The Devil's Temptress

by Laura Navarre

  Beneath the riverbank, Remus wiggled into the scree and vanished.

  “Remus.” She unlocked her jaw to speak. “He may have d-d-discovered a cave. I pray he does not disturb a b-b-bear.”

  “All we need to make this night perfect,” Thierry muttered.

  The Raven shot her a discerning look. “A cave may prove a lucky find. While Beaumont does his duty, you’ll have shelter—perhaps a fire.”

  “A fire?” Thierry cried. “Have you taken leave of your senses? Why not fly a banner and blow trumpets?”

  “We’ve shaken off pursuit for now.” The Raven sprang from his saddle and landed knee-deep in snow. “The king’s men’ll be lost, while the cave hides our fire.”

  “So you think.”

  “Be grateful, Beaumont.” The Raven eyed him coldly. “You’ll have fire to warm you when you return.”

  Sullen, the gallant scowled.

  “Thierry, will you not g-g-go?” Her entire body shuddered with cold. “Our comrade may be injured, and ’tis so c-c-c-cold.”

  He shot her a resentful look. “This is utter madness. But never let it be said that a Beaumont failed to honor his word.”

  Thierry kneed his stallion into motion. Quickly the snow swallowed them up. Staring after him, Alienore realized she was now alone in the wilderness with the Raven. The king’s sworn man—or was he?

  He could betray me to Henry now with little effort.

  Bleakly Alienore huddled in the dark hole Remus had nosed in the riverbank. Earthen walls pressed close around her, and dried leaves rustled beneath.

  She could not comprehend why the Raven had not yielded her up to the king’s men, since he was a king’s man himself. His game must be deeper than the queen believed. But how could she think him so unworthy? Hadn’t he risked his life on her behalf?

  Presently, she hardly cared what the Raven did while she remained near the precious scrap of fire he had coaxed to life. She’d been cold for so long she feared never to be warm again. Her fingers and toes throbbed as blood returned to the frozen limbs, and she bit her lip to contain a whimper.

  With God’s grace, she would stave off frostbite. Remus, too, seemed content to sprawl nearby and lick his bruised paw. His keen senses would warn them if anyone approached.

  The Raven ducked inside, bent double beneath the low roof. His uncanny eyes searched her, and warmth stung her cheeks. Before tonight’s deadly madness had commenced, the Devil of Damascus had kissed her.

  He had wagered Richard he would seduce her.

  Why in the name of all that was good had she allowed it? In a single night he’d shattered the protective armor she’d forged, link by link, over the lonely years since her mother’s death. A single kiss, and she burned with sinful fire.

  She cleared her throat. “Are we still pursued?”

  “No doubt.” He crouched across the fire, a fallen angel with fiery eyes. “We’re safe enough—unless Beaumont leads them straight to us when he blunders back.”

  Aye, her shining Lancelot had hardly weathered this crisis with knightly valor, for the Raven carried those honors. Without his savagery in battle, his unflinching courage against overwhelming odds, they would not have escaped the king’s vengeance.

  Indeed, they had still not escaped it.

  “I’ll have the truth from you, lady. What mission were you charged with, to go against the king?”

  “’Twas never my intent to go against the king.” Her very wits were muddled, buffeted by dread. She could no longer recall why she must conceal her mission from him. “The queen wished only to protect the interests of Princess Aenor, who would wed—”

  “How’d you intend to reach Castile? Entire peninsula’s plunged into war—Christians against the Muslims. Atrocities to turn your hair white are a daily occurrence.”

  She swallowed hard. “I know that, monsieur.”

  “You know naught of holy war—thank your God for that.” Fiercely he glared into the flames. “I know the hell on earth they call the Christian Reconquista. Rest assured I won’t drag you into it.”

  “Contrary to your belief, I am not a fool.” Annoyance prickled through her. “I am quite familiar with the political situation. My plan is to make for the port of Marseilles, then take ship for Valencia. From there we strike inland, avoiding the war between Aragon and Navarre.”

  “And be captured by pirates before we ever see Spain? The sea’s a highway for cutthroats and corsairs. Alienore, she’s launched you on a suicide mission.”

  “Her need for this marriage is great.” She defended her queen, but could not silence a whisper of doubt. What was Eleanor’s true purpose?

  “Ever read the missive she gave you?”

  “Certainly not.” Her tone was stiff.

  “I suggest you overcome your fine scruples.”

  “Read the queen’s personal correspondence to a foreign monarch? I shall do no such thing.” Stubborn, she shook her head.

  Curling tendrils of hair slipped into her eyes. Absently she pulled off her snood and shook her hair free and worked her fingers through her tresses, skeins of wheat gold hair pooling in her lap. When she felt his eyes upon her, she looked up through a curtain of firelit hair. In the flickering play of light and shadow, his eyes were banked embers. No battle savagery hardened his features now.

  He stared at her unguarded, with a man’s desire that resonated through her like a pure note struck against lute strings.

  A woman’s hair was the devil’s snare, so the nuns always said. And he was a known ravisher of women . . . or was he?

  Hastily, she bundled her hair into a braid. “You are wasting your breath, monsieur. I shall never betray Eleanor.”

  “Henry’s ordered your arrest. Don’t you wish to know why?”

  He crawled outside, leaving her alone with the wolf and her thoughts.

  Slowly, she pulled out the slender cylinder of parchment sealed with hardened wax, stamped with the lion of Plantagenet.

  Irresolute, she recalled Eleanor’s generosity, her many kindnesses, the pain etched in her timeworn features when she spoke of her husband’s infidelity. She recalled Sir Guy’s warning, the hideous price of treason, the heart-pounding terror of pursuit. Her jaw tightened with resolve.

  She broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, crossed with slanting black script in the elegant langue d’oc of Aquitaine.

  When the bushes rustled, she looked up with a guilty start as the Raven squeezed into the cave. His eyes found hers and asked the question.

  “Jesus wept,” she whispered. “’Tis true—all of it, though she speaks in careful circles. She seeks an alliance between Aquitaine and Castile, to supplant her husband with her sons. If this missive falls into Henry’s hands, ’tis treason.”

  His features twisted with recognition and regret. Again she wondered why he had not surrendered her. Her fate now turned on whether he chose to betray her. Danger surrounded her, and she no longer knew whom to trust. Yet somehow, during the course of this terrifying night, she had come to view the Devil of Damascus as her ally.

  Intent, he crouched before the fire. “You can’t complete this mission. No one can straddle the divide between warring

  monarchs, even be they husband and wife. You’ve only one chance to avoid the charge of treason.”

  “Nay,” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he said, unyielding. “You must go to Henry with what you know—go of your own will. Throw yourself on his mercy.”

  She clutched the treasonous missive, her stomach knotting. “But that would seal Eleanor’s fate. ‘Twould be the final proof he requires to condemn her. He would humiliate her before the world by wedding his paramour. And he would break the queen’s heart, for she loves him.”

  “She’s already condemned herself.” His eyes brooded. “Still, she’s less dangerous as captive queen than a free woman. Henry’d be a fool twice over to divorce her. Clifford’s chit may lead him by the cock—but he’s no fool, believe me.”

 
Acrid smoke billowed up and she coughed, embarrassed, holding her sleeve over her hot cheeks. “You are the king’s man! How can I trust your counsel?”

  “You can’t.” His mouth twisted. “We’ve already agreed on that, aye? We make north—”

  “Nay! By my faith, I am an earl’s daughter. I will not be reduced again to a fugitive, no better than a serf who has stolen the silver.”

  He shifted, a mask dropping over his features. “You fled a forced marriage to an aging lecher. Some would call that an act of valor.”

  Condemnation and guilt knifed through her. To hear him defend her—this man whom she herself had condemned.

  “They say Ponce has repented his wicked ways,” she murmured. “He crawled through Jerusalem on his knees in penance.”

  The Raven chuffed out a breath. “He’s old Hugh’s eldest whelp. Leopard can’t change its spots, aye?”

  “If God can forgive him, then we must. Besides, ’Twas not Ponce I fled. If it were only that . . .”

  His sudden stillness betrayed alertness. “Wasn’t it?”

