Commanded by the French Duke (Harlequin Historical)

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘Stay here,’ he told her. ‘And bolt the door behind you. I won’t be long.’

  She flew to the door as he left, struggling to fit the unwieldy bolt into its hasp. His heavy boots thudded down the stairs and then she heard the sound of his voice, raised in anger with the landlord. She frowned. What on earth did he think he was doing? Surely the last thing they needed was to call attention to themselves?

  Moments later, Guilhem returned, carrying a large bucket of hot, steaming water, a linen towel trapped beneath his elbow, the fabric patched, but clean.

  She stared wistfully at the water. ‘How did you get that?’

  He smiled, tipping the bucket up. Water swilled and splashed into the earthenware bowl. ‘Money has its uses, Alinor.’ He pushed the towel into her hands.

  ‘Oh, Guilhem, you needn’t be running around fetching things for me!’ she laughed, protesting. ‘You must remember, I am used to the frugal ways of the nuns. When I stay with them, we have much less than this.’

  ‘But I bet whatever you had was clean.’ He ducked his head beneath the lintel, his big body half-obscured by the door. ‘I’m off to fetch some more things; I might be a bit longer this time.’

  Ensuring the iron bolt was in place, she moved towards the basin, dappling her fingers experimentally across the water’s surface. It wouldn’t hurt to wash, would it? Guilhem said he would be a little while. Lifting her arms, she removed her circlet and veil, unpinning her travel-stained wimple, now more mud-coloured than white. Her scalp was sticky, hot; damp fronds of hair clung to her forehead. She pulled out the pins securing her plaits, letting them drop, then untied the leather laces from each curling end. Once released, the gold tresses fell nearly to her hips; she raked her fingers through her loose, knotted hair, trying to separate the strands, to shake out the dust and dirt from the road. In the embroidered pouch that hang from her girdle, she drew out a small comb fashioned from deer horn, the shaft inlaid with pearls, and began to drag it through her hair.

  Someone knocked at the door. Shock bolted through her. Guilhem! Already? Hurriedly, she placed the towel over her head, a makeshift veil to cover her hair, grasping the material closed with one fist at her neck. The tines of the comb dug into the sensitive skin of her palm on her other hand.

  ‘You said you were going to be...!’ She unbolted the door, the protest dying on her lips. The innkeeper stood in the doorway, smiling lasciviously.

  ‘I saw your man go out,’ he said, staring greedily at the bare patch of flesh at her neck that the towel failed to cover. His eyes bulged outwards, mouth saggy, lewd. Fear prickled through her veins.

  ‘And he’ll be back soon,’ Alinor replied bossily, attempting to shut the door. One bulky foot shoved into the narrowing gap as she tried to close it.

  ‘I came to see that you had everything you need,’ he said. ‘We don’t often have ladies staying at this place.’ He emphasised the word ‘ladies’ with a sneer.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ she replied, her voice shrill with false bravado. ‘The place is a dung heap.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ he replied, a sharpness erasing his earlier drawling tone. ‘I can tell you have no choice. There’s something not right about you two. Are you on the run from somebody?’

  ‘Go away,’ said Alinor rudely.

  The innkeeper took a step into the chamber, shoving up against her, expression brimming with lecherous intent. His sour breath wafted over her as he wrenched the towel from her head with thick pudgy fingers and flung it to the floor, feasting his eyes on her loosened hair. ‘My, my, what a beauty you are, hidden beneath all that cloth. You and I are going to have a fine time together.’

  ‘Go away, get away from me before I shout and scream for help.’ Openly terrified now, Alinor felt her knees sag alarmingly.

  ‘And who’s to hear you, little lady?’ the innkeeper taunted.

  ‘Me.’

  Guilhem. Thank God.

  Caught in a spiralling web of panic, Alinor had the briefest impression of the landlord spinning backwards, his pudgy bulk disappearing down the steps in a series of thuds and curses. She heard Guilhem shout down at him, a volley of threats and curses. Staggering backwards, her whole body trembling, she plopped down on the mattress, pressing her face into her hands. Tears burned the inside of her eyelids, threatening to spill.

  ‘Why, why does this keep happening to me?’ she wailed miserably, her voice muffled. ‘Why am I so stupid, so unable to protect myself? I thought it was you at the door, Guilhem, that’s why I opened it. I’m sorry.’

  She heard him bolt the door, come over to her. Kneeling down, Guilhem placed the pile of new bed linen that he had just purchased on the dusty floor. He reached for her hands, tugging them gently away from her tearstained face. ‘Alinor, stop this. Stop blaming yourself. It’s I who should be sorry. I should never have left you alone in such an awful place.’

  Hands ensnared by his, Alinor hunched her shoulders by way of protest. Her long hair spun out from her delicate features like threads of gold filament, silky and light as cobweb, spilling across the white skin of her throat and neck, over her slim shoulders. ‘I’m annoyed,’ she said, voice hitching a little. ‘I used to be able to fend for myself, fight my own corner...but now...I don’t understand why it keeps happening, first Eustace, now...him!’ She jabbed her finger angrily at the doorway. ‘Why will they not just leave me alone?’ Her voice trailed away, hollow, bewildered.

  Guilhem cleared his throat, brushing his knuckles against her cheek. ‘Do you really have no idea?’

  ‘About what?’ Her expression was blank.

  ‘You’re a beautiful woman. You draw the admiring glances of men wherever you go—’

  ‘Stop teasing me,’ she cut off his sentence, standing abruptly. ‘You’re talking rubbish. Wilhelma constantly told me I was too outspoken for my own good, too scrawny, and that no man would ever want me!’ Even as the words tumbled from her lips, her eyes widened in horror and she clapped her hands across her mouth. ‘And there you have the proof.’ She wrenched her hands from his. ‘I just cannot keep my mouth shut.’ She stalked over to the earthenware bowl on the coffer, dunking the linen flannel furiously into the rapidly cooling water. Her shoulders sagged. Why in hell’s name had she said such an outrageous thing? To him, of all people? The man whom she loved. The man whom she could never have, because he thought nothing of her.

  ‘And you believe Wilhelma?’ Guilhem rose to his feet. Breath snapped in his chest. Alinor stood with her back to him, the glorious curling tendrils of her hair brushing her hips. His loins gathered heat, a dangerous foreboding.

  ‘It’s the truth, isn’t it?’ Eyes glittering with unshed tears, Alinor whirled around vehemently, the soaking washcloth clenched between her fingers, spinning water droplets, sparkles of light across the dingy chamber. ‘Why do you torment me like this?’ The blue of his eyes was intense, flicking out from the gloom like the vivid flash of a kingfisher’s wing; she pivoted back again, grimacing down at the bowl, not wanting to see the pity, the compassion in his gaze. God forbid that he should ever feel sorry for her!

  He acknowledged the fierce set of her head, her shoulders, hunched and fragile, almost obscured by the magnificent sweep of her hair. How could she not realise how enchanting, how desirable she was? The need to comfort her, to tell her she was wrong, so mistaken, propelled him towards her, two swift strides across the narrow chamber. His hands settled lightly on her shoulders. Alinor jumped, startled at the sudden contact. With her mind raging, she had failed to hear his quiet step. Warmth radiated from his body, engulfing her. Every vertebra in her spine, every ligament, whipped taut, quivering with awareness. Her stomach muscles shuddered, then softened.

  ‘Don’t,’ Alinor managed to croak out, almost sobbing beneath the sweetness of his touch. ‘Please don’t. I don’t want your pity.’ She battled to h
old her body rigid, unmoving, as if by keeping herself so tightly bound, she would not crumble beneath the scorching power of his touch.

  ‘I don’t pity you,’ he said, his voice rough, guttural. I desire you. I love you. The unbidden thoughts stabbed through him, firing his blood, sending any thoughts of comforting her straight to oblivion. He wanted her.

  The air in the chamber became suddenly denser, thickening.

  His breath, hot, seductive, brushed her ear, nudged the flesh: a whisper of promise, of delight. The race of her blood picked up speed. Anger dropped away. Her mind slackened, cast adrift, conscious thought bobbing helplessly. She didn’t want to think any more. Flesh thrummed, her body teetered, wavering, about to fall.

  With one hand, he swept her hair to one side, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. His big body pressed against her spine, her hips, the back of her thighs. Her body ricocheted, arching, thrilling beneath the jolt of his unexpected touch. His lips touched the sensitive skin beneath her ear; the breath punched from her lungs, hunted, ragged. Hunger ripped through her, incandescent, glorious.

  Self-control wobbled, then plummeted, dropped away to nothing. The faintest trill of doubt clamoured feebly from her conscious, logical mind; she smashed it away, smithereens of glass against stone. She had no wish to question his motives, or to ask aloud why he was doing this, for this might be the one time, the only time they could be together. There would be time for regret, for recriminations, later.

  Twisting in his loose hold, she raised her hands to clasp the carved shadows of his face. Water dripped from her fingers, glittering like diamonds in the strips of sunlight pouring through the broken slats across the window. Raising herself on tiptoe, she scuffed her mouth against his, a tentative touch, hesitant. His lips were cool, firm, the tangy scent of his breath mingling with hers. Her behaviour was brazen, foolhardy, but she cared not. She had nothing to lose. Excitement laced through her, pooling dangerously, surging darts of newborn feeling stabbing through her belly. Her breath bubbled up in short, panicky gasps, yet she was exhilarated, flesh humming with anticipation, nerves strung taut, dancing on the fringes of...she knew not what.

  At the silken touch of her lips, Guilhem groaned, crushing hard against her, pressing her back against the oak coffer. His mouth slewed across hers, unsparing, wild. She gasped out loud at the ragged invasion and his lips sank closer, demanding, incisive. Desire catapulted through her, a catalyst bursting in a shower of stars, shaking her, driving her body to clamour for more, more of him. Her hips knocked violently against the earthenware bowl; it lurched dangerously, then fell, crashing to the floor and breaking, water flooding the wooden boards, spreading darkly. He told himself there was still time, time to stop what he was about to do, time to cease this insanity. His sensible, ordered mind cried out for self-restraint, even as his desire dashed the plea away, torching the thought to ashes.

  Muscled thighs braced against the soft flare of her hips, Guilhem’s mouth traced hers, trailed lines of white-hot, splintering fire. Her hands wound around his neck, winching closer, nearer, fingers tangling in the short, curling ends of his hair; his thick arms snaked around her waist and he lifted her against him. Dragging his mouth away, he pressed his forehead against hers.

  She clung to his shoulders, pleading silently, Please don’t let this be over. Not now.

  ‘Sweet Jesu!’ His lips moved against her cheek. ‘I cannot trust myself around you! Stop me now, Alinor, for I cannot stop myself!’ Blunt desire scuffed his voice.

  ‘No.’ Her breath puffed out against his skin. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Alinor, you know what will happen.’ Guilhem drew back; midnight eyes, liquid-soft with passion, grazed hers. A ruddy colour dusted the top of his cheekbones.

  She nodded.

  His big arms rounded her shoulders to haul her close, lips tracking a line of fire across her mouth. Self-control flew from him, flapping off into the distance like a crazy bird, vanishing. He did not watch it go, gathering her against him. They moved as one, falling to the pile of linens spread across the floor, Guilhem plucking at the strings that held her gown together like a man possessed. She laughed as he pulled the under-gown over her head, reaching out to help him tear off his tunic. Kicking his braies into the corner of the room, he threw himself down on her, shockingly naked, virile. His powerful limbs gleamed in the half-light, roped muscle like carved, burnished wood.

  Her chemise was the only barrier between them, the material flimsy, insubstantial; her pink skin glowed like a pearl through the white, gauzy fabric. Guilhem’s hand moved up from her waist, rounding the outward curve of her breast, and she gasped at the delicious sensation, her slight frame shuddering to a point of being unable to cope, reduced to a quivering mass of need, unable to think, to see. Reality dimmed, reduced to a visceral, beating passion. His thumb smoothed across one blossoming nipple; she arched upwards, crying out with sheer delight, clawing at his shoulders. Caught in an eternal moment of fierce, unbridled lust, time fractured, lost its edge.

  He wrapped her tight in his arms, the hot crush of her slender frame against his own, mouth plundering her, a savage invader, ruthless, feral. She thought she would ignite beneath his touch, a massing whirlpool of need swirling dangerously within her. She could not think, she could not speak: she was lost.

  And then suddenly he was in her, hot and solid, moving steadily, quietly, giving her time to adjust. He eased slowly through the fragile membrane of her innocence, taking care. There was no pain, only a mild discomfort. His breathing was rapid, hoarse against her ear, his hands knotting savagely in her pure gold locks as he fought to slow himself, to check the hectic race of his desire. Her arms flung out wide, flailing, thrashing, seeking support. Breath scampered in her chest, chasing air. Her eyes snapped open, clung to his, her fingers clutching the sides of his face, aghast and overwhelmed at the vast tide of passion surging through her, the vortex of need that spiralled dangerously through her heart, her blood, her belly.

  Muscles straining, he moved within her, starting to increase his pace, every movement suffusing her body with the growing promise of shuddering ecstasy. The burgeoning fullness built slowly, intensified; she pitched beneath him, mewling softly, dancing to his sweet rhythm, matching each powerful thrust with an astonished eagerness of her own. Clenching desire spun tighter and tighter, narrowing to a tiny point where it could go no further; darkness flittered along the periphery of her consciousness. Her mind frayed, loosened, breath rasping out in short, truncated gasps as he drove her on and on, pushing at her until her body, the very core of her, erupted in a jagged mass of terrible violence. A million shooting stars exploded, pulsating through her, pulverising her; white-hot splinters of light arcing across her stunned brain.

  She cried out then, as did he, shouts of utter joy and pleasure; Guilhem threw his head back, throat and chest slick with sweat as he roared out his release, shuddering within her. ‘Sweet Jesu! Alinor!’ he yelled out, sprawling over her, his body sated, replete.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alinor’s eyes popped open. For a scant moment, bewilderment clagged her sleep-sodden mind: where was she? Memory flooded in, a sudden rush, the vivid images sending a wave of colour across her cheeks. Sprawled across her, Guilhem, fast asleep, his slow, even breathing tickling her ear, stirring her hair. One arm was thrown across her breasts, solid, possessive. Thick, muscular legs tangled with hers. The sweet-smelling linen, now strewn and mussed across the dusty floor, pillowed her spine. Every inch of her flesh hummed, vibrated; her limbs were heavy, satiated. Every muscle felt as if it had been pulled and stretched, as if on tenterhooks, until the strings had been cut, bringing instant, joyous release. Her body held the imprint of him: a new fluidity. How could she have known it would be like this? She had no prior information; her mother had never spoken of it and the nuns had no idea about such things.

  Moonlight sneaked throug
h the shutters, casting a faint, eerie light across the chamber. No noise emanated from the rabble in the inn below; it was late and all was quiet. What would it be like, she thought, to wake up every day with a man such as this? To share his thoughts, to laugh and cry, to bear his babies? Her heart leaped with joy, with hope. Children bundling into a big, wide bed, squalling and chattering, rolling around like puppies. In the darkness, beneath the dense warmth of his limbs, her mouth turned up in a faint smile; she shivered a little with excitement, with hope—was it a possibility?

  Her eyes tipped downwards, following the polished line of his naked flank to his hip, a narrow curve, and then to the roped outline of his hefty thighs. His skin shone, smooth like marble. The twining of their bodies was shocking, intimate; excitement burst deep within her belly, firing her blood once more. She wanted to stay like this for ever: Guilhem crushed against her, packed tight, flesh pressed against flesh, her chemise rucked up around her hips. The cool night air touched her bare legs, her feet. She shivered, not with the cold, but with the sheer delight of being with Guilhem.

  Above her, he shifted suddenly, lifting his head, propping himself up on one elbow, fearsome eyes glittering down at her. Her glorious hair fanned out across the stark white linen, a rippling flag of gold. His face was wretched.

  ‘Are you cold?’

  She shook her head, watching him carefully: the stern set of his mouth, the hollowed-out look of his eyes. Her heart crimped in on itself. Don’t say it, she wanted to cry out, don’t say anything to spoil what has just happened.

  ‘Alinor, I’m so sorry. What have I done?’

  His muttered question tore into her, ripping her hazy-edged dream of a future together to limp, dangling shreds. No, please, no!

  Curling away from her, he stood up abruptly, dragging on his braies.