by Emma Prince
The realization of just how close he was coming to spreading her legs wider and driving into her, consequences be damned, was like a splash of cold water. He jerked back, breaking their kiss, and hissed a curse as if he’d been burned.
“What are you doing?” she mumbled, her voice thick with passion.
“I’m stopping,” he said on a ragged breath, “before I do something we’ll both regret.”
Hurt flashed through her eyes as he threw back the coverlet and rose from the bed. Cursing the tremble in his legs and his throbbing cock, he snatched up his discarded shirt and yanked it over his head.
“Was that part of the ruse as well?” she asked behind him. He turned to find her propped on one elbow, looking thoroughly ravished. Her hair was a riot of russet waves, her lips swollen and glistening from their kiss. Her rapid breaths pushed her breasts against the thin chemise, which hung somewhat askew from her shoulders.
“Bloody hell, Elaine,” he rasped. “I dinnae ken. Something powerful burns between us, but that doesnae mean—”
“Then why would we both regret where we were headed?”
He cursed again, raking his hair away from his forehead. “Ye dinnae understand of what ye speak. Ye dinnae ken the consequences of what we were about.”
That damned hurt look flickered in her vibrant eyes again, and it was like a knife to his chest.
“I may be innocent, but I am not a child, nor an idiot. I…” She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing. “I want you.”
He let a long breath go. Good God, what was she doing to him? “Ye ken I want ye, too,” he replied at last, keeping his voice low. “But there are far greater things at stake than our desire. We must remain focused on the mission—and the threat from de Soules.”
She sat up, pulling the coverlet over her chest. “Aye, but you’ll forgive me for being confused as to where you draw the line between the task of pretending to desire me and your true feelings.”
She was right, damn it. There was naught he could say, for he’d agreed to this ruse, yet he’d also initiated that blazing kiss.
And the shameful truth was, when she’d first proclaimed her love, he’d wanted it to be real. Some irrational part of him didn’t want it to be a ruse at all. But while their desire was genuine, her feelings weren’t—she’d admitted it had been a lie.
He should be glad, for it made matters simpler, but instead his chest ached and his thoughts swirled in confusion. So all he said was, “Dress yerself. We cannae keep the King waiting.”
He knew even before he saw her eyes fill with frustrated tears that he was being an arse. She was not some cheap whore to be tumbled and then kicked out of bed. Nay, she was a lady, and what was more, a soulful, spirited, deeply feeling woman.
But she was not his, regardless of the ruse they had to maintain or the undeniable heat that crackled between them.
As he threw the extra length of his plaid over his shoulder and gathered her cloak from the ground, Jerome silently cursed himself up and down. Bloody hell, what had he gotten himself into?
Chapter Eighteen
Though the day was warm and pleasant again, and the landscape verdant and bursting with spring’s plentitude, Elaine let it wash over her without enjoying the beauty all around. Her mind was too occupied with chewing on the conversation she’d had with Jerome to pay attention to her surroundings.
His strong, lean body in the saddle behind her was a constant reminder of the longing he’d awoken that morning. But the scorching desire he’d kindled had ended in a blunt assertion that whatever lay between them came second to the task of delivering the Bruce’s declaration safely into the hands of the Pope.
Aye, of course it did, but to ferret out whatever William de Soules was about, they had to pretend to be lovers. Yet where was the line between pretend and the truth? She feared the longer this ruse went on, the greater the danger that whatever line lay between the two would be so blurred that she would no longer be able to tell fantasy from reality, hope from truth.
And she didn’t think her heart could take such ambiguity. What a tangle they were in.
By the time they halted for the evening, her head ached and her back was stiff from trying not to lean against Jerome’s solid chest. He dismounted and lifted her from the saddle. When she looked up at his face, he seemed to be in as foul a mood as she. His brows were lowered into a stern line, as were his lips. The chestnut depths of his eyes were clouded with frustration.
He turned away to see to their horse, so she stood by herself, feeling useless as the servants rapidly erected their camp, the guards set up a perimeter, and the others in the envoy hobbled their animals for the night.
All except William de Soules.
Elaine had watched him as they rode, but he hadn’t done aught to indicate he was part of some nefarious scheme against the Bruce. He’d simply kept pace with the others, only speaking to lavish gratitude and respect upon King Philip for his hospitality and aid.
But now as Jerome, Kieran, and the bishop walked their horses to a nearby copse of birch trees, de Soules lingered behind, then peeled away. He guided his horse to the right so that the King’s tent, which the servants had just hoisted, blocked Jerome and the others’ view of him, then mounted and rode west into the dusky twilight.
Elaine’s pulse leapt. Of course, he could simply be seeking some privacy to relieve his bladder or bowels, but why wouldn’t he just walk several paces away behind one of the other clumps of birches instead of mounting his horse and riding into the drawing night?
“Jerome!” Elaine hissed, keeping her voice low as he and Kieran returned from hobbling their horses. The bishop had already headed toward his tent, complaining of soreness after two long days of riding.
Kieran shot Jerome a knowing look. “Yer lady isnae easily satisfied, Munro. I though ye were a Highlander, man.”
Jerome glared at Kieran, who only barked a laugh and dropped away to see about the evening meal.
“What’s wrong?” Jerome asked softly when he reached her. His eyes were unreadable in the falling darkness.
“It’s de Soules,” she breathed, nodding in the direction he’d gone. “I thought he was hobbling his horse with the rest of you, but then he rode off.”
Jerome instantly stiffened, his hand dropping to the pouch on his belt. But the Bruce’s declaration must have still been there, for he relaxed a hair’s breadth. His eyes scanned the camp, then followed her gaze. “Did he do aught else?”
“Nay, but he made a point of going around the King’s tent so as not to draw your attention,” she replied. “Then he headed west.”
“Mayhap his lands lie that way,” he said, though suspicion laced the words.
“Mayhap, but why wouldn’t he simply tell someone—anyone—that he was going to check on his estate?”
Jerome let a breath go. “Ye’re right, but I cannae go after him now—no’ in the dark, with no trail to follow. If he comes upon me tracking him, he’ll ken we are aware that something is afoot.”
“What will we do, then?”
“We’ll wait,” he replied. “I’ll make sure I see him return, and mayhap I can ask him a few questions without rousing his suspicion.”
She nodded, but unease coiled in her stomach. Never had doing naught felt so daunting.
* * * *
King Philip was in higher spirits that night, so he invited all of them to dine with him in his grand tent. Elaine couldn’t help staring. Impossibly, the French King’s traveling accommodations were finer and more luxurious than much of what she’d seen at the Bruce’s court in Scone.
Dozens of lit candelabras cast a warm glow over the tent’s interior, and woven rugs covered the ground. A flap at the back separated the King’s bed from the main space, which was filled with a long wooden table that was actually a series of segments fitted together. A dozen chairs upholstered in red velvet circled the table. And atop the table sat gold and silver platters and trays loaded with food.
The
food itself was simple, for the traveling cook could only do so much without a proper kitchen. Still, the meats, cheeses, breads, fruits, and roasted vegetables seemed like a veritable feast to Elaine after eating hard tack and salted jerky on the Bonny Berta. What was more, the servants kept their crystalline goblets full with rich French wine, under the King’s proud surveillance.
When the meal was completed, King Philip insisted that they all take their chairs outside. He’d ordered that a large fire be built so that they might linger together before retiring for the evening.
How surreal her life had become, Elaine mused as she leaned forward in her chair to extend her hands toward the warm flames. Only a sennight ago, she had met the King of Scotland, and now she was seated across the fire from the King of France.
Jerome had carefully placed himself at her side. Despite the air of cool detachment that had hung over them all day, they still needed to maintain appearances before the others.
The King arranged his blue velvet cloak around his shoulders as he eased back in his ornately carved chair. His dark eyes danced with the firelight as he gazed at Elaine and Jerome.
“I hope my interruption this morn did not lead to a lovers’ spat, mes amis,” he said casually. “You two have seemed prickly all day.”