  The dangerous parchment fluttered to her lap as she massaged her eyelids, the warning tightness of a megrim building between her eyebrows. “I could have accepted Ormonde, if he truly repented. In the end, he was not the reason I fled. The night I left home, I quarreled with . . . someone.”

  She struggled to rebuild her defenses. “But that has no bearing on this dilemma. I am the queen’s privy chancellor. She has placed her trust in me. I cannot simply abandon her when her need is greatest!”

  “Your gallantry’s misplaced. Poitiers is a death trap for you now. Show your face, and they’ll clap you in irons. Sir Guy may regret it, but he’ll have no choice.”

  “But I never intended—Surely if I send word to the king and explain—”

  “I know Henry. By the time you’re brought before him, his mind’ll be set against you.”

  “I cannot abandon Eleanor without some farewell.” In the morass of fear and confusion where she floundered, she found sure footing on the path of honor. “She deserves that much. She is a great and noble lady, even if misguided. She was my benefactress—she took me in when I had nothing, Raven!”

  The decision strengthened her. Last summer she had fled dishonor so profound it threatened her very sense of self. She’d fled from weakness, that was the truth, and she would never forgive herself for it. Only her actions could redeem her now, and prove her to be other than what she feared.

  “I must return to Poitiers and trust in God to uphold me.” She clasped her hands, serenity stealing over her.

  “Sheer madness.”

  “Of course, I do not expect you to accompany me. Under these circumstances—”

  “Your bloody sense of honor’s muddling your wits,” he growled. “Tell me one reason I shouldn’t truss you to your saddle and make straight for Henry. It’d be to your benefit.”

  “And to yours. He would reward you generously for netting the queen’s privy chancellor, would he not?”

  “Aye,” he said softly, raising the hairs along her nape. “He’d reward me beyond your imagining. I have every reason in the world to betray you.”

  “But will you?” she whispered, aching to know his motives. “Dare I trust you, Raven?”

  Beneath his eyebrows, he cast her a burning look. “Don’t make that mistake. You forget what I am, Alienore.”

  The wolf raised his head, ears swiveling forward. Her gaze met the Raven’s. Lifting a finger to his lips, he uncoiled and slithered toward the exit, scimitar whispering from its sheath.

  She readied her long-knife even as conflict twisted her belly. If she raised her blade against the king’s men, didn’t that make her a traitor for certain? Outside, footsteps crunched, mingled with the rattle of chain mail. A horse whinnied in welcome.

  When a shadow blotted out the cave mouth, she clenched her teeth over a scream. The Raven pressed beside the opening, crescent sword raised to strike as a mailed arm dragged aside the undergrowth. A hooded head poked inside—and Thierry de Beaumont looked up.

  The Raven checked his blow in midswing, notched blade hovering above the intruder.

  “Next time hail first, boy. I could’ve had your head.”

  “Grant pardon.” Sounding weary, Thierry dragged himself inside. “These woods are crawling with the king’s men. I doubled back twice to ensure I wasn’t followed.”

  “Thank God you are safe returned.” The cool tones of a privy chancellor concealed her turmoil. But fear sat like a stone in her belly. “What news of Owain?”

  “Alienore, I’m sorry. The man is dead.”

  Remorse struck inward, piercing her heart. Now a good man lay dead on her account.

  You are not worthy of such sacrifice, her conscience whispered. You are not what they believe you to be.

  “Inshallah.” The Raven scrubbed a hand over his face. “So. Lady says we make for Poitiers.”

  “But how can we?” she said miserably. “The king’s men will seize me the moment I show my face. They think me a traitor now.”

  Speculation flickered in the Raven’s gaze as he eyed the blond gallant. “Fine surcoat you’re wearing, Beaumont—most distinctive. Belike you’ll make a loan of it.”

  Chapter Eight

  The queen had betrayed her—the Raven knew it in his bones. When she dispatched the girl on that traitor’s mission, Eleanor of Aquitaine had signed the order for her execution. Allah’s heart, why couldn’t Alienore see it?

  He lurked in the queen’s tiring chamber and plotted escape routes by habit: the casement too high for escape, the servants’ cubby a dead end. But Alienore’s blade-straight figure compelled him, her graceful silhouette etched against the fire.

