A PROMISE OF PLEASURE
Her eyes met his without flinching. “My lord, you swore to seduce the queen’s most virtuous lady. I am offering you the opportunity to win your wager.”
“Why me—of all men living?” he asked.
“Despite your shortcomings, you have shown yourself to be a man of honor.” She inclined her head, gracious as a queen.
Nay, that he was not. The Raven gritted his teeth. “Many maids would seek more in a lover.”
“Well, one must grant that your hygiene is satisfactory. I cannot deny that is a point in your favor.” Her lashes dropped. “Also, Lord Raven, you are not . . . unattractive.”
Her whisper ignited him. Since the night he first saw her, passion for Alienore of Lyonstone had possessed him like a demon. He burned to claim her, to strip away that cool composure and fire the ardor of the woman beneath.
He sought her gaze. She met him like a knight on the tourney field, all courage and resolve—and a feverish exhilaration that made her eyes glow.
A bolt of guilt shafted through him. She was too good for this, too honorable and brave and fair; she did not deserve this betrayal. Still, whatever her misguided purpose, he’d be a fool to waste this shining opportunity fate tossed in his lap.
A lightning charge of anticipation sizzled through him. “Intriguing plan, lady. But I’ve a condition of my own.”
“Why, what more can you desire?” Innocent, so innocent, her eyes lifted.
“Pleasure, Alienore. Let’s grasp as much as we may tonight.”
Laura
Navarre
The Devil’s
Temptress
Contents
A Promise of Pleasure
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Epilogue
This one’s for my extraordinary agent JD DeWitt, who let me pitch her in the pasta line and never stopped believing. And also for Steven, my own alpha hero. Darling, they’re all for you.
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
February 2011
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2011 by Laura Navarre
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 13: 978-1-4285-1131-6
E-ISBN: 978-1-4285-0963-4
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.
Chapter One
Poitiers, France—1174 AD.
The stolen armor fitted her poorly—a minor annoyance if she was lucky, a fatal encumbrance if not. The chain-mail hauberk weighed Alienore down, like the doubts she dared not acknowledge. As for the helm, seated perilously low, she could barely see through the eye slit.
But at least the faceplate disguised her identity—and that must be her paramount consideration.
“Milady, will ye mount?” Luke squared himself to boost her into the saddle.
“Quietly!” she whispered. “I am no lady this day.”
God’s mercy, let the lad misspeak when we enter the lists, and I am certain disgraced.
Whether the squire guarded his tongue or nay, she would be fortunate indeed to emerge unscathed from this debacle: stolen armor, a squire bribed to secrecy, and a half-wild charger borrowed from a friend.
But she would not lose her courage now. A lady’s honor stood at stake.
Outside the stable, the clear blast of trumpets split the air. Tightening her jaw, Lady Alienore of Lyonstone gripped the pommel and sprang up.
Mounted behind the familiar shield, command settled over her like a garment. When the trumpets blared again, she spurred Charlemagne into the milky light of day.
Beneath slate-colored skies, jewel-bright pennants snapped and fluttered in a cruel wind. Patches of dirty snow dotted the tilting yard of Poitiers. The battlements soared overhead, looming like a calamity over the crowd near the tourney field.
Dismay swept through her to behold the unruly rabble. Her breath exploded white as Alienore reined in.
“Jesus wept!” The oath slipped from her. Dear God, let no man challenge me over the armor.
Cold sweat broke out on her brow. She prayed her hazardous dead-of-night incursion to the armory went undetected. She had taken nothing she would not return. But her fate must be as God willed it.
Squaring her shoulders against the knife-sharp cold, she reached for the lance. Luke swung it into her hand with a reassuring slap. With an ease honed by training, she swept up the wicked point and couched the spear against her saddle.
Swallowing her reservations, she spurred her warhorse onto the field.
Before her towered the royal box, dominating its surroundings. The Plantagenet standard billowed scarlet, blazoned with a golden lion. Beneath the canopy glittered a dazzle of gold and crimson: Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen of England, her splendor undimmed by the disgrace of captivity.
Despite her fear of discovery, Alienore’s heart swelled with love. The queen would understand what compelled her to act, but she could never condone a public scandal. Nay, if Alienore were unmasked, she would lose her place for certain.
For she was no mere lady, but the queen’s privy chancellor—the only woman in the council of ministers. How they would all rejoice to see her unseated!
A wave of heads turned as Alienore cantered along the barricade. Snatches of conversation drifted to her ears.
“. . . rides without a standard and hides his face. Who can say what man he is?”
“Heard of such a one . . . itinerant knight, too modest to reveal his name. He champions distressed damsels—the ones no other knight will defend.”
A woman’s malicious laughter floated on the wind. “Depardieu, the lady Rohese must be wearing out her knees in gratitude!”
“That was how they came upon her, aye?” A man guffawed. “On her knees! And the man half-naked, I heard.”
When she reached the royal box, Alienore stared straight ahead—not at the sea of spiteful faces, but only at her queen’s blinding blaze. Exerting her unwomanly strength, Alienore hoisted her lance toward heaven in salute. A sudden commotion drew her like a lodestone, nerves already screaming with tension. A lady was floundering onto the field, fiery curls spilling against an ermine pelisse.
Ah, the lady of the ho
ur, for whose honor I find myself in this dangerous dilemma.
“God lend you grace, monsieur!” Rohese de Rievaulx cried. The stallion shied violently, and Alienore fought to hold him. With a shaft of alarm she missed her own steed, but that horse was too well-known on this field.
She stared down from her towering height at the victim. Her cousin, her own dead mother’s very image—Marguerite de Rievaulx come again, and it twisted her heart to see it.
Rohese gazed up. “Will you not bear my favor into battle? You have earned it by your courage, for no other would ride against him.”
Alienore dared not speak, for Rohese would know her, and glimpse the truth—
Behind her the rumble of hooves built like an avalanche, a measured cadence that shuddered the ground. Flushing, Rohese hastened behind the barricade.
Alienore pivoted for her first glimpse of the opponent. He had made his entrée at court while she was away, about the queen’s secret business in Bordeaux. When she returned last night, chilled and sagging with weariness, Rohese had waylaid her with the sordid tale.
This nameless cur had assaulted Rohese, bent upon stealing her virtue. When they were discovered, the rogue dared to claim the lady encouraged him. And such was his sinister repute that no knight would challenge him, nor champion the lady.
So honor demanded that Alienore resume the perilous disguise she had left behind when she fled English soil—no matter the terrible risk.
The villain swept into sight. The breath froze in her lungs.
He was an apparition straight from the abyss—a black warhorse with red-rimmed eyes, plumes of vapor shooting from its nostrils, bearing a rider whose pointed helm threw sparks against the vault of heaven. Pale breath leaked around the knight’s lowered faceplate.
Overhead, a raven cawed and circled. As the charger thundered toward her, his three-beat gait sounded the knell of doom.
All is lost, all is lost, all is lost . . .
Superstitious fear swept down her spine. Saint Swithun save her, he could be Beelzebub or the devil himself, come to claim a damned soul. He did not even carry a Christian name to Aquitaine, only a letter of commendation singing fulsome praise of the black knight called le Corbeau—the Raven.
At the last instant, the black stallion juddered to a halt. Up and up he reared, screaming with rage as her mount tore the ground. With razor-sharp precision, the Raven uncouched his lance to salute the queen. A tomblike chill seeped from him with each chuffing breath.
Dispassionate, Eleanor of Aquitaine surveyed them from her high-backed chair. Her clarion voice rang out.
“This contest is highly irregular—between two knights who claim no name. We are not accustomed to abide hidden purpose at our court in these uncertain times. Lord Raven, we overlook your origins from gratitude, for the service you rendered our son. Your challenger, however, bears no such mark of favor.”
Alienore nerved herself for the risk of speech, and pitched her voice low.
“May it please Your Grace, I beg your indulgence. A lady’s honor is at stake.”
Armor chimed as the black knight shifted, pushing out a harsh breath. The queen’s stern eyes passed over him and fixed Rohese de Rievaulx. The damsel drew her hood close, concealing her heightened color. In silence, Eleanor of Aquitaine studied the mismatched knights—ebony and argent—before her.
Alienore lifted her gaze to her sovereign’s face. Reddened with cold, worn by care and the birth of ten children, still her queen shone pure and fair—a beacon of honor gleaming in a wrongful world. In silence, Alienore implored her for support.
“A lady’s honor,” the queen mused. “And a good English knight, by your speech. I’ll allow three passes with the lance and one course with the sword. To first blood, nothing more.”
Alienore released her breath with shuddering relief.
“And you, Lord Raven.” The Queen of England surveyed the black knight coolly. “You are a stranger to this court, but your reputation precedes you from Outremer. I will have no stouthearted English lad meet his death by your blade today. Do you comprehend me?”
In silence the Raven bowed, a courtesy of surprising grace. Then he wheeled his black and galloped across the field. The ground trembled beneath his passage.
All is lost . . .
Heart pounding, Alienore pivoted Charlemagne and cantered to her place. She knotted the reins around her pommel, swung her lance forward to point at the black knight’s heart. Above, the raven still circled, sending a chill cascading down her spine. An expectant hush descended.
The trumpets blasted the cry to combat.
Before Alienore could instruct him, her charger surged forward, building speed like a battering ram as he thundered down the field. She guided the horse by seat and legs as she crouched behind her shield—protected yet vulnerable. An unlucky blow could pierce her and drive the steel links of her mail into flesh, with death by the green rot the certain result.
Swelling to fill her vision, the black knight loomed like a disaster before her. Then the deadly length of his lance was arrowing toward her. She braced for impact.
At the last moment, she twisted aside. The two horses hammered past without consequence. The first course, and both spears had missed their mark.
She wheeled her charger for the next pass. Jittery, Charlemagne fought her, tossing his head and whinnying. She had barely settled him when the trumpets screamed. Without waiting for her signal, the angry stallion plunged forward.
As they charged down the field, Alienore struggled to hold a level course. Her arm and shoulder burned beneath the lance’s weight. Grimly she fixed the black knight with her point.
Too quickly, he was upon her, dark spear whistling as it split the air. He would skewer her dead between the eyes—
She ducked behind the shield, barely deflecting his blow. The shock of impact slammed through her. He had grazed her, but her lance caught him squarely. As the black stallion swept past, his rider swayed in the saddle.
Her breath exploded from her lungs as relief coursed through her. With God’s grace, this dangerous contest would end now, with her disguise still secure. Yet when she wheeled her mount, she saw with sinking disappointment that the Raven retained his seat. Calm as a man at prayer, he sat in his saddle and watched her.
Her chest tightened with dread. By her faith, he should have fallen. Was it uncanny skill that kept him upright, or the devil looking out for his own?
She struggled to couch her lance as Charlemagne reared beneath her. She longed for the reins, but had no hand to spare for them. When the trumpets blared, the horse lashed out with his rear legs, almost unseating her, before plunging into the fray.
Her sword arm ached from the lance’s weight. Her shield arm tingled from his blow. The unfamiliar stallion weaved and veered, forcing her to hold him with tensed thighs and determination.
Squinting through the eye slit, she riveted her lance on the looming knight and braced for impact. Her blow glanced off his shield—
Then the hammer of God whelmed her square in the chest, lighting her breastbone on fire as he struck. Her desperate grip on the saddle dislodged. The world tilted and fell away beneath her. The lance was slipping from her fingers . . . her shield flying wide . . . the ground rushing up to meet her . . . then the sickening slam of impact as she landed on her back. Her head thudded against the earth.
Long seconds passed as she lay dazed, gasping for air. Gradually her vision cleared, reduced to a skewed slice of daylight. Blind, she groped to reseat her helm. When she could drag breath into her lungs, she levered herself up on one elbow.
Across the field, the Raven sat on his charger and watched her. A stable lad was running to catch her horse. And there was Luke, trotting toward her with the sword.
Alienore groaned. Every bone in her body throbbed. But that was nothing, she knew, to the sustained distress she would endure later. The honor of Rievaulx—my mother’s honor—is at stake.
Somewhere in the stands, R
ohese was depending upon her. All hope was not lost. She could still defeat him at the sword, by far her strongest weapon. Doggedly she struggled to her knees, the world reeling around her.
The Raven sprang down and tossed his reins to a swarthy Saracen in a blood-colored turban. The squire presented his master’s blade—a deadly crescent of Damascus steel. Fire smoldered in the hilt from a slitted topaz, like a dragon’s eye.
Alienore unsheathed her broadsword and raised her shield, thanking Luke with a nod as he melted away. The black knight stalked toward her.
God’s mercy, he was unnaturally tall. She towered over most men, but this one made her feel small, even fragile. In his coal black armor, he moved with sinuous grace, like the panther in the queen’s menagerie.
Just beyond the range of combat, he halted. Through the pointed helm, she sensed his eyes upon her. She knew she looked winded, muddied and battered from her fall. She straightened her shoulders and saluted him with her blade. Not that his honor required it, but she would adhere to the rules of combat before the queen.
Negligently, he tossed his shield aside—a silent declaration that he would not need it.
Breath hissed through her teeth at the insult. A rumble of disapproval rose from the viewing stand. So they favored her now, all these fickle folk. This Raven must be disliked as much as he was feared.
Holding herself erect, she cast her own shield aside. A sprinkle of applause acknowledged her gallant gesture. She braced for assault, but he seemed content to wait.
So be it.
She lunged forward, thrusting. His crescent sword swept around in defense. Steel clashed as his blade whined along hers, deflecting the blow. She danced back and parried toward his flank. Again he pivoted to repel, his notched blade whirling through the air.
His style and equipage were unfamiliar—Eastern blade and a Saracen squire. Was he one of those so-called Old Settlers, descendant of a knight from the First Crusade, dwelling in Jerusalem for generations? Did he worship God with the heathens, keep a harem of veiled women and call that a holy life?
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