys said, “if there is nothing else, I shall get back to work. Supervising and”—Denys looked to Simon—“and more supervising.”

  Simon excused him, then brought his arms from around his back to show Emily the fresh loaf of bread he held in his hands. “I swiped this from the baker’s cart. He brought it with him from the village, and I thought you might like it more than what you have.”

  She thanked him as he set it on the wooden trencher and sliced her a bit of it. “It smells wonderful,” she said, taking a small piece and placing it in her mouth.

  And coated in honey butter, it tasted even better.

  Swallowing the bread, she watched Simon as he looked around the hall.

  “Why is it you think your brother won’t be pleased?” she asked.

  “He would rather have this place fall in upon his ears than see it—” He broke himself off as if catching his words. “Did I say that aloud?”

  “Aye, you did.”

  Simon quirked his head. “Then Draven is right, I should better counsel my tongue.”

  “I say you should counsel it less,” she teased. “For I would like to know.”

  “And I would like to keep my tongue in my head. Should Draven catch me spilling out his thoughts, like as not, I shall find it quickly removed.”

  She could well understand his wish not to make his brother angry. From what she had seen, Draven could indeed cause much damage to someone should anger possess him.

  “Now, milady,” Simon said with a curt bow. “If you’ll excuse me, I should like to get this armor off for it chafes in places I cannot mention in mixed company.”

  Unsure of what she should say, she watched as Simon made his way through the bustling scrubbing maids and workmen.

  “This is a strange place, lady,” Alys said when they were again alone.

  “It is indeed.” Emily shared her bread with her maid. “Why do you think Lord Draven refuses to have a table?”