  Lyonstone’s daughter made a damn fetching gallant. She wouldn’t have stooped to the indignity of a disguise—but what a disguise it was.

  She’d already flung Beaumont’s surcoat aside. Proud breasts and narrow waist encased in a moss-green coat, legs sinuous in tight chausses, those masses of gold and silver hair pinned high to expose her neck . . . She was walking temptation to any man’s eyes.

  Alienore of Lyonstone would make one hell of a duchess.

  He couldn’t have wished for a more stalwart companion during their nerve-racking flight. She’d guarded his back, when she could have fled.

  An unfamiliar sentiment surged through him: a fierce drive to protect her, stand between her and danger—a tenderness that shook him like an earthquake. Careful, man, or you’ll be trailing at her heels like that lovesick Beaumont puppy.

  The door swept open to admit the Queen of England, blazing in indigo over cloth of gold, her features radiating affectionate concern. As the Raven lurked in the shadows, she hurried to Alienore.

  “My dear child! What has befallen? I cannot believe anything but disaster would dissuade you from your duty.”

  “I fear your faith in me has been misplaced, Your Grace. We were attacked by the king’s own guard.”

  His eyes narrowed as he scanned the queen’s countenance. Was her concern for the girl genuine, or did the queen care only for intrigue?

  “Thank God and good Saint Thibault for your deliverance, child. By some miracle, were you able to protect my missive?”

  “Aye.” Alienore faltered, guilt shadowing her features.

  The Raven clenched his teeth. The girl wore her thoughts on her face; she had less craft for concealment than a child of five. Usually, he found her transparency rather winsome—he’d known enough deception to last him a dozen lifetimes. Now he stifled a groan as her stubborn chin lifted.

  “Madam, I kept the message safe . . . but I was compelled to burn it.”

  He’d insisted on that, and she hadn’t even argued. That bloody letter was a death sentence for whoever bore it.

  “Destroyed.” Sighing, the queen turned away. Calculation narrowed her cat green eyes before she glimpsed him. In a heartbeat, her mask slipped into place.

  “Depardieu, my lord Raven! H
ave I you to thank for saving my godchild from enemy hands?”

  “The king’s hands, Your Grace.” He bowed. “I’ll speak plainly, not to squander time.”

  “By all means, monsieur.”

  “Your game with the lady’s played out. Henry will soon know it—if he doesn’t already. For her safety, she must leave your service.”

  “I do not agree.” Alienore swept forward. “I have no desire to return to England until my inheritance and forced betrothal are addressed.”

  “You must find the king and affirm your loyalty,” he said grimly.

  The queen’s eyebrows winged up. “Ah, but that is impossible. The counties between here and Normandy are simmering with civil war. Maine, Anjou, Touraine, Brittany—all chafe beneath Henry’s heavy hand.

  “Wherever Henry may be at the moment, you may be certain he is where the fighting is hottest. Avoi, monsieur, I am astonished you suggest it.”

  Treacherous lady—the queen’s allies rebelled, at her command.

  The Raven scowled. “Be certain I’ll ensure her safety.”

  Alienore’s chin lifted in her imperious way, her eyes molten silver. “By my faith, that is entirely unnecessary, Lord Raven. If I am given leave to go anywhere, I shall arrange my own escort.”

  “For the moment,” the queen said, “no escort shall be required. My godchild is far safer here at Poitiers than tramping about the countryside in a futile bid to locate Henry.”

  “Madam, she’s exposed,” he gritted. “Does her safety mean so little to you?”

  “It means a great deal to me—enough, monsieur, that I deemed it prudent to conceal her departure. With her tiring woman’s assistance, we have put about that illness confines the lady to her apartments. Imagine the joy that will greet her recovery when she appears like the risen Christ.”

  His dangerous rage ignited. For all her so-called affection, the queen would see Alienore’s head roll for treason. “You’d risk seeing her charged with sedition?”

  “She can hardly be accused of sedition when none can prove she left Poitiers.”

  “Nothing can be proven against me.” Alienore’s level gray eyes regarded them. “Unless I flee like a witless rabbit.”