Suddenly a hand reached out of the dark and fastened on her elbow. She gasped and automatically made to pull away, until Troye murmured for her to be easy. She sighed in relief and turned to face him as he dragged her into a far corner, the stones of the wall warm from the sun despite the dark shadows of night. The moonlight fell upon his face and her eyes gazed upon his fine nose and handsome chin, but his expression she could not see. His hands had fastened on both of her elbows and she was startled as he shook her, ungently.
‘What are you about, little girl?’ he demanded in a harsh voice. ‘You should not be sending me a message like that. Have you no care for your reputation?’
Eleanor stared up at him, aware of the warmth of his body, his broad muscular shoulders, of his hard fingers gripping the soft flesh of her arms, but she made no move to free herself. ‘I—I merely wanted to speak with you. It has been so long—’
He snorted. ‘Stop. There is no bond between us, so do not make a fool of yourself with confessions that I have no wish to hear.’
She gasped, shocked by the harshness of his response. But he had suffered greatly and she must make allowances, should she not? ‘Nevertheless,’ her voice was taut as she insisted, ‘I recall the flash of sword blades very close to my head and I am eternally grateful and in your debt, for once upon a time you saved my life.’ She leaned towards him and, greatly daring, she stood on tip-toe and pressed her lips to his rough cheek.
She heard his sharp intake of breath, but his reaction was unexpected. His fingers tightened even more and he thrust her back against the wall, gripping her wrists as his body leaned hard and heavy against her.
‘What the devil are you up to?’ he demanded in a rough voice. ‘Are you indeed a wanton, Eleanor? Have you not heeded a single word of advice from anyone?’
‘I did not mean—’ protested Eleanor, but her words were cut short.
‘I can see what is in your eyes, as they follow me about the hall. Is this what you want?’ Troye demanded, grasping her chin between his fingers and tipping her face up.
He lowered his head and his mouth came crashing down on hers, her small cry smothered between his lips. His rough jaw scratched her tender skin and she could smell and taste musky maleness laced with wine. A small sound escaped from the constriction of her throat and she fought to free her wrists from his punishing grip. Then suddenly his hold loosened, his arms slid around her waist, pulling her body against him, and his mouth was now tender as he kissed her.
‘I had forgotten,’ he murmured, as he pressed his lips to her neck and for a moment breathed in the soft, sweet smell of her skin. His hands moved along her ribs and reached the swell of her breasts, covering them, feeling the weight of them cupped in his palms, his fingers expertly finding the nipples.
Eleanor gasped again and lifted her head, trying to see his face, his eyes, and murmured, ‘What have you forgotten?’
‘The feel of a woman.’ His fingers smoothed down the curve of her back and gripped her buttocks, pulling her tight against him. She gave a little cry, her fingers clutching at his tunic. He realised her shock, that she had no experience of men and their lust—no doubt this was her first real kiss—and cursed softly.
Suddenly he released her and she fell back against the wall again. Her body was alive and on fire at his nearness, aching and trembling, so sensitive to every new sensation that his male fingers awakened where he had touched her, yet her mind whispered caution, for she knew well enough the boundaries that existed between a knight and a lady.
‘Go back to the hall. Before we are seen,’ he ordered.
That was all he said. There were no sweet words of love or apology from Troye. Eleanor felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She sniffed, and, before she shamed herself further, picked up her skirts and fled.
Eleanor slowed as her feet pattered down the corridor and she found a shadowed alcove in which to tidy her hair and her clothes, to wipe away the taste of Troye’s mouth on her lips and the hot sting of tears upon her cheeks. She could not let anyone see her in such a state, for questions would be asked and she had no intention of ever telling anyone what had passed between her and Troye de Valois. She stayed where she was for a long while, her mind whirling in confusion and pain and longing.
As she stood in the dark corner she could hear voices raised in heated argument as a couple walked by. She recognised the voices, they belonged to her mother and father, but instead of stepping forwards into the light and making herself known, some instinct made Eleanor shrink away, deeper into the shadows. She should not eavesdrop, and yet the words that reached her ears held her riveted to the spot.
‘I cannot understand your reasoning, Hal! Surely by all that is holy it would be better to keep Eleanor here, in England, safely within the walls of Castle Ashton!’
Her father sighed. His back was turned to her, his hands on hips in that belligerent stance she knew so well. ‘Do not argue, Joanna. My mind is made up. I do not care for the way von Eckhart reacted when I told him that I could not accept his offer. I think Eleanor will be safer if she goes to Aquitaine for the winter. And, if it is of any comfort, Remy agrees with me wholeheartedly. In fact, it was his idea.’
‘Indeed!’ snorted her mother, ‘Well, then, I shall give the dolt a piece of my mind.’
‘You are becoming hysterical. Becalm yourself.’
Eleanor was dismayed to see her mother stamp her foot, and hid a smile behind her fingers, freezing as her father looked about.
‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that, Henry Raven! I am not a silly chit to be ordered about—’
‘God in heaven, I never in my life thought you were!’
‘Tell the truth,’ Joanna challenged. ‘Tell me the real reason why you are sending Eleanor away.’
‘I have—’
‘Nay! The truth, Hal!’ And this she instantly supplied for him, in a fierce whisper, ‘The truth is that you are sending her away because she is mine, and not yours.’
‘Nonsense!’
Eleanor frowned, a long-forgotten alarm bell dinging faintly at her mother’s words.
‘You are sending her away because she is Richard Blackthorn’s and you fear what it is that she might become!’
‘Stop it!’ Her father’s voice held a note of angry warning.
‘Yet I carried her in my womb while he lay dead in the Welsh Marches, and she never even so much as laid eyes upon him!’
‘Joanna, I beg you to stop. And lower your voice, for God’s sake, these are things we do not wish to be overheard. Come, let us find Eleanor, she has been gone too long for a mere visit to the privy.’
Eleanor stepped away, goosebumps flaring in icy horror across her skin. The blood had frozen in her veins. What did her mother mean? Who was Richard Blackthorn? She remembered the tournament in London those many years ago and the puzzling words from her father as he had chastised her with a wooden spoon. She had feared then that her father was not her father, but the matter had been superseded by her unrequited love for Troye. Now, stifling a gasp of shock and disbelief, Eleanor shrank against the cold stone walls, her eyes wide and her mouth gaping. Her parents walked on by and returned to the hall. In the silence that was left in their wake Eleanor listened to the drumming of her heart and the quick, agitated gasps of her breath. What to do? She must find her brother, tell him what she had heard…Did he already know of this Richard Blackthorn? She felt sure that if he did he would not have revealed his knowledge, to save her anguish. Yet if he did know, now he could no longer protect her from the truth. She crept slowly and cautiously from her hiding place, looked up and down the deserted corridor and ran into the hall. She looked about, but could not see Rupert anywhere. At last she found the young lady he had been dancing with and she informed Eleanor, with regret, that Rupert had been called away to the armoury.
Eleanor was determined to seek Rupert out and together they would discover the truth, whatever that might be. She was not entirely certain where the armoury was loca
ted, but she hurried towards a less-frequented part of the Palace that she had a vague idea led to such places like the armoury. After a while of endless corridors she became nervous and turned back, anxious to reach the safe haven of her own apartment, to sit down to think. She would write a note and send one of the male servants, for the armoury was not a place that a female should go to. Eleanor realised that once again her sense of direction had been poor, as she traversed corridors that were unfamiliar and seemed to be leading nowhere near to her destination. When at last a gentleman came into view she stopped. The urgency of her quest and the shock of her recent encounters severely affected her judgement, for otherwise she would not have dared to speak alone with this man. But her words were already spoken by the time she recognised the German, Casper von Eckhart, he of the cold blue eyes and shaved blond head and who apparently had made an offer for her hand.
‘Excuse me, sir, I am looking for my brother, Rupert Raven of Ashton, a lieutenant in the King’s Own guard. Would you know where the armoury might be?’
The Hun looked down upon her upturned face, and smiled slowly.
Troye listened to Eleanor’s footsteps, and her sobs, echo and fade as she ran down the stone-flagged corridor, back to the hall. He unclenched his fists and released his breath in a heavy sigh. He had no need for the adoration of foolish young girls, but he had no wish to inflict hurt either. He should not have kissed her in the way that he had, so roughly. He could still taste her soft skin against his lips. Quickly he turned; he should go after her, apologise, but on the steps he hesitated. His apologies would only be misconstrued and her hopes raised where no hope could ever flourish. For he could not love her, or any woman. To do so would only open the window to his heart and let the sunshine in, and in the cold dark place that was his heart all the pain now lost and buried would be found. To love again was something he could not do.
Instead of following Eleanor, he turned away from the beckoning light and noise of the crowded hall and sought solace in his own quarters, a chamber that he shared with four other knights. There he found Sir Lindsay Crawford lolling before the fire, a mug of ale clutched to his chest as he brooded upon the flickering flames and his own thoughts. Troye sat down carefully, in a wooden chair opposite, and murmured a greeting to his fellow knight.
Lindsay raised tormented eyes, ‘What ho, not in the hall with all the frolicking damsels?’
Troye shook his head, and commented, ‘Neither are you.’
With a dramatic sigh Lindsay confessed, ‘I cannot look upon her fair face and know that she is not mine.’
Troye snorted and smothered his amusement. ‘And which damsel has caught your fickle fancy tonight?’ He knew well enough that Lindsay had a roving eye and no sooner had he charmed one lady than another took her place.
‘Why,’ retorted Lindsay, ‘can there be any other maid in the kingdom as fair as Eleanor of Ashton?’ He sat up straight, leaning towards Troye as he earnestly declared, ‘She is so beautiful, so enchanting—’
Troye looked away, his stony gaze upon the hearth, ‘Forget her,’ he said darkly. ‘She is beyond your dreams, and your means.’
‘I hear her father is looking to make a match for her.’
‘Indeed. A good match, not a disaster. You have nothing to offer her.’
‘I have my self, and a true heart.’
Troye laughed, and reached for a mug, pouring himself ale from the keg upon the floor. ‘’Tis not enough. I think Lord Raven has it more in mind that his daughter is married to power and wealth. Not lovesick nonsense.’
‘Love is not nonsense. It is everything. For without love what is man? Just an empty shell—’ Lindsay realised his folly as Troye’s face darkened and he turned away from him. ‘I mean—’
‘I know what you mean,’ snapped Troye, and swiftly changed the subject, ‘I mean to break in that new stallion tomorrow. Can I borrow your helm? Mine is at the blacksmith, having a few dents mended.’
They sat and talked about horses and weapons and war. They were joined by Sir Austin, and then by Sir Neville. A squire was sent to fetch another keg of ale and the gathering became raucous as the knights enjoyed an easy camaraderie. They knew each other well, both in battle and in training for battle, at the best of times as they indulged in the pleasures of life, and at the worst of times as they endured the hardships of war—injury and even death. But through it all Troye was silent, staring at the fire flames. His companions found nothing unusual in this, for all knew of the grief that plagued him and none would force him to be other than he was. But suddenly, Troye rose and set aside his mug of ale. They looked at him askance.
‘There is a matter I must attend to.’
Troye strode from the room, realising that he had done wrong by Eleanor and before the night was out he must make apology for his behaviour. He strode down the corridor briskly, intending to seek her out in the hall and discreetly manoeuvre her to a quiet alcove where they could speak in private.
Casper von Eckhart bowed and offered his arm as he smiled at Eleanor. ‘Come, fräulein, I will take you to him.’
‘Thank you.’
They fell into step and from the corner of her eye she cast a glance at him. He was not as tall as Rupert or Troye, but very broad and muscular. She could feel the corded strength of his arm beneath her hand. He seemed a most handsome gentleman, after one quick glance, but looking closer she detected something else…something that made her uneasy. It was not in the thin line of his mouth, nor in the piercing blue of his eyes, but all her instincts had suddenly sprung to life and alarm bells were ringing in her ears. She tried to make an excuse, to pull away from the arm holding hers, to pretend that she knew where to find Rupert, but he would not let her go.
‘I protest, sir,’ exclaimed Eleanor, finding her courage, ‘let go of my arm!’
For an answer he merely pulled open the door of a nearby chamber and thrust her within, slamming the door shut behind him. Eleanor cried out, greatly alarmed. She drew herself proudly to her full height, cocking a brow as she tried to give the impression of bravado. They eyed each other in silence, both fully aware that his intentions were far from honourable. A flush of anger flared over Eleanor. Her lips tightened, and then she looked him in the eye and said in a cold, hard voice, ‘I insist that you open the door.’
He shook his head and bowed to her. ‘Apologies for the abrupt courtship, fräulein, but your father refused my offer of marriage. And I am not a man who takes kindly to refusal.’
He took a step closer to Eleanor and instinctively she took a step backwards. ‘I do not know why, sir, but if my father has refused your proposal then it was for good reason.’
He laughed, a short, sharp, unpleasant bark. ‘I fear he has made a grave mistake.’
Her heart hammered painfully and she tried to reason with him. ‘I would advise you to release me. If you let me go now, I will not mention this…misadventure…to anyone.’
With hands on hips he simply stood, indifferent to her words, casting a glance along her slender form, from the top of her head down to the hem of her gown. ‘At least you have a pretty face and figure. It will be no chore bedding you.’
A gasp of anger and outrage escaped from between Eleanor’s lips. ‘I would not lie with you if you were the last man on earth! I do not know you, sir, nor love you, nor would I ever consent to marrying you!’
Again that laugh that sent a shiver down her spine with its harshness. ‘I do not require your consent, girl. For anything.’
‘My God, sir!’ exclaimed Eleanor, glaring at him and neatly side-stepping his advance, ‘Your conceit is beyond belief! I can assure you I will not come willingly. If you think you can take me, just like that, against my will, then you had better think again. I will fight you, to the death if need be!’
He snorted, a derogatory, dismissive sound, as though he did not believe a word she uttered and clearly he did not believe that a mere slip of a girl could defy him. Not in his wildest dreams had it ever occurr
ed to him that a gentle-born young lady would ever fight to resist him.
‘If you touch me,’ she warned, ‘I will scream!’
At that he leapt towards her, intent on silencing her with a hand over her mouth, but before he could reach her Eleanor darted out of his way and opened her mouth on a piercing scream. She ran for the door, which he had not locked in his arrogance. He grabbed the flying swathes of her hair as she fled, jerking her backwards. She cried out at the searing pain, and then suddenly the door flung open and Troye burst into the room.
‘Von Eckhart, let her go!’
Her cries turned to relief and the Hun released her so suddenly that she fell to her knees, doubled over as sudden weakness and shock sent waves of dizziness spinning all around her. There was a scuffle, several more people entered the room and she flushed as von Eckhart made protestations of innocence, claiming that Eleanor had led him on, that she was the one who was intent on seducing him. She hid her face in both hands, and began to weep for the shame of it all.
‘Eleanor.’
She recognised the voice of her brother, as he stooped and lifted her from the floor. With a cry she flung herself into the safety of his embrace, and he folded protective arms about her as he confronted von Eckhart.
‘What nonsense is this you are spewing, Hun?’ Rupert demanded. ‘Apologise at once, for ’tis clear that you are the one with evil intentions.’
Von Eckhart laughed. ‘Is that so? Well, then, what was she doing here alone, with no escort? What was she doing earlier, in the rose garden, with de Valois? Seems like the little hussy just can’t get enough—’
Both Rupert and Troye leapt towards the Hun, her brother shouting his anger, Troye quiet yet firm as he ordered von Eckhart to be silent.
The Hun sneered at him. ‘I am not one of your soldiers, Englishman, for you to order about. And you know well enough I tell the truth, for have you not this eve sampled the goods yourself?’
The King s Champion Page 8