Elaine pressed her lips together against an unladylike curse. So much for maintaining their ruse. The King had clearly picked up on the tension between her and Jerome. At least he assumed it was a lovers’ quarrel rather than a crack in their farcical relationship.
Kieran snorted, casting them a rueful look.
“I ken one remedy for such a tiff. Munro, why dinnae ye take yer lass back to yer tent and—”
“Shut yer mouth, MacAdams,” Jerome snapped. His dark gaze flashed to Elaine, and she understood the bind he was in. He longed to escape to their tent to avoid further scrutiny from the King and Kieran, but to catch de Soules returning from wherever he’d slipped off to, he needed to linger out here.
“I wish to stay by the fire,” she said airily, casting Jerome a faux-haughty glance. Though it meant more humiliation, it was better to let the others think they were squabbling.
Kieran snorted again and the King chuckled.
“I am so glad you have accompanied us, Lady Elaine,” King Philip said. “This journey would have been far duller without you, as I’m sure Munro here will agree.”
At Jerome’s flat look, the King held up his hands, a broad smile on his face. “Peace, man. Though I tend to agree with MacAdams about how to soothe the sting of a lovers’ quarrel—” a wicked, mirthful glint lit his eyes at that “—I am wise enough to know it is not another man’s place—even a King’s—to interfere in matters of the heart.”
King Philip sighed, settling deeper into his chair. “In truth, I must thank you, for you have provided much diversion and entertainment on the journey thus far. Your presence has been a welcome distraction from the burdens of a King. I have only just secured a tentative peace with Flanders, and now the Pope wishes for me to launch a new crusade in the Holy Land. And Edward II refuses to play his part.”
“I didn’t realize Kings had to pay homage to each other,” Elaine said, grateful for the shift in conversation.
King Philip waved a hand. “When it comes to matters of money, land, and power, things grow complicated quickly. Edward is not only King of England, but also holds the title of Duke of Guyenne here in France. As such, he is my subject, and beholden to pay homage to me. Yet he refuses.”
“What will you do, Majesty?” Elaine asked tentatively. The King had been relaxed and forthcoming with them all evening, yet it seemed outlandish to question a sovereign thus.
To her relief, he lifted his ermine-covered shoulders in a casual shrug. “I admire the leeway and power King Robert gives his nobles,” he said, nodding to Jerome. “The declaration you carry proves how much he values their free and willing support.”
“Indeed, Majesty,” Jerome replied.
The King’s eyes turned sharp. “Though I respect the Bruce’s approach, I am not inclined to follow suit. I wish to bring Edward to heel, yet unlike King Robert, I cannot simply declare war with him for misbehaving.” His teeth flashed in the firelight. “But I can punish Edward by aiding Scotland’s freedom efforts.”
“The enemy of our enemy can make a fine friend,” Kieran said.
The King chuckled. “I appreciate you Scots’ plain speaking—and your King’s blunt actions. In fact, I aim to be bolder, like him.” He spread his arms wide. “That is one reason why I decided to escort you to Paris. I am getting a small taste of what it was like for him in his army camp, am I not?”
Kieran barked a laugh. “I wouldnae exactly call this an army camp, but then again, I dinnae ken how many rulers sit gabbing around a fire with glorified messengers.”
Elaine stiffened at Kieran’s brusque reply, but true to his word, King Philip only seemed amused by the Highlander’s bluntness.
But then the King turned his intelligent gaze on her, and her pulse leapt.
“And what of you, Lady Elaine? You speak as if the Bruce is your King as well, yet your English accent is unmistakable. Will you not take up King Edward’s defense?”
“Nay, Majesty,” she replied. “For Edward is no longer my King. He ceded the Borderlands, where I grew up, to the Bruce several years ago—and blessedly so, for now we know peace and prosperity, where once we only knew war and destruction.”
King Philip nodded thoughtfully. “And so the Bruce has won over not only your lands, but your loyalty as well.”
“Aye, Majesty. And if there were a place in the Bruce’s cause for an English lady like me with no special gifts or talents, only deep devotion and abiding belief in the fight for freedom, I would gladly give not only my loyalty but my life to Scotland.”
The King dipped his head to her. “I applaud you, mademoiselle. Such conviction for a young woman. And now I am doubly envious of the Bruce, for he is not only bold and battle-tested, but he has won the devotion of both his nobles and fair English ladies alike!”
Kieran grunted in amusement, and even Jerome’s mouth quirked. The King leaned back in his chair once more, clearly pleased.
“Most diverting company, indeed,” he said, smiling. “Sir William will be sore he missed such an agreeable evening.”
Nerves spiked in Elaine’s stomach. Her gaze darted to Jerome. He gave her a look that wordlessly told her to play along with him.
“I dinnae doubt he will regret his departure,” Jerome said casually. “But when I saw him ride off headed west, I assumed he wished to see to his estate. An unfortunate but necessary interruption from a fine evening.”
The King’s brows drew together. “I am afraid you are showing your ignorance of French geography, mon ami. It is true, we are in Picardy, which is where Sir William owns land, but his holding is a day’s ride east of here, not west.”
Elaine clamped her lips shut to prevent from gasping. The King had just confirmed what they’d both suspected. William de Soules was clearly up to something tonight.
“Ah, my mistake,” Jerome said, his voice low and soft.
Kieran was frowning across the fire at Jerome. “I had assumed de Soules had merely retired to his tent like Bishop Kininmund,” he commented. “Ye didnae tell me ye saw him ride away.”
Jerome lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “As I said, I assumed he was visiting his lands. Mayhap he sought some…other diversion.”
Elaine didn’t miss the implication in Jerome’s words, nor his subtle attempt to redirect Kieran’s attention.
The King chortled. “There are certainly plenty of pleasures to indulge here in France. I hope he is enjoying his time here.”
Elaine would have expected Kieran to bark a laugh at the King’s ribald insinuation, yet the Highlander still stared at Jerome with a scrutinizing frown on his face. Rising worry tightened her throat. As far as she knew, Kieran had no part in whatever de Brechin and de Soules planned, yet she cou
ldn’t be entirely sure. And even if he were innocent of their schemes, it was best not to raise his suspicions regarding what she and Jerome were about.
She had to act fast to disrupt this conversation.
“I am beginning to understand that the French value pleasure in all areas of life,” she interjected. “Food, wine, good conversation…”
The King turned to her, his gaze flicking meaningfully to Jerome. “And of course most importantly in a lover’s arms.”
Elaine repressed a curse. Still, speaking of her fabricated love affair with Jerome was a safer topic than de Soules. She lowered her eyes demurely. “Of course, Majesty, but a lady doesn’t speak of such things. Tell me, will I find conversation at your court in Paris so scandalous?”
King Philip’s eyes glittered with merriment. “Oh, indeed, mademoiselle. I dare say you will be shocked by our joie de vivre.”
The King began regaling them with tales of life at the French court. Though some of the stories made her face heat with modest shock, it seemed that de Soules’s whereabouts were forgotten for the evening.
When the fire burned low, the King stood and stretched. “You will experience the wonders of life at court soon enough, mes amis,” he said. “But not unless we ride swiftly tomorrow and the next day—which means it is time to say bonsoir.”
As he shuffled back toward his tent, Kieran rose slowly. “I suppose I will be off, as well,” he said, though Elaine didn’t miss the searching look he cast once more at Jerome. Kieran lingered for a moment, but then stepped into the surrounding darkness toward his tent.
When they were alone at last, she turned to meet Jerome’s serious gaze.
“How much longer must we wait for de Soules?” she whispered.
“As long as it takes. But ye should get some rest.”
She blinked. “I am as much a part of this as you are.”
“Aye,” he replied, sounding tired. “But we neednae both stay up all night. Ye are a strong rider, but I can tell that ye are saddle-weary.”
In truth, she wasn’t so much achy from riding as she was from trying to hold herself apart from Jerome in the saddle. The way her bottom bounced in his lap and her legs dangled over his powerful, plaid-covered thighs atop his horse was downright mind-addling. Her back and shoulders were a ball of tension from such close proximity to him.
