by Shari Anton
She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, gripping his hand tighter in a vain attempt to keep her mind balanced—and it wasn’t working.
“A man like you?” “I would never presume.”
One of them should pull away, end this most improper encounter. So her common sense told her. Her body, however, leaned toward his, remembering the last time she’d been sure he wanted to kiss her and found the will to withdraw.
“But you want to presume.”
“What I want is of no import. I was sent here to ensure the well-being of Lelleford and its people, including you.”
His duty be damned!
“I am not fragile, Roland. I assure you I am most capable of taking care of myself.”
For that she earned another stroke under her chin, a light touch that nearly melted her knees.
“Not fragile, but vulnerable. ’Twould be knavish of me to take advantage.”
“Then what do we do, Roland? You said yourself the attraction is there. Do we pretend it does not exist? Seems to me we have tried and failed.”
His hand cupped her cheek, a battle playing out on his rugged features. “You tempt me beyond reason, woman.”
“No more than you tempt me.”
His wry smile returned before his forehead pressed against hers, his breath warm on her face. “Have you ever been kissed, Eloise?”
“A time or two.”
“By Hugh?”
“Nay.”
Then his mouth slid over hers, gentle and moist, making her head go light and her nether regions burn. With eyes closed, she rushed headlong into unfamiliar territory and reveled in the sensations that both frightened and thrilled her.
She’d lied to him. She’d never been kissed, not like this.
He tasted of ale, smelled of wool and hearth smoke, and the scent that was uniquely Roland’s.
She felt him pull back, ending the too-short but stunning kiss.
“Ah, Eloise, what have I done?”
His remorse was almost more than she could bear. Hadn’t he been swept into a dreamland, too? Perhaps she needed more practice at the art. Another kiss, maybe two, and she could take him with her.
“You did very well, by my measure. Apparently I did not. Shall we try it again?”
“Nay.” He took a long breath, glanced up at the overhead beams. “Oh, my lady, nay.”
“Why ever not? I know I lack skill, but I can learn.”
He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what she asked of him. “Is that what you think, that you lack skill? Sweet mercy, Eloise. One more kiss like the last and I would forget who we are and …”
Abruptly, he stepped back, kissed the back of her hand that he’d held all the while, then released it. “I have to go.”
“But, Roland—”
“One of us has to be sensible.”
He backed up without looking, bumped into the partially open door and sent it crashing fully open. With a vile curse he spun on his heel and fled.
Shaken, Eloise lowered onto one of the nearby chairs, her hands trembling and her heart fluttering. After a moment, her muddled thoughts cleared, envisioning those last few moments in a new light.
Roland hadn’t left because she displeased him, but because he’d liked the kiss as much if not more than she. He’d been so rattled that the graceful, surefooted warrior had actually bumped into a door.
She put her fingertips to her lips, felt the soft smile on her still warm mouth.
By the saints, she shouldn’t feel smug about his imbalance. ’Twas a loathsome thing to take pleasure in his misery.
She glanced at her brothers’ beds, wondering which one Roland slept in. Probably Julius’s, under which he kept his belongings.
Roland’s thoughts must have wandered far beyond a simple kiss, to what seemed to come naturally after—if the talk she’d heard among the female servants was to be believed.
To coupling. Joining bodies. Becoming lovers.
What kind of lover would Roland be?
According to gossip, some lovers were tender and slow, others rough and quick. Some women declared the act messy, others thought it wondrous.
’Twas utterly wicked of her that she desperately wanted Roland to return, throw the latch on the door, and take her to even more unfamiliar territories.
She waited, willing her thoughts to stop dwelling on the forbidden. Chagrined that she truly waited for Roland to come back through the door, she picked up the scroll and rose, her legs still unsteady.
When she reached the door, her steps froze at the sound of voices, low and urgent, from near the servants’ stairway.
“We should not have come up here. We were nearly seen,” a young male voice complained, distraught.
“But we were not.”
Isolde?
“I will not have you suffer shame. Perhaps we should—”
Timothy?
Isolde laughed lightly. “You worry overmuch. Come. I know where we can go where no one will find us.”
“Are you sure, sweetling?”
“I am.”
The rustle of fabric. A shift of boots. “You need not carry me, Tim. I can walk down the stairs.”
Silence. Two heartbeats’ worth.
“Do you truly want me to put you down? I swear I will not drop you.”
A long sigh. A kiss?
“Aye, and are you not a big, strong lad who wields a lance with such ease? I have no fears.”
“I will not hurt you, Isolde. Not ever.”
“I know, Tim. I know.”
Eloise closed her eyes and bowed her head, hearing Tim’s boots echo off the stairs. Should she chase after the pair or let them be?
Sweet Jesu, they were so young, and Isolde so vulnerable.
Or perhaps not. Eloise remembered being ten and four, moonstruck over a knight who didn’t dare approach her because she was the lord’s daughter. Chagrined, she’d envied the other maids their secret liaisons and stolen kisses.
Neither would thank her for interfering, just as she would have been irate had anyone dared to interrupt Roland’s kiss.
Except Tim and Isolde were about to do more than kiss. And even knowing that, did she have the right to try to protect Isolde from what the maid obviously desired from Tim?
