The Devil's Temptress

by Laura Navarre

  Thank you, God, for sparing him.

  Recalling the Raven, she rose to see what assistance she could offer.

  His appearance shocked her to the core. The knight had stripped off his soaking coat and shirt. Naked to the waist, he stood beside Lucifer, his back to her, rummaging for dry garments in his saddlebags.

  The sight of his unclothed body seared into her: the raw power that shouted from swelling shoulders, twin columns of muscle plunging down his spine, tapering to a lean waist and leather-wrapped hips. Knotted muscle bulged in his biceps as he worked.

  Paralyzed by longing, flooded with heat, she could only stare at him.

  At last he pulled a dry coat over his head and tugged it over that sculpted torso. He settled his hammered belt and reclaimed his Saracen sword. Its topaz ember shimmered as he turned toward her. Across the distance between them, their gazes met.

  “Lord Raven. Words cannot convey the extent of my gratitude. I can only thank you . . . from the depths of my heart.”

  Still she could not tear her eyes away.

  It has to be said, her honest nature insisted.

  “I hope you may forgive me, for . . . for the falsehoods I believed of you. That business with Rohese was a grave injustice. I—misjudged you.”

  He looked away, brow furrowed. A hint of discomfort deepened the lines around his mouth. Once she would have called it guilt. But she would trust him with her life now. So she attributed his brooding unease to the cold, and watched with a full heart while he tossed the surcoat around his shoulders.

  She busied herself with her saddle. “I dare not linger here. Those hounds—Since you were abroad, you cannot know it. I am fleeing the Duc d’Ormonde.”

  Over his shoulder he cocked her a startled glance, not quite meeting her gaze.

  “You fancy Ormonde would loose his hounds on you?”

  “I do not know.” She sighed. “But he has come to claim me. To find me missing again . . . well, he has waited six months to bring me to heel. Even a saint’s patience would be strained by now.”

  “Alienore.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Those hounds aren’t his.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “I’m certain.” He chuckled grimly. “Broke my journey at Poitiers.”

  Suddenly she recalled his unexplained absence. Now that she had a moment to think, she wondered why he’d been roaming the woods—at this late hour—to stumble upon her. She drew breath to ask, but his next words sent the thought spinning from her head.

  “Eleanor’s seized her moment. With her guard made drunk for the holiday, the queen’s escaped, her sons with her.” He cast her a hooded look. “Those hounds answer to Sir Guy. If he doesn’t retake her, his head will roll.”

  Riveted, she stared. “The queen has escaped?”

  “Aye.” He swung into his saddle. “Men will die now without fail. Nothing can stop it anymore.”

  “But King Henry—”

  “Has been too lenient.” Inscrutable, he pivoted Lucifer and looked down on her. “He must answer this, else his enemies take it for weakness.”

  “’Tis imperative I reach him.” Desperate for haste, still she made herself pause, as he had done, to find a cloth in her saddlebag and towel herself dry. No sense freezing to death when a moment’s care would prevent it.

  By the time she vaulted into the saddle, a fragile hope fluttered within her. “Do you—would you escort me to Normandy? These are perilous times, and I—I can pay for your ser vice.”

  For an excruciating interval, he said nothing. Heat crept into her cheeks. A muscle flexed in his jaw, making her wonder what he thought. At last, a corner of his mouth curled up in a mordant smile.

  “Aye, Alienore of Lyonstone. I’ll take you.”

  Relief spilled through her, mingled with unsettling excitement. “As to the matter of your payment—”

  His eyes were bitter as he spurred past her. “We’ll both pay in full for this night’s work. Believe me.”

  Chapter Ten

  His plans were ripening faster than he’d hoped. Yet the Raven brooded as they galloped side by side in the moonlight beside the treacherous river that had nearly claimed her life.

  He could have lost everything when she startled into flight—but nay. Though he’d never wish harm on the wolf, Remus’s mishap had won her trust. Alienore of Lyonstone saw her world straightly, etched in black and white. Now she’d decided to trust him, she’d believe in him as she believed in God.

  Aye, she’ll believe—until I give her certain proof of treachery. I deserve no one’s loyalty.

  He’d gambled the threat of marriage would accomplish what persuasion had not, that Alienore would flee as a hart flees the hunter. But he’d failed to anticipate the speed she’d bolted with. Someone had spilled the news too soon. An hour later, and he might never have caught her.

  Now the tall beauty rode beside him, valiant as any knight, fierce as the lion that clawed from her knife. Her purity of soul shone through her eyes, unflinching as Damascus steel. When he’d found her crouched over death on that perilous ice, a surge of protective instinct had stopped his heart.

  Dangerous nonsense. He crushed his reins until Lucifer snorted in protest. Since Isabella’s death, he’d been scrupulously careful never to initiate any liaison beyond the most casual encounters, the rules understood by all.

  Never again would he wake sweating with terror on a woman’s account. Never again would he stand over such horrors as his grief had wrought in Damascus. Never again would he howl like an animal with anguish—

  “There!” Alienore called. Forcing back his hellish memories, he found the silhouette of a ruined watchtