Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)

by Meriel Fuller

  Guilhem paused. Beneath his fingers, the woollen stuff of her sleeves was buttery-soft, the warmth of her flesh diffusing through. He rubbed his big thumbs against the fabric. Above them, a buzzard circled and wheeled, vast wings vibrating in the chill wind. ‘Because he helped me once. And I will always be grateful to him for that.’

  ‘What? What did he do? I can’t believe a man like that would do anything other than to help himself!’ she blasted out, trembling in his hold. ‘It would have to be something pretty impressive, I’m sure, for you to stick with him like this.’ Her tone was scathing. ‘He must have saved your life, at the very least, for you to remain so loyal to him!’

  Guilhem’s eyes swept over her, darkening to midnight blue. Riven with sadness. Despair surged through him, bleak and wretched.

  She saw. Her breath caught. ‘My God, what happened to you?’ Her body slumped in his grip; she remembered. He had been in a prison, for months. Her heart plummeted; suddenly all the bluff and bluster, the anger against Edward, was knocked out of her by the stark look of pain on Guilhem’s face. ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered, clasping her arms about her chest, teeth beginning to chatter. ‘He saved your life, didn’t he?’

  ‘Aye, he did,’ Guilhem murmured.

  ‘When you were locked up?’

  His gaze roamed across her sweet face and wondered whether he should tell her. What he should tell her. Not everything. Not at this moment, when she needed his help. There would be time enough for her to hate him later. ‘Yes, I was,’ he said, finally. ‘It was Edward who secured my release. Took me home.’ He closed his eyes at the memory: his starved emaciated body, covered in sores, barely able to stumble a few yards.

  Alinor touched his cheek, palm silky against blond stubble. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I had no intention of stirring up bad memories.’

  He knew he should remove her hand, place it gently away, but instead he turned his cheek into the velvet cup, inhaling her faint perfume. Inadvertently, his lips brushed her skin, tickling the sensitive inner flesh of her palm. She sensed the loss, the hurt that ravaged his strapping frame. Instinct drove her, even as her mind clamoured for self-restraint. Leaning forward, she wound her arms about his waist, drawing him against her slenderness, wanting to comfort him, needing to drive out by her simple gesture the sheer desolation, the pure despair in his eyes.

  It was a mistake.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Desire, scrappy and volatile, stalked him like a wolf: trickles of igniting fire. A stern voice told him to step back, to step away, his own conscience warning him. He tried to heed it. Gritting his teeth, he stared bleakly out over the top of Alinor’s head as her lithe figure crushed against his, delicious, pliable.

  Tipping her head up, she smiled at him. Beneath Guilhem’s tunic, his waist was hard muscle, firm, pressing into her forearms. Her fingers linked in the inward curve of his back, knuckles grazing the powerful flexed rope of his spine. Her intention had been to comfort him, but now, as he crushed against her, honed chest muscles brushing against her breasts, that intention had changed. Every nerve ending was charged, quivering with a latent, flickering excitement. She wanted this moment to go on for ever, but she knew she must release him. She ran her tongue across dry lips. Release him now, she told herself sternly, before you embarrass yourself. Clamping her mouth in determined resolution, she unclasped her fingers and made to pull away.

  ‘No,’ he murmured. ‘Stay.’ His fingers tightened around her upper shoulders. He stepped closer, muscled legs buttressed against her own, tangling with her skirts.

  She glanced up, surprised. Her heart thudded treacherously, blood hurtling against the surface of her skin. ‘They will be wondering where we are.’ Her voice was husky.

  ‘Let them.’ A curious light entered his eyes, the colour of a shimmering sky at dawn. He lowered his head, mouth brushing hers, light, sensual. A tentative softness. He could not help himself. Self-control fled, ragged as the icy breeze.

  Her eyelids fluttered down; she tipped her chin upwards, her mouth meeting his. Sensation rocked her, driving shards of hot, burning ice into her very core. His lips roamed along hers, seeking, teasing, puncturing any last fleeting protests of resilience. Her chest shuddered. Blood pounded in her eardrums, her mind clearing of anything but the sweet insistence of his mouth. She clung to him like a slender willow sapling, graceful yet strong, bending into the curve of his body, clutching at his shoulders, drawing him down.

  He groaned, opening the supple plushness of her mouth with delicious force, bruising, demanding. She tasted like honey. Her heart sang, danced, skittering with delight. His arms cradled her waist, winding her tight against him; she was conscious of every tightly packed muscle, every corrugated ridge of his frame. Her chest heaved, then plummeted again with an odd, blistering awareness. So be it. She would deal with the consequences. All that mattered was his mouth against hers.

  Then, through mounting layers of pleasure, she heard a sound. An iron latch clicking upwards. She stiffened against him.

  Through sinewy arms, he sensed the sudden tension in her body. Reluctantly he dragged his mouth from hers. ‘What is it?’ His eyes glittered, midnight pools of smouldering desire.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ she murmured, lips tingling. Hot colour suffused her face as the cold reality of her illicit behaviour slammed her. Why, she had behaved like a wanton, draping herself all over him; he was like a drug, an addiction of which she could never have enough! Stupid, stupid girl! Staggering back, she collided with the trellis. Rose thorns poked through her dress, pinching cruelly at her shoulders. Fluttering with agitation, her fingers rose to her mouth, then touched her cheeks, her hair. Regret crashed over her, a bitter taste against her tongue.

  Guilhem turned his head to look down the path, raking one hand through his tawny hair, breath punching from his lungs. Desire dragged at his loins, heavy, unspent. What would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted? But he didn’t even need to ask himself that question; he knew the answer already.

  Bianca appeared at the entrance to the rose arbour, blue silk glimmering in the half-light. Petals blew across her path, sporadic snowflakes of pale pink. She snagged her veil with one hand to stop it flying in the breeze. In the time Guilhem and Alinor had been out in the gardens, the sun had dropped below the horizon and the wind had strengthened. Neither of them had noticed.

  ‘Oh, there you are!’ she called out, her face breaking into a wide smile.

  Guilhem fixed his gaze on the flagstone path, traced the jagged lines of pale lime mortar between the stones. Alinor barely managed to hold herself upright, clinging desperately on to the trellis behind her, knees shaking.

  ‘The Queen was anxious to know where you had gone.’ Bianca bustled forward, threading her arm through Alinor’s, drawing her away from the snagging rose. ‘What’s the matter with both of you?’ Her eyes bounced from Guilhem to Alinor, a puzzled frown drawing her brows together. ‘Why are you so quiet? Have you argued?’

  Nodding jerkily in response to Bianca, Alinor allowed herself to be walked back along the arbour. Shamefaced, Guilhem watched them go. How could he go on like this, trying to resist her beauty, but failing miserably at every turn? Maybe he should just bed her and be done with it. The thought disgusted him. No, he would never do that. He respected her too much. To use her, then discard her. She was worth ten of him, nay, a hundred of him; the thought was inconceivable! But how could he ride by her side to find the King, and protect her, without wanting to possess her, love her, at every moment of the day and night? He was not to be trusted, yet he trusted no other man with such a precious possession.

  Returning to the great hall, Bianca hanging on her arm, Alinor was relieved to see that Prince Edward was dancing. The trestle tables and long benches had been pushed back against the walls. The cleared space thronged with people, sweaty-faced and smilin
g, linking hands to form a chain that skipped first one way, then the other, bouncing in time to the music. Edward’s tall, whip-thin body dominated the crowd, pale-blond head bobbing above the rest. Everyone seemed drunk and happy, the air thick with the smell of cooling meat grease, smoke and honeyed mead.

  ‘Alinor, you look so sad. Are you quite well?’ Bianca murmured in her ear as they walked towards the high dais.

  Her lips burned, a lingering reminder of Guilhem’s mouth upon hers. ‘I’m scared, Bianca, if you must know.’ Scared of how I feel about your brother. Her heart closed up, bereft, hopeless. She wanted to glance around, to see if he followed them, but instead she pinned her gaze steadfastly on the wooden steps to the dais, the rickety banister.

  ‘But if you do this for the Prince, you will gain his protection, not to mention his admiration.’

  ‘It’s not a case of “if”. I have no choice, Bianca. Look at the alternative—marriage to Eustace. I should never have come here.’ An enormous feeling of entrapment washed over her, a vulnerability that she despised. She thought back longingly to the freedom she had enjoyed when garbed in her nun’s habit, the ability to roam about the countryside unimpeded. If only the Queen hadn’t arranged Bianca’s marriage to Eustace, then none of this would have happened. But then, she would never have met Guilhem. Would that have been preferable?

  Bianca clutched at her arm with the air of a conspirator. ‘I could smuggle you away to France with me—just like you helped me at Claverstock.’

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Guilhem’s voice barked down on them both.

  Alinor’s heart jumped; he was right behind them.

  As they approached the top table, the Queen rose and came towards Alinor, hands outstretched. Worry cleaved her face. ‘I am so sorry about this.’

  Alinor linked her fingers with the Queen’s, allowing herself to be led back to the table. Bianca slid back into her own chair.

  ‘Today’s events have shaken me, I’m afraid.’ The Queen turned to her. ‘The news about your family...’ She trailed off. ‘And Edward’s request to you.’

  Alinor bit her lip. Shame flooded through her, shame at what her father had done. Her shoulders hunched, as if trying to protect her from the prying eyes of the great hall—did everyone know what she was now? That her family were traitors to the crown?

  ‘But you will help us, my dear, by doing this. We need to put a stop to the rebel cause, bring stability to the country again. Guilhem will look after you; you have nothing to fear from him.’

  Alinor glanced over to the steps where Guilhem had stopped to talk to another knight. Yes, I do. I fear the loss of my heart. She plucked at the hem of the tablecloth, hanging down across her lap.

  ‘He is one of Edward’s finest knights and would never break the code of chivalry. You are safe with him.’

  No, I am not. Her heart beat frantically in her chest, so fast that she feared it would escape and leap out on to the table before her, so all could see her shame, her bewilderment, her love for the man just a few feet away from her. Nausea roiled in her belly. The chaotic music, the smoke rising thickly in the hall stifled her; a tightness dragged at her chest.

  ‘I think, if your lady permits it, I would ask leave to retire please.’

  The Queen inclined her head, granting permission. ‘Of course. You will ride early on the morrow...is that the plan, Guilhem?’ She raised her eyes as he approached the table. ‘That you will leave early?’

  He nodded. Moving behind Alinor’s chair, he pulled it back as she rose unsteadily.

  ‘Oh, don’t go up just yet!’ Bianca said. ‘I wanted to dance.’

  ‘Stay and dance.’ Alinor smiled. Tiny lines of fatigue fanned out from the corners of her eyes. ‘I think the day is catching up with me. I will come and see you before I leave tomorrow, to say goodbye.’

  She walked stiffly towards the stairwell, aware of many eyes upon her, then looked askance at Guilhem, who fell into step beside her. ‘What are you doing? Aren’t you staying here?’

  He held open the narrow door for her, one muscled arm laid flat along vertical oak planks; she caught his tangy scent as she sailed past him, chin in the air, spine straight and rigid. He must not see how he affected her.

  ‘I thought I would make sure you reached your chamber unscathed,’ he said, following her up the spiral staircase. Flickering torches slung into iron brackets lit the steps, casting a jittery nervous light across the damp, gleaming stone.

  She turned abruptly, one step above him. Her eyes met his on the level and she recoiled slightly, devastated by the blue intensity of his gaze. ‘You don’t trust me!’

  Guilhem grinned, holding his palms up towards her. ‘Correct.’ He tapped a finger against her forehead. ‘I can see right in here, Alinor, and I know you’re trying to think of a way out of Edward’s plans for you.’

  She whisked away from him, marching up the stairs, skirts bouncing briskly in her wake. ‘Do you blame me?’ she lobbed back, her speech bitter and scathing. ‘Why does it always have to be like this, women bending to the will of men? Caught, trapped, in thrall to them. I should take the veil; at least then I would have some freedom.’ She disappeared through the carved archway on to the first-floor landing, heading for her chamber.

  He caught up with her, easily matching her impatient stride, almost squashing her into the wall as he took up the breadth of the corridor. ‘Why would you choose such a life?’ he murmured. ‘Never to know a man, to bear his children, to have a family growing around you? It’s seems a poor choice to me.’ In the shadowed half-light of the corridor, his hair gleamed like a burnished flame.

  She stopped, folding her arms across her breast, stifling the flare of desire in her belly. How had they managed to end up talking about this? ‘Not if it means my head is my own and my decisions are my own to make!’

  He laughed, his upper arm nudging hers. ‘You’re too headstrong, Alinor. Marriage is all about sharing, about discussion and joint decisions.’

  She laughed, but the sound was hollow, brittle. ‘It’s never been like that. Marriage is a business, brides bartered for land and estates.’ She lifted one shoulder, a gesture of futility. Her neckline gaped fractionally, revealing the delicate sweep of her collarbone.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be.’ His thoughts raced forward, to a distant future, hazy, brimming with possibility. Alinor as his wife. The mother of his children. He played with the idea for a moment, until the black guilt came crashing down around him and he watched as hope disintegrated, breaking up into a thousand raw-edged splinters. An impossible dream.

  ‘It’s always like that,’ she corrected him, her mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘I can’t think of one marriage where the couple actually like each other, let alone love each other.’

  If only it could have been different between them, he thought. If only he had met her before, before that awful time at Fremont, when he had been a different, better man. He would not wish his arid heart, his damaged soul, on anyone. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said brusquely. ‘I suspect it’s a matter of luck if you manage to marry a good husband.’

  ‘Oh, and that would be you, would it?’ she blurted out without thinking.

  Guilhem held her gaze for a long time. ‘No, not me,’ he said, finally. ‘Never me.’ The blue of his eyes darkened, dulled, as if a fire had been doused. A shift of pain crossed his face.

  Why not? she wanted to scream at him. Why can’t it be you? Biting her lip, she hurried up the final steps to her chamber, snuffing out the questions that jumped in her brain. She clicked up the iron latch, pushing into the chamber. Because he felt nothing for her, that was why. But if he felt nothing for her, then why did he keep kissing her?

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ she said, slipping around and starting to close the door.

  ‘Goodnight, Alinor,’ he replied. ‘Believe
me when I tell you there is no way out of this plan. Don’t even think about trying to run away. Edward would send his men out to find you and they would hunt you down, and drag you back.’ He reached forward, fingers grazing the soft sweep of her jaw. ‘And those men might not be me and they might not be as lenient. I would not want that to happen to you,’ he said. ‘You are safer with me.’ But even as he uttered the words, doubt scurried through his brain.

  * * *

  Surprisingly, Alinor slept well, waking in the early morning from a dreamless sleep. Birds clamoured outside her window, a high-pitched, excitable dawn chorus. Padding over to the oak coffer, she poured water into the earthenware bowl, scrubbed at her face. She shivered in her thin chemise. Drying her face briskly, she dragged on her undergarments and woollen stockings, sticking her feet into her slippers before she pulled on her gowns. The thin red leather was streaked and marred with dirt; these shoes were meant for gentle days inside, not charging about the countryside in all weathers. She wondered how long they would last until they fell apart. Tying her under-dress to her slim shape with leather lacings, she drew on her sleeveless gown that added another layer of warmth. She pushed her head through her wimple, the soft fabric covering her bare neck. Re-braiding her hair, she wound and pinned it into a low bun at the base of her neck, pulling up the gathered folds of her wimple to secure it to the top of her head.

  Positioning her circlet firmly over her veil, she lifted her chin, catching sight of her reflection in a rectangular piece of polished silver above the coffer. Her face appeared pale and wan, despite her uninterrupted sleep. She adjusted the wimple self-consciously, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then immediately chastised herself for her vanity. For whom was she making herself look better? For him? Guilhem wouldn’t even notice. He held her at a distance, whilst she sank ever deeper into a bewildering maelstrom of emotion. How she had lowered herself by submitting to him; why was she unable to simply push him away? A wave of chagrin, of regret, pulsed through her. Was she really that weak-willed? Or was it simply that she yearned for the taste of his mouth, the closeness of his body and would risk everything, even her own reputation and his disrespect, in order to achieve such a thing? She was like a starving bird, she thought bitterly, hopping about the kitchen yard, waiting and hoping, until someone scattered out a few stale crumbs for her to feast on avidly.