From what Eloise desired from Roland?
She closed the chamber door behind her, very aware she envied Isolde for the ease with which she took a lover, for the obvious care Tim intended to bestow.
With the king’s writ in hand, she couldn’t help thinking all the way to her father’s accounting room that Tim was indeed his knight’s squire. She was utterly sure his master would also take great pains to please his lover.
Could it be so simple, so straightforward for master and mistress? Could she take Roland by the hand and lead him off to a private place where no one would find them, where no one would know but the two of them?
Roland thought he’d made it to the battlements without anyone noticing his befuddlement or arousal. But then, he was in no shape to have done much noticing on his own. Everyone in the place might have marked his progress, noted his agitation and the bulge in his breeches, and guessed why he sought privacy.
He pressed up against the cold stone wall and turned his face to the chill of the wind.
Ye, gods.
He’d been seduced into a kiss, by Eloise, and for the life of him he couldn’t understand why he’d lowered his guard so far to allow it to happen.
Oh, Eloise was truly brazen!
He’d resisted. God knew he’d tried. But her willingness had been too apparent, the temptation too strong.
The moment she confessed that Hugh hadn’t kissed her, releasing him from the horrible feeling she might be comparing them, he’d given in.
He should have gone up to the chamber, fetched the writ, and delivered it to her down in the hall. Then he wouldn’t now know how her lips tasted, wouldn’t be suffering the demons of hell he suspected would torment him well into the
night.
He’d been entrusted with Lelleford, and that meant protecting its residents, especially the lord’s daughter. Who would have thought he’d have to protect her from himself?
Wasn’t Eloise the same woman he’d warned his half brother against, who he’d thought coldhearted for her lack of tears at Hugh’s death?
No, she wasn’t, and that was part of his hell. Willful, yes, but warm and giving, too. A regal lioness, who could be made to purr.
Sweet mercy, he wanted her. How he’d managed to leave Eloise, in a chamber with a stout lock on the door and two soft beds readily available, he didn’t know.
But he had, and that was for the best, no matter how much he suffered.
She wasn’t for him, would never be.
“Then what do we do, Roland? You said yourself the attraction is there. Do we pretend it does not exist? Seems to me we have tried and failed.”
Aye, he’d failed. Miserably. Dishonorably.
And if she tempted him again, entrapped him in her sapphire gaze, tilted her chin up to an angle that showed her lips to perfection, he’d probably give in again. And again.
She wasn’t the first woman he’d kissed, far from it. But not one of his former lovers, from an endearing dairymaid on his father’s estate to a noblewoman in the king’s court, had reduced him to soft pudding, singed his soul with a mere kiss.
If he didn’t have Eloise, he’d go mad.
But he’d be mad to have Eloise.
Roland shoved away from the wall. As he saw it, he had only two choices. Leave Lelleford, which he couldn’t do, or take Eloise as his lover.
He laughed at his arrogance. As if it were his decision alone. He’d never taken a female by force, and wasn’t about to start now, especially with a woman who had no qualms about making her wishes very clear to all and sundry.
Perhaps he’d read too much in her kiss. Perhaps his own yearnings led him astray. Just perhaps, she’d bargained for no more than a simple kiss.
Except his instincts, which hadn’t failed him yet, told him he could have led Eloise over to one of the beds and she’d have let him, lain with him.
Verily, as she’d said, she wasn’t fragile. No woman he knew could speak her mind as well as Eloise. None other had her force of will. And if it was her will that they should be lovers, he’d be daft to deny her.
They would need to be discreet. Both her reputation and his position as overseer of Lelleford could be jeopardized if they were discovered. But if they were careful—
So be it. He’d not resist, but neither would he be the one to initiate an affair. If she wanted him, she’d let him know. He would let Eloise be the one to lure him into her bed so he couldn’t be accused of taking advantage of her.
Lord knew, she wouldn’t need to use much bait at all.
Chapter Ten
WITH THE fabric cut and stored away—stacked in the order in which she wished the garments completed—Eloise began to worry about Isolde’s whereabouts.
When the girl wasn’t to be found in either hall or bedchamber, she tossed on her cloak against the day’s chill and headed out-of-doors. She found Isolde where the maid had been the other day — seated on a bench along the near wall of the practice yard while watching Timothy wield a lance.
At the moment only Roland and Timothy engaged in a lesson in swordplay. They used wooden practice swords, wore no chain mail or even a padded gambeson for protection. In snug, short-sleeved brown tunics, they slowly thrust and parried in a mock fight.
Eloise tried not to notice Roland’s eloquent form, the grace and power with which he moved. Now was the perfect time to have a private, heartfelt talk with Isolde about Timothy, and she’d not let the man’s surefooted, well-timed movements distract her.
As Eloise slid onto the bench, Isolde greeted her with a slight frown. “Did ye have need of me, milady?”
“Nay. I merely wondered what kept you from the hall so long. Now I see.”
Isolde’s frown reversed into a soft smile. “He is wonderful to watch.”
Eloise glanced toward the object of Isolde’s attraction, thinking the lad’s master wonderful to watch, too. “Is he?”
“Aye, milady.” She sighed. “He will make an excellent knight someday, just like Sir Roland.”
The men had lowered their swords, Roland speaking to his squire in too low a voice for Eloise to make out the words. Then Timothy nodded, put a determined look on his face, and again crossed swords with Roland. The pace picked up, wood striking wood in quicker and louder fashion.
Indeed, the lad kept up with his master, whose skill was unparalleled, even at this meager practice pace.
“He well may,” she acknowledged, which boded ill for Isolde, an orphaned peasant. The higher Timothy rose, the less likely he would be to choose Isolde’s company.
But then, if Edgar gained his knighthood, his sister would benefit with a rise in station, too. Unfortunately, Edgar’s prospects didn’t look good at the moment, not if John Hamelin’s fortunes fell to ruin.
Eloise steeled her courage and dove headlong into giving counsel she wasn’t sure was necessary or wanted, hoping she didn’t make a mess of the whole thing.
“Isolde, I know you have been with Timothy for most of the afternoon. Do you wish to tell me about it?”
Isolde tilted her head, the question there easily discernible.
“I was upstairs and overheard the two of you talking. I did not mean to listen, but neither did I wish to interrupt.”
The maid looked neither angry nor embarrassed at having been found out, merely thoughtful. “Do ye disapprove of him?”
“Not necessarily.” ’Struth, she’d thought Timothy both caring and gallant. “I just want to ensure you are not harmed.”
“Ye mean ye do not want me to get with child.”
Eloise hadn’t thought that far ahead, merely worried over Isolde’s feelings when Timothy left Lelleford, as he would someday. As would Roland.
“ ’Twould not be a good thing, you being so young.”
“Truly, ye need not be concerned. I know how to prevent such a thing from happening.”
This was news, both that a way existed and that Isolde was worldly enough to know.
“Is this prevention you speak of … effective?”
“Most times.” Isolde’s smile went sly. “Why, milady? Are ye thinking of taking a lover?”
Eloise didn’t want to think of what had shown on her face or come through in her tone to make Isolde think so. Unfortunately, the maid had hit the mark, not that Eloise would ever confirm it.
“There is likely to come a day when such knowledge might be useful.”
“Like with Sir Roland?”
“Isolde! Such insolence!”
The maid shrugged a shoulder. “ ’Twould come as no surprise if ye did. We have all seen the long gazes, how the two of you dance around each other. ’Tis the talk of the hall.”
Eloise closed her eyes, slumped against the stone wall, and groaned. She’d often been the subject of the servants’ gossip. It was unavoidable for the mistress of the household—who apparently should have guarded her actions more closely when dealing with Roland.
Why was it those sharp eyes never missed a thing, and those tongues wagged faster than bees’ wings?
And if the household servants talked, then the guards were privy to the speculation, and by now even the villagers had heard somewhat of the mistress’s admiration for Sir Roland.
Damnation.
“Is nothing sacred or even private?”
“Not much, milady. If it eases yer mind, everyone thinks it’s grand. In fact, Cook thinks yer overdue for a lusty, rousing affair. Do ye good, she says.”
Eloise’s eyes snapped open. “She does, does she?”
“Aye. And why not? Sir Roland is a fine figure of a man, and an honorable knight to boot. Ain’t a soul in Lelleford who would blame ye for takin’ him to yer bed. Includin’ me.”
Her cheeks flushed with heat,
Eloise thought this was probably the most unseemly conversation she’d ever shared with Isolde. They’d always been blunt with each other, but never to this degree, or on so delicate a subject.
But with whom else could she do so? Certainly not her father or brothers. Her mother had died long before this talk would have been necessary, and her sister had married young and moved away. Still, to discuss these things with a maid, a younger maid, who seemed to know more about life and the goings-on in the keep than her mistress wasn’t seemly!
“I do not recall asking for anyone’s permission, including yours.”
“Ye do not need our permission, milady. I just thought ye might like to know.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the males go through their paces. Sweat gleamed on Timothy’s brow while Roland seemed to hold himself back for his squire’s sake.
Damn, but the man looked good. He appealed to her so much that sometimes her heart beat dangerously fast and her knees went appallingly weak. She could sit and watch Roland for hours, admiring the play of muscle in his arms and the grace of his long legs.
’Twasn’t fair he was also gallant when the occasion called for a mannerly mien, and considerate of her feelings when she needed him to be. Oh, he could be forthright, even rude when his own emotions got the better of him, like when they’d exchanged words at the village church.
But then he could be gentle, even tender, as this morning when they’d kissed. When she’d begun to have the most sinful, delicious thoughts about where another kiss or two might lead. To her bed or his. To acts she’d only heard meager hints about and not yet experienced for herself.
All her life she’d believed the first man she would ever bed would be her husband, been told she must protect her maidenhead and virtue at all costs. But she knew not every noble bride went to the marriage bed a virgin, that betrothal contracts between families were more concerned with the transfer of property and coin than the state of a woman’s virginity. So long as the woman didn’t carry another man’s child at the time of the marriage, such things might be overlooked, depending on the groom’s pride.
