She was at once elated that her son was part of this happy family group, but bereft that she was not.
Despite her attempts to remain out of sight, Henry spotted her. He waved. “Maman,” he shouted in Gaelic, “we’ve been playing soule. We triumphed, thanks to Alex.”
She stepped into the courtyard, holding onto the stone wall, fearing her knees might buckle under the weight of Alexandre’s gaze as he lowered Henry to the ground.
“You mustn’t refer to the Comte by his given name,” she admonished.
“Prince Henry is a very good player,” Alexandre said, tousling her son’s hair. “I’ve given him leave to call me by name.”
Faol barked his agreement.
At that moment Alexandre’s laughing nieces hurried into the bailey, Claricia with them. She waved at her mother, but did not stop to bestow a kiss. The girls listened open mouthed to the excited babbling of the boys.
This was what Elayne wanted—security for her children, a place they belonged, among people of their rank—but it was hard to let them go.
Alexandre came to her, his blue eyes dancing. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They still love you like a mother.”
She wanted to weep. If only she could tell him. Without thinking, she reached to wipe a streak of mud from his cheek with her thumb. He caught hold of her hand.
It was highly inappropriate. Serfs could be hung for touching their master. Mortified, she tried to pull away. “Forgive me, milord, I am not your nursemaid. I should not have touched you.”
He pressed her hand to his cheek, covering it with his palm. “I enjoy your touch. You are a warm and caring woman. No wonder your children love you.”
Her heart hammered in her chest. Could he hear it? Had he guessed? She averted her gaze. “My hands are rough. The kitchens.”
Frowning, he took her hand away from his face, studying it closely. “Kitchens? You’ve been working in the kitchens?”
She was dismayed when the happiness drained from his face. “I have no duties during the day, so—”
He squeezed her hand. “Look at me. By whose command?”
She studied her feet, unwilling to say anything that might jeopardize the relationship between her children and the Venestres.
He narrowed his eyes. “I will inform Steward Bonhomme you are not a scullery maid.”
She clutched her skirts with her free hand. “But at least it gives me something to do during the day.”
He brushed a kiss on her knuckles, then released her. “I will find you a position, but it will not be in the kitchens.”
Elation soared. A Count bestowing a courtly kiss—on a servant. But then her heart fell. He could only mean—
He stalked off into the Keep.
Suddenly aware of the silence, she turned to find several pairs of curious young eyes watching her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ALEX SOAKED IN THE TUB his valet had prepared. The hot water eased his aches and pains, but did nothing to soothe his agitated heart.
Why had he never joined in such exhilarating games as a child? What had caused him to hold himself aloof from his brothers and sisters? Had he felt different because he was destined to be Comte? Or was it because their father always seemed at ease with his other children, but awkward with him? Perhaps shyness was simply in his nature.
Had his father treated him differently because he was the eldest son, or because he felt guilty he’d been in prison when his heir was born?
And Henry Dunkeld. What was it about the boy that made him feel protective, and caring, a word he’d never ascribed to himself before as far as children were concerned? Though it was a foreign emotion, he liked it. The lad was a hostage, an eight year old. Yet he’d not only touched Alex’s heart, he’d made him more appreciative of his nephews and nieces.
As for Claricia—could any man ever want a more delightful child? Perhaps he should encourage all the children to call him Lix.
He rejected the notion. The nickname was a special bond between him and the little girl.
He startled, dropping the soap he’d been stroking over his bruised shins, when Albert suddenly embarked on scrubbing his back. It jolted him out of his reverie. What was he thinking? An attachment for the Dunkelds would be a grave mistake.
They were not his children, nor would they ever be. They were royalty. They had a father, the heir to the throne of Scotland, who was most likely missing his twins keenly.
The thought left him bereft. If they were his he would have moved heaven and earth to keep them from being sent away as hostages. King David had given Maud his word he would help her. Evidently that hadn’t been sufficient for Maud and her Angevin husband.
