by Emma Prince
“Come, I will show you your accommodations.” The King motioned the bishop toward one of the tents, followed by Kieran and de Soules.
“And for you, my lovebirds,” the King said, his gaze settling on Jerome and Elaine. He gestured toward a tent no different from the first three, except that it sat at the very edge of their little camp, slightly apart from the others.
“The comforts will be limited, unfortunately,” King Philip said as he walked them to the tent. “But then again, I imagine you two will be so occupied with other more…pressing matters that you will hardly notice.” He chuckled, holding back the tent flap.
Elaine peered inside. A wooden folding table sat on one side of the small space, a pitcher and basin placed atop it. On the other side sat a cot. A single cot. A narrow cot.
Elaine tried to cover an unladylike choking sound with a cough. “You are…most kind, Majesty.”
The King’s eyes twinkled with mirth. “I instructed the servants to give you a little extra space as well. I have heard you English ladies can be shy.”
Before Elaine could choke again, Jerome gave the King a formal bow. “Thank ye, Majesty. This is most appreciated.”
“I’ll send someone with food,” the King commented as he strode toward his own enormous tent. “But I’ll instruct them not to disturb you. Bonne nuit, mes amis.”
Cheeks blazing, Elaine ducked into the tent. Jerome followed, dropping the tent flap behind him. Without the blue glow of twilight coming through the tent’s opening, they were cast into darkness.
With a muttered curse, Jerome fumbled for something, then she saw a spark from the striking of his flint stones. He lit a candle she hadn’t noticed beside the pitcher and basin, then turned to her.
“What the hell are ye doing here?” he demanded unceremoniously.
She drew in a deep breath. “The day you left for France, I overheard David de Brechin say something…disturbing.”
Jerome’s dark eyes flared. “Did he speak against ye? Or try to attack ye agai—”
“Nay,” Elaine cut in hastily. “Nothing like that.” She swallowed. “Something far worse. He spoke William de Soules’s name in connection with some plot against the Bruce.”
“What?” he snapped.
“He called you ‘the Munro lapdog’ and said you might hinder them, but that de Soules would ‘handle’ you and the others.”
Jerome’s hands clenched at his sides. “What else?”
“De Soules is supposed to send word to de Brechin and the man he spoke with—and possibly others. De Brechin said that once the plan had been put into motion, the Bruce wouldn’t realize until it was too late to stop them.”
“Bloody hell,” Jerome hissed. He began pacing in the small space, forcing Elaine to step back or be bowled over. She bumped into the edge of the cot and sat down.
“What of the other man?” Jerome asked, not looking at her.
“I don’t know, but he was likely a Lowlander.”
“Did de Brechin see ye?”
“Nay, I don’t think so. He left the great hall after that, and he didn’t cast me a look as he departed.”
Jerome halted, facing her. “And then ye simply—what? Threw yerself on the nearest ship and came after me?”
She knew he was overwhelmed by what she’d just told him, but the blunt words still stung. She straightened to her feet once more. “Nay, I am not so foolish as that, despite what you might think of me. I told Finn and the King.”
He started pacing again. “Good. And what did they say?”
“Finn believes de Brechin is the key. He went after him that night with the intent of capturing him and forcing him to reveal their plans. For all I know he’s already dragged de Brechin back to Scone.”
“And the Bruce?”
“He wishes to keep this quiet. If anyone linked to de Brechin—including de Soules—suspects we are on to them, the others, however many there are, might disappear into the woodwork once more.”
Jerome grunting, swiping a hand over his face as he continued to pace.
“Both the King and Finn believe this must have something to do with the delivery of the declaration,” she went on. “As do I. Which is why I came. Finn said that if he’d had another man he could trust, he would have sent him to warn you, but as there was not, he would focus on de Brechin.”
“Does he ken ye’re here?”
Elaine hesitated. “Nay.” Jerome rounded on her, but before he could admonish her, she hurried on. “But de Soules is clearly part of some scheme against the King. I heard de Brechin say so myself. I couldn’t simply sit in my chamber with the door barred, twiddling my thumbs and hoping the mission—and you—would be fine. I needed to warn you.”
When Jerome remained silent, his restless steps growing faster, Elaine hitched her chin.
“I would have told you all this straightaway, but de Soules was right behind you at the docks. I had to think of some way to explain my presence that wouldn’t rouse his suspicion.”
Jerome faltered mid-step, his gaze sharp on her. “Then what ye said—that ye loved me—” He cleared his throat. “It was a lie to cover yer true purpose.”
Heat climbed into her face and a knot of conflicting emotion tightened her throat. Frustration. Indignation. And something dangerously close to regret.
“Aye,” she replied. “And apparently it worked, because everyone, even the King of France, believed it. Even you believed I was foolish enough to have done something so rash. I saw it in your eyes when I spoke the words.”
He ripped his gaze away, turning his back to her so that she couldn’t again read his features.
“You can think me idiotic if you wish, but I did what needed to be done,” she said, fighting back a surge of embarrassment.
He fell silent for a long moment, his shoulders stiff and his broad back like a wall separating them. “Nay,” he replied at last. “No’ idiotic, lass.” Slowly, he faced her. His features were tight and guarded, but he kept his voice soft. “Brave? Aye. Rash and mad? Aye, a wee bit of each. But no’ idiotic.”
Elaine released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“There’ll be hell to pay when this is all over,” he muttered. “But that cannae be our concern now. What are we to do about de Soules?”
Elaine blinked. “You are asking me?”
He leveled her with a stern look. “Well, ye’re here, arenae ye? This is both of our problem now.”
“I-I’m not sure,” she admitted. She’d been so focused on reaching Jerome and telling him what she’d overheard that she hadn’t thought beyond that.
“I cannae figure why de Soules and de Brechin would want to thwart the delivery of the declaration,” he said, “but it does seem the most logical explanation.”
“Has he done aught to raise your suspicion so far?”
“Nay,” he said, raking his hand through his hair. “The declaration has been secure with me this whole time, and de Soules hasnae once tried to take it.”
Elaine thought for another moment, but when naught came to her, she sighed. “Whatever his plan, something is afoot. I agree with the Bruce that this must be kept quiet.”
Jerome nodded. “Aye. We’ll need to be cautious, but we must watch his every move.”
“Isn’t there more we should do?” she asked. “If he means to steal the declaration or harm you in any way—”
“Dinnae fash, lass. I can take care of myself. It’s more important to try to uncover whatever he is about. There are at least three men—Scotsmen, no less—involved in this scheme. Who kens how many more there might be.”
“Then we simply…wait?” The five days it had taken to reach France had felt like an eternity, her stomach in knots and her mind running wild with fears that she would be too late. And now all they could do was wait?
“And watch,” Jerome said. “If we act rashly, any others working with de Brechin and de Soules could take to the wind, and we’ll never ken just how deep this pl
ot—whatever it may be—runs.”
“Then we are to carry on as if I am truly here because…”
The words died in Elaine’s throat. Their gazes locked, and she swallowed involuntarily.
“Aye, we’ll pretend we are lovers.”
Lovers. That was different than pretending to be in love. Elaine didn’t have experience in either, yet in her mind, being in love meant writing verses to each other, picking flowers and holding hands. Being lovers, on the other hand, meant…what they’d done outside her chamber back in Scone. And more.
Her skin prickled with awareness. The tent was so small that for both of them to stand as they were, they had to be nearly touching. And then there was the problem of the cot.
“Ye neednae look so horrified,” Jerome said evenly. “It is only pretend.”
Elaine cursed her easily read features, yet for once, they hadn’t betrayed her true thoughts. She wasn’t horrified. Nay, instead, she felt a pang of longing. Her face heated with embarrassment—for her wayward thoughts, and for the seed of curiosity at just what such pretend would entail. “A-aye, of course.”
“Ye can take the cot. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
She nodded mutely.
This was going to be a long night—and a long journey to Avignon.
Chapter Seventeen
Jerome stared up at the canvas ceiling, his eyes bleary from lack of sleep. The interior of the tent was already starting to lighten with the morning sun’s rays, yet he’d only caught a few winks of sleep all night.
He’d slept near Elaine before. Though Finn had tried to watch the two of them like a hawk when they’d been traveling to Scone, he couldn’t prevent them from both needing to sleep. Yet even then, Finn had always been nearby, and Jerome hadn’t been close enough to hear Elaine’s soft, steady breaths or smell the delicate, womanly fragrance of her skin and hair.
Last night, they’d found a tray of bread, cheese, meat, and the season’s first strawberries, along with a jug of wine, outside their tent. After washing their faces and hands in the basin, they’d taken the simple meal together, she sitting on the cot and he standing.
Jerome had turned away to give her a moment to unlace her silk gown and drape it over the little folding table, for it was her only one. He’d heard the rustling of fabric and then her hurried steps to the cot, all the while imagining what she looked like standing in naught but a chemise—and within arm’s reach of him.
When she was settled with the coverlet pulled up to her chin, he’d turned back around and stretched himself alongside the cot on the ground. And then lain awake damn near the whole night listening to Elaine breathing.
He huffed a sigh, sitting up. He wasn’t likely to sleep anymore now that the sun had broken the horizon, so he might as well rise.
He pushed to his feet from his makeshift bed. Elaine had insisted that he sleep on her cloak, despite the fact that he had spent many a night with naught to separate him from the ground but his plaid. No wonder he hadn’t been able to sleep—her scent had nigh enveloped him all night.
With a barely suppressed curse, he let his extra length of plaid fall in a pile with her cloak, then hoisted his shirt over his head and went to the basin. He needed to clear his head, and naught was more likely to help with that than cold water. Besides, he hadn’t properly washed since disembarking the ship.
He began scrubbing himself using what was left of the water in the pitcher and a linen cloth one of the servants had left. Today was a new day. The shock of seeing Elaine in France had retreated, and now only the grim reality that his mission was in danger remained. Aye, they would have to maintain the ruse of being in love, but that shouldn’t be—
Behind him, he heard a little gasp. He spun to find Elaine sitting upright in the cot, her hair like a copper halo around her head and her creamy shoulders peeking out from the coverlet.
Her bright blue eyes were fixed on him, her berry lips open in shock.
“What are you doing?” Her gaze roved over his bare chest with a hunger that sent blood rushing straight to his cock.
“I needed more of a wash,” he replied, his voice coming out harsh because of the sudden tightness in his throat.
“Oh. Of course. I—that is…” Absently, she pushed aside a lock of russet hair from her face. The coverlet slid away to pool around her waist, and it was Jerome’s turn to stare.
Her skin was nearly as pale as her white chemise. Her collarbone cut a delicate ridge across her chest, and below, he could see her breasts rising and falling with unnatural speed against the linen.
The material was thin enough that he could just make out the pinkish shadows of her nipples.
He swallowed hard. “I’ll just…” He lifted the washing cloth but couldn’t manage to turn back around to the basin. Instead, he simply stood there like a fool, letting her look her fill and gazing his own as well.
Distantly, he registered the sound of footsteps approaching their tent, but he assumed it was a servant—until he heard a casually commanding voice just on the other side of the canvas.
“And how are my lovebirds this morning?” King Philip’s tone was filled with merriment. “I hope I will not find you indisposed.”
Elaine’s eyes widened. At last Jerome snapped out of his daze. His gaze fell to the ground beside the cot. Elaine’s cloak, plus his plaid and discarded shirt, made for quite the cozy-looking nest—and if the King saw it, their ruse would be up.
He did the only thing he could think of. In two swift steps, he was to the cot. He kicked his makeshift bedding asunder even as he dove under the coverlet with Elaine.
“What—”
He stopped her next word with a kiss just as the King pulled back the tent flap and bright sunlight poured inside.
When he heard the King chuckle, Jerome knew he’d seen enough to convince him that he’d walked in on a tryst. He broke off the kiss, his gaze snagging on Elaine’s rounded eyes and softly parted lips before he managed to look at the King.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” he said with another chuckle. “Ah, jeune amour. You remind me of what it was like to court my Queen. Always stealing away, enjoying each other wherever we could.”
He waved at the now disheveled pile of clothes that had a moment before been Jerome’s bed. “And always in a hurry, non? I am sorry that I have caused you to rush over that which should be given all the time in the world, mes amis, but we must be off if we wish to reach Paris in another three days.”
Jerome barely managed to stifle a curse. He’d been so caught up in thoughts of Elaine that he hadn’t even heard the stirrings beyond their tent walls. Through the open flap, he saw that the other tents were being disassembled and the wagons loaded.
“Aye, of course, Majesty,” Jerome replied gruffly.
With another chuckle, the King dropped the tent flap and left them alone.
In bed. Half-naked.
Belatedly, Jerome realized that in his haste to convince the King of their ruse, he’d pulled Elaine flush against him. One hand lingered on her hip while the other was buried in her cascading copper locks.
Her chemise was like a whisper between them, providing little barrier between their skin. He could feel the heat of her, the softness of her breasts against his chest.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, yet he couldn’t seem to pull away. “My only thought was to maintain our cover story.”
She didn’t draw back or push his hands off her. Instead, she continued to gaze at him, her eyes roaming over his bare shoulders, his jawline, and at last his lips. “Of course,” she replied absently. “You did what you had to.”
Damn it all. He couldn’t take the look in her eyes anymore—a look of hunger, of longing. Of desire.
The kiss he’d stolen a moment before hadn’t been enough, only a brushing of lips to satisfy King Philip. The memory of it left him burning. Some unthinking, instinctual part of him howled for more.
Unbidden, he lowered his head, his lips coming within a h
air’s breadth of Elaine’s. But he wouldn’t catch her by surprise again. He wanted her to know exactly what he was about and wanted her to long for it just as badly as he did.
She made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, her breath fanning his lips in a maddening tease.
He could take no more. He closed the distance between them with a ravenous kiss. Though he attempted to leash his desire, his control snapped the moment their lips touched. When she moaned, he immediately claimed her mouth, his tongue delving and tangling with hers.
His cock grew painfully hard beneath his kilt as their voracious kiss continued. To his surprised pleasure, she met him stroke for stroke despite her innocence. She clung to him as if he were her anchor in a storm, her arms looped around his neck and her fingers buried in his hair.
Lost in the building heat, he rolled on top of her, pushing her down into the cot. Even as he propped himself on his elbows, taking some of his weight to avoid crushing her, she arched up into him, silently demanding that their bodies’ contact not be broken.
Her breasts brushed his chest, the pearled nipples dragging a burning path over his skin. He lifted a hand to one breast, but instead of slowly teasing her as he had before, he cupped her fully, swallowing her gasp of pleasure with his kiss.
He thumbed her beaded nipple, feeling her jolt beneath him. Heaven help him, Elaine’s pleasure was like the finest Munro whisky—heady, powerful, and intoxicating. Like a drunkard, he couldn’t get enough. He longed to draw out her ecstasy. He would lave each breast with torturous thoroughness, then move between her legs until she was trembling and begging for all of him.
Bloody hell. He rocked his hips against her, needing more contact, needing her to feel the hard length of his desire. She responded on instinct, lifting one knee so that he settled between her legs. He could feel the heat of her womanhood even through her chemise and his thick wool plaid.
A nigh-blinding urge to rip off his kilt and her thin chemise stole over him. He felt himself teetering on the edge of sanity, a heartbeat away from doing something irrevocable.
