“That’s amusing coming from a woman who beds Balzac,” Elisabeth drawled.
Veronique opened her mouth, clearly intent on venting her outrage, but the King intervened. “Enough!” He turned to Tristan. “Tristan, you have never lied to me. I want the truth from your lips. Are you Elisabeth’s lover?”
Elisabeth could scarcely breathe. She couldn’t look at Tristan, afraid her strong emotions for him would somehow be detected.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Elisabeth’s stomach plummeted.
“I see.” The King’s response was tight.
Terror gripped her. The last thing she wanted was for Tristan to be punished in any way. She wouldn’t allow him or her sister to pay for her mistakes and miscalculations. This was all her doing. The entire muddled mess. Her plans had always helped her and Claire. Elisabeth had become a master at them, successfully countering the constant jostling and plotting that were so a part of court life.
And she was good at it. It was all she knew. All she knew how to do in the circumstances she lived in.
There was only one thing she could do to protect Tristan and Claire and keep Veronique from succeeding with her plan to discredit and diminish her before the King—and that was to sacrifice her own plan.
What choice did she have?
Her chest immediately tightened in anguish. She fought back tears, knowing how dangerous it would be to shed a single one.
“Your Majesty,” Elisabeth said, forcing the words from her lips despite the knot in her throat, “I attended Tristan de Tiersonnier’s château with two intentions. The first was to obtain lessons in fencing from the greatest swordsman in the realm. The second was to bed him. I find him appealing and I seduced him.” She tilted her head to one side. “Surely this doesn’t surprise you, Sire? After all, such appetites are in our blood. In our very nature, Your Majesty. And the opposite sex simply cannot resist our charms. No?”
The words were like poison in her mouth. She felt ill having to reduce what she’d shared with Tristan to meaningless carnal moments—an empty conquest—when each kiss and touch had meant so much more.
Tristan stiffened, but he held his tongue.
The King studied her for a moment. Her heart pounded in her throat. Then his lips twitched and he tossed his head back in laughter. “Ah, dear Elisabeth. There are times I believe you should have been born a male.” He descended the steps chuckling, and then offered his arm. She took it, and somehow maintained her smile, though her heart was fragmenting into a million sharp, piercing shards.
“You are correct, daughter,” her father said to her, leading her out toward the gardens. “It is in our nature to crave and enjoy decadent delights.”
“But—But what about—” Veronique began.
“That will be all on the subject, Veronique,” their father tossed over his shoulder, not bothering to glance Veronique’s way.
Elisabeth couldn’t look at Tristan. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she let the King lead her outside into a throng of waiting courtiers, her heartache keen and suffocating. She’d thwarted her half-sister and managed to retain the King’s favor. Claire would be all right. As would Tristan. She’d managed to quell any ire the King may have had toward him as well.
But it had cost her dearly. She’d lost Tristan. He was an honorable man, honest and true—qualities she loved about him. He favored those qualities in others. She knew he despised those who deceived and schemed. She’d just confirmed in his heart and mind—with her own words—that his original perception of her was right—she was a hollow schemer, spoiled and looking for diversions.
Worse, for all her bravado, deep inside she was a coward. A woman who didn’t have the courage to speak the truth, let down her guard, and expose her true emotions to the man she loved to mend matters between them.
Chapter Seven
Elisabeth stared out the window of her private apartments at the palace the next day. Her eyes felt raw from lack of sleep and copious tears. Pacing most of the night, she’d thought of different things she could say to mend matters with Tristan. All of which were foolish. None of which professed her love. By morning she’d come to the conclusion that though she had the ability to give Tristan her body, she’d no ability to voice the words burning in her heart for him—knowing full well that if she tried to voice those three words, they’d lodge in her throat.
How was she to undo the training and ingraining she’d been subjected to her entire life? She had no idea how to wrestle down her fear of laying herself bare. Of making herself vulnerable emotionally. It was irrational, yet gripping and real.
Besides, she had no confidence at all that Tristan would even believe her if she tried to explain everything and told him she how much she loved him.
By early afternoon, Elisabeth didn’t have to torture herself any longer. Agathe had advised her that Tristan was gone, his rooms at Versailles vacated.
She swiped away a tear and rested her head against the window. Depending on who her father chose as her next husband, she may never see Tristan again. Not even so much as a passing glance.
The door to her antechamber swung open and slammed shut. She jumped and spun around. Tristan walked toward her, his cane in hand, taking her by surprise. Looking so beautiful.
A stab of longing pierced her heart.
He stopped mere feet from her. “Let me see if I understand this correctly. You convinced your father to send you to my château for a fencing instructor, intending while you were there to get me to bed you. Is that accurate?” His tone was matter-of-fact. She didn’t know what to make of it or his presence.
“Answer me, Elisabeth,” he insisted.
She clasped her hands and looked down.
“Yes,” she responded softly.
“Then you decided to attend the King’s hunt, when you don’t like the hunts, convinced your sister she should jump into the river so I could save her, look like a hero, and reclaim my former position as Captain of the King’s private Guard. Is that correct?”
Oh, God. “I . . .”
He hooked her arm with his cane and yanked her to him. She collided against him with a gasp. Her palms were suddenly flat against his sculpted chest. Slipping his fingers under her chin, he tilted it up. “I’ve obtained answers from Claire. I’ll have answers from you, too. Now then, I’m going to ask you again: did you contrive the incident at the river yesterday just so I could be reinstated?”
Clearly, Claire had confessed. What was the point of denying it? This was going badly. Anguished, she didn’t have any fight in her today. Being this close to Tristan, and knowing he wouldn’t kiss her or touch her the way she longed for, was torturous.
“Yes” was all she could muster past her lips.
“You think I needed your help in returning to the Guard?”
She looked into his eyes and said firmly, “No. You are highly skilled and respected. If you wanted to return, you’d succeed. You don’t need help from me.” She meant that. It was no lie.
His features and voice softened. “There you are wrong.”
“Pardon?” she asked, perplexed.
“After the injury, I was filled with bitterness. Anger. I was not myself at all. I might have been that way indefinitely had you not arrived and wedged yourself into my life.”
Speechless, she simply blinked, surprised by his answer.
He released her chin and shook his head. “When the King dismissed me from my post as the Captain of the Musketeers, I made no attempt to speak to him about his decision. I simply left, reeling from the sting of it. I should have spoken to him then. I should have told him that, injury or not, I am still capable of commanding the Guard. Your antics yesterday inspired a conversation with him. A conversation that was long overdue. And I have you to thank for it. Who knows if or when I would have stopped brooding like a fool and talked to King.” The smile formed in his eyes before one touched lightly upon his lips. “I have been reinstated as the Captain of his Guard.”
“Veronique will be marrying Balzac and leaving the palace with him. He is being given lands to take away any sting he may feel from being replaced.”
She smiled, overcome with joy for him. “I’m so very happy for you, Tristan.”
He caressed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You didn’t look very happy when I walked in. In fact, you look like you’ve been crying. Tell me…why did you want me reinstated? Why did you want me to have you? Why have you gone to such lengths where I’m concerned?” His tone was as gentle as his touch. “We both know the answer. Speak the words, Elisabeth. Let me hear you say them.”
Her breaths slipped past her parted lips, shallow and sharp. Old familiar fears welled inside her and tightened around her throat like a vise. Unable to summon the words, they remained trapped inside her.
“Elisabeth, at the risk at sounding immodest, I have had a woman or two in love with me in the past. As clever as you are, some things are impossible to hide. Especially during and after sex. Tender looks, tender touches point clearly to tender emotions.”
Tears stung her eyes.
“You’ve spent a lifetime suppressing every emotion that would leave you exposed and susceptible. You’re afraid to be open and vulnerable”
Was it written on her forehead? Just how obvious was she to this man?
He slipped his fingers beneath her chin again. “You’re trembling. You can’t say it, can you?”
She lowered her eyes. Part of her wanted to so badly.
He lifted her chin, capturing her gaze. “Repeat after me: Tristan.”
He wasn’t serious?
“It’s just my name, Elisabeth. You’ve said it many times before.” The start of a smile pulled at the corners of his beautiful mouth. “At times you’ve even screamed it as you were coming. Let’s hear it now, Elisabeth. Tristan.”
She took in a ragged breath and ceded. “Tristan.”
“I.”
She remained silent.
“I,” he pressed.
“I.”
“Love.”
Elisabeth swallowed hard against the lump constricting her throat. “L-Love.”
He smiled. “You.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “You . . . so very much!” The words tumbled from her mouth, surprising her.
His smile turned into a grin. “Excellent. Now then, let’s continue: Tristan—Say it.”
“T-Tristan . . .”
“I want you to be my husband.”
Tears flooding her eyes were making it difficult to see his cherished face. “I want you to be my husband,” she said, the words flowing out of her mouth, unhindered.
“Because I can’t live without you.”
Quietly, she wept. “Be-Because I can’t live without you.”
He brushed a curl off her damp cheek. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
She shook her head no. “Yes.”
He tossed his head back and laughed. “Elisabeth, you are one of a kind, ma chérie.” He gave her a soft kiss. A warm quiver shimmered down her spine.
He broke the kiss, leaving her wanting more.
Now that you’ve agreed to marry me,” he said, “I suppose I should tell you that my conversation with His Majesty included the subject of your future husband.” Dipping his head, he whispered in her ear, “You will be my wife.”
Her knees almost gave out. It was all too incredible. So glorious! She stepped back, stunned. “How—How did you convince him? What did you say?”
“That I am the best man for you and he should give the man who saved his life and the life of his daughter, Princess Claire, the hand of his favorite offspring.”
Oh, how she loved him!
“There is one more thing I want to hear you say.” He cradled her cheek in his palm. “Tristan, I really want you to . . .”
She was beaming now. “Tristan, I really want you to . . .”
He leaned in and brushed his lips along her neck, sending shivers of delight through her. “Make love to me right now and every day for the rest of our lives.”
She laughed. And cried. And reeled with happiness. “Make love to me right now . . . and every day . . . for the rest of our lives.”
That devilish grin she adored spread across his lips. “Now there’s a request I can’t deny.”
Then he led her to the bedchamber, her body heating up every step of the way. Once inside, they stripped away their clothing posthaste, and he tossed her onto the bed, his urgency snatching away her breath.
The press of his naked form against the length of her body was sublime. Her hungry core clenched and creamed, eager for him. He had her mouth, claiming it. Famished, she sucked his tongue into her mouth, thrilled by his groan.
His hand skimmed along her skin from her shoulder to her breast, a fiery path straight to her taut nipple. He pinched it, holding it captive between his fingers until it began to throb, a delicious pulsing sensation that radiated from her breast and echoed in her sex. She arched and writhed, delirious with need, her body on fire. He released her nipple and sucked it into his hot mouth, his wicked fingers capturing her other nipple, treating it to the same sweet torture. The sound of pleasure shot up her throat, the double stimulation on the sensitized tips almost too much to take.
“Please,” she panted. “I want you now.”
“I’m going to come inside you,” he rasped against the pulsating tip of her breast. “Do you understand me? I’m not pulling my cock out.”
All she could do was moan. The thought of him filling her with his essence made her hotter. Wetter. “Yes. Do it.”
Tristan filled her sex with one solid thrust. She wrapped her legs around him. He wanted to howl with pleasure, love and lust burning inside him with equal intensity. He couldn’t believe it when Claire had told him Elisabeth had loved him from afar for so long. He couldn’t believe the touching lengths she’d gone to just to be with him.
And he was going to spend a lifetime returning her love. Cherishing her every day.
“Dieu, I love you.” He pumped his hips, hitting the sweet spot on her clit with his every downstroke. “I can’t get enough of you.”
“I love you!” She was breathless and so wet, her cream was seeping from around his thick cock. “I love you, Tristan.”
She was already on the edge, and Jésus-Christ, so was he.
“Come for me . . . Come with me.”
Her body tensed. “Oh! I’m coming!”
Tristan gathered her tightly in his arms and rode her for all he was worth, fighting back his release, waiting for hers to hit so he could let go. He felt the tremor in her sheath, her body arch. And with her scream of rapture, he held nothing back. His come shot down his length. In shuddering waves he poured his prick into her quivering cunt in hot steady streams, driving his cock as deeply as he could with each powerful thrust. Overwhelmed by her orgasm, she moaned and whimpered, clenching all around him, her arms, her legs, her sex, sending a growl rumbling from his chest. He’d never known such stunning pleasure, such pure ecstasy, as the mind-numbing joy it was to drain himself inside her.
With her now quiet in his arms and his prick emptied, he reluctantly withdrew.
Tristan looked down at her. There was a smile in her eyes. She lifted her head off the bed, cupped his cheek, and gave him a warm kiss. He’d just come inside her, claimed her for his own, and yet she said with a lazy grin and a soft sigh, “You’re mine.”
Tristan couldn’t hold back his own grin. He nuzzled her neck. Breathed her name. “And you are mine,” he assured her.
He’d never met anyone like Elisabeth. She was the only woman he knew who could drive him wild in a pair of breeches and the most irregular boots he’d ever seen.
She made him feel like the richest man on earth. The luckiest man in the realm.
Tristan had won the heart and hand of the fair princess.
Historical Tidbit
Mu
sketeers were NOT the fools with blades you’ve seen in the movies.
These men were highly trained and seriously skilled. To make it into the King’s private Guard—the Musketeers—to be responsible for the safety of the monarch and royal family, and entrusted to deliver sensitive messages across enemy lines during the many battles France fought as they worked to increase their nation (the largest in all of Christendom during the seventeenth century), you had to not only be the best of the best when it came to horsemanship, and wielding weapons, but of noble birth, too.
These men were an elite corps. Men you wouldn’t mess with.
And yet, there was a certain woman who gave them considerable grief. :)
Her name was Julie d’Aubigny (a.k.a. la Maupin)—an extraordinary swordswoman who bloody well lived her life by her own rules! Elisabeth, my heroine in BEWITCHING IN BOOTS, was inspired by her. The moment I read about la Maupin, I knew I had to create a character similar to her.
Julie’s father was the Grand Squire of France, responsible for the royal stables and training King Louis XIV’s pages. And he made sure his daughter trained right alongside them. From a young age, Julie learned fencing, horseback riding, and how to deliver a fist in the face if you were too stupid not to back off when threatened.
She grew up to be beautiful, took any lover she fancied, knew how to take care of herself—and often donned men’s clothing when it suited her. Dressed in male attire, she attended taverns where Musketeers were known to frequent, just to provoke a duel with one of them. Once she had the Musketeer on the ground, defeated, she’d whip off her male disguise and made darn sure they knew it was a woman who’d bested a member of the King’s prestigious Guard.
And Louis XIV loved it! He was so amused by stories of Julie’s antics that he would often ask about her. One day the King was informed by one of his advisors that Julie had been arrested, “for dueling, Your Majesty.”
Bewitching in Boots Page 8