He wondered again about the suitability of such a pair for the English throne. Compared to Stephen—
Alex was determined Henry and Claricia not be separated from the nursemaid they loved so dearly. Though he didn’t understand Gaelic, hearing Henry’s gleeful shout to his Maman in the bailey had filled him with joy. The boy even thought of her as his mother. Not surprising since his birth mother had died giving him life.
Elayne lavished love on them, as if they were her own.
But why had he rashly promised he would find her a position? Doing what? Why did the idea of her slaving in the kitchen fill him with such outrage? She was a servant, expected to contribute to the successful running of the castle, but he couldn’t go near her without his heart and his manhood responding, fiercely.
Her touch on his muddied face had been the perfect ending to a perfect day.
Imagine coming home every day to such tenderness, such caring.
Perhaps making her his mistress was the only way to protect her. Her chapped hands on his back would feel better than Albert’s any day.
He growled when his shaft agreed wholeheartedly.
~~~
HENRY FINALLY FELL ASLEEP after chattering endlessly about the victory and Alexandre’s part in it. Elayne smoothed her hand over his hair, now finally clean again, and pecked a kiss on one rosy cheek.
Claricia had been sleeping for ten minutes, seemingly satisfied with Elayne’s answer as to why girls couldn’t play soule.
Still caked with dried mud, Faol had collapsed in a snoring heap outside the door, his long tail twitching.
The evening meal in the Hall had been nerve wracking. It was evident all the servants knew she had touched their Master. Some glared, obviously thinking her an opportunistic whore; others winked and smiled knowingly.
Alexandre’s demeanor hadn’t helped matters. He’d never taken his brooding eyes off her. He’d bathed and changed clothes, but sported a livid bruise on the cheekbone she’d touched, and his lip was cut.
She deemed it odd that his participation in the game was the talk of the castle. Apparently, Comtes didn’t join in such pastimes. Too bad. He looked like he’d enjoyed himself, a pleasant change from his normal reserve. It reminded her of when they’d played with the puppets.
The boyish side of him warmed her heart. She had only to cast eyes on the arrogant, reserved, brooding and sometimes aggravating man for other parts of her body to grow uncomfortably hot.
The Comte’s promise to find her a position gnawed at her. What had he meant?
She was about to collapse into the chair by the hearth and put her feet up when Micheline tapped on the door and poked her head into the chamber.
She winked as she came in. “No rest for you yet. Milord Comte wishes to see you in his solar.”
A maelstrom of conflicting emotions whirled in Elayne’s head.
Tell him I’ve gone to bed.
Tell him you couldn’t find me.
Tell him I can’t be his mistress.
Tell him I long for his touch.
Tell him I’m not a servant.
Her feet were lead weights. She stiffened her spine, drew the playd over her head and walked to the door. She looked longingly at her children, wishing she could curl up with them. “They’re asleep. I won’t be long.”<
br />
~~~
ALEX STOOD WITH HIS BACKSIDE to the fire in his solar, legs braced, hands on hips.
Too intimidating.
He folded his arms across his chest.
Non!
He stuck out his bottom lip and flicked his forefinger back and forth over it. Perhaps he should have asked Romain’s advice?
He rejected that notion almost before it entered his head. He was perfectly capable of inviting a woman to be his mistress without help from his philandering brother.
He tugged at his earlobe. Why was it taking her so long to arrive?
He walked over to the small table with the tray and decanter, filled the two goblets with wine, then walked back to the fire, one goblet in hand.
About to take a sip, he stopped, the goblet halfway to his mouth.
Not chivalrous to drink before she arrived.
The other goblet looked odd sitting on the tray by itself. He quickly replaced his, straightened his doublet and returned to the fire.
Perhaps she’d refused to come.
Impossible.
Maybe she wasn’t feeling well.
Unlikely, though she looked a bit piqued in the Hall.
One, or both of the children had fallen ill. The exercise had been too much for Henry.
Patently ridiculous.
He considered taking off his doublet. The room was suddenly stifling hot. But it would be inappropriate to greet a servant in shirtsleeves.
He scoffed out loud. He was about to invite the woman to his bed. He’d be wearing a lot less than his shirt if she agreed. His shaft warmed to the notion.
He scratched his head. What if she didn’t agree?
Of course she’d consent. She was a servant. She’d have no choice
He stalked to the wine and drained his goblet as a knock sounded. He wiped his mouth, his throat suddenly dry as dust. He couldn’t, shouldn’t do this. He didn’t want a woman who had no choice. But he did want Elayne—so badly it had him cross-eyed.
His hand shaking, he refilled the empty goblet. “Entrez!”
She entered, smiling weakly, the playd covering her hair completely. His hopes plummeted. Could she have contrived to look more like a nun? He wanted to whip off the covering and sift his fingers through the glorious red curls.
She hovered near the door.
He held out a goblet. “Wine?”
He wondered if perhaps he too was ailing after the strenuous exercise. His voice sounded hoarse, and what had become of Alexandre de Montbryce, polished nobleman, host extraordinaire?
She looked at him uncertainly, then walked towards him.
There was something about this woman’s bearing. He supposed even a peasant who’d spent her life in a royal castle would learn to walk with nobility.
Yet she had an assurance about her, a confidence rarely found in servants. Perhaps Scots were different from Normans. They survived in a harsher land.
She always smelled clean, unlike most peasants he came into contact with. Indeed there were many noblewomen of his acquaintance who didn’t smell as sweet as Elayne.
She accepted the goblet. “Merci, milord. You took me unawares. In Scotland servants do not drink wine with their Masters. I suppose I must get used to doing things differently here.”
Alex wasn’t sure if her remarks were intended to take his attention away from the tremor in her hand, or was she flirting with him?
His hopes soared.
~~~
ELAYNE SIPPED DEMURELY when Alexandre gave leave. She must make him believe she was unused to the taste. It had been so long since she’d enjoyed fine wine, she wanted to guzzle it down like a peasant, but that would slow her thinking and she had to keep her wits about her.
The wine was fruity, and of such high quality she almost forsook her mission. She must leave this chamber with her pride intact, having charmed Alexandre de Montbryce into believing she wanted him, but couldn’t consent to being his mistress.
It wasn’t a lie. She did want him, with an intensity that alarmed her. She could lose herself and forget all her trials and tribulations in his blue eyes, his strong arms.
He motioned her to one of two chairs by the fire. He sat in the other, staring at her. It struck her suddenly that he was as nervous as she. “You wanted to speak to me, milord?”
He cleared his throat, lifting one foot to rest his ankle atop his knee. It drew her attention to his powerful thighs—and beyond to the bulge at his groin. She inhaled deeply and looked away.
“Er, oui,” he replied, uncrossing his legs and straightening his back. “It’s about your position.”
She stared into the dark liquid. “My position is nursemaid to Henry and Claricia. My duty is to take care of them in this foreign land.”
He rose abruptly to fetch a decanter. “More wine?” he asked.
She shook her head, taking another sip. “Still a lot left. I’m not used to wine.”
He arched his brows and put his goblet on the tray. To her consternation, he dropped to one knee, his hands on the arms of her chair.
“Milord,” she protested as a wave of heat crashed over her.
He took her goblet and placed it beside her chair. “Do you like it?”
His nearness?
The clean male scent of him?
His long fingers, so close?
The sound of his deep, husky voice?
She must have looked like a frightened doe.
“The wine,” he said.
“Oh, the wine. Yes. Yes. I liked it. Fruity. Very good quality.”
He tilted his head to one side, a bemused smile twitching his lips. “How can you speak of quality if you are not used to drinking it?”
She wanted to put her hands on the arms of the chair and push herself out of it, but then she might touch him, and that would be her undoing. “I thought that’s what you wanted to hear.”
He studied her. “There is something I would like to hear from your lips.”
“My lord,” she whispered, shrinking back as he leaned closer. The playd slipped to her shoulders.
His warm lips brushed hers gently, but his kiss rocked her. His mouth lingered, waiting for her reaction. She should protest, object, be outraged, but instead she opened for him. He sucked her bottom lip, then plunged his tongue into her mouth. His growl echoed the groan that rose involuntarily from her throat.
Dugald’s tongue had made her gag. She sucked on Alex’s tongue like a child on a teat, intoxicated by the taste of the wine he’d drunk. His belly pressed against her knees, his chest was inches from her breasts. Her treacherous nipples strained against the fabric of her chemise. Would his hand wander? She had never longed so desperately for a man’s touch.
“I want you,” he breathed.
He feathered kisses on her neck. The confession of her yearning for him teetered on the tip of her tongue, but instinctively she flattened her hands against the solid wall of his chest. Something deep within made her pause. Pride? Fear? Honor? “This cannot be, my lord. I will not be your mistress.”
He drew back, his eyes filled with confusion, disappointment. She wavered. To keep him at bay, she would have to lie. “I have a husband.”
It wasn’t an outright lie, but it was enough to shock him. He came to his feet quickly, avoiding her gaze. “I apologize. I believed you were free, that you felt an attraction.”
“I—I do,” she stammered, fearing she was revealing too much of her emotions. “But—”
~~~
IT WAS THE LAST WORD she spoke that gave Alex pause.
But what? If she had a husband, why had she been sent with the hostages? No man married to Elayne would let her go. Unless there was something about the children—
He clasped his hands together behind his back and looked down at her, hoping she couldn’t hear the erratic beating of his heart. He’d a premonition his life was about to change forever. Her kiss had fired his blood more than any other he’d ever shared with a woman. He longed to delve his to
ngue into her warm mouth again and again. “Tell me about this husband of yours.”
She glanced up at him sharply, and he knew whatever she said next would be a lie.
“His name is Dugald.”
But why was she lying?
He stared into the waning embers of the fire. A chill stole over him. He’d imagined lying in front of its warmth on the wolfskin rug, wrapped in Elayne’s embrace. “And how long have you been married?”
“Too many years,” she whispered.
The ring of truth in that answer dismayed him. “And why did he allow you to be sent to Normandie?”
She stared at her clasped hands. “I had no choice.”
Try as he might, Alex couldn’t conjure the scenario that had led to this woman he desired being here with him now—except one that suddenly made perfect sense. He took hold of her hands, alarmed that they were ice cold. “You are their mother.”
He held his breath, hoping she would deny it.
“Yes.”
His world shattered. If Elayne was the mother of Henry and Claricia, then her husband was the heir apparent to the throne of Scotland. She was no nursemaid, but the future Queen of the Scots. And Marguerite had consigned her to his kitchens.
He bent the knee before her again, his head bowed. “My lady, I owe you an apology. Forgive my impertinence. I will see to it you are treated in the future as befits your station.”
Elayne leapt from her chair, almost bowling him over. “No! Not a single person must know I am their mother.”
She paced, wringing her hands, then fell to her knees and prostrated herself before him like a penitent, her fingertips digging into the rug. “Forgive me, my lord comte,” she sobbed.
He knelt beside her and gathered her into his arms. This outburst could mean only one thing. The hostages were not who they purported to be. If Maud discovered the subterfuge, she would order their deaths. That might cost Maud the alliance with King David.
Even Alex’s life and Montbryce castle could be at risk if Maud and her husband Geoffrey thought he was part of the conspiracy.
He rocked Elayne in his embrace, stroking her hair until her tears subsided. It was not the scene before the hearth he had envisioned, but it was something.
Fatal Truths (The Anarchy Medieval Romance) Page 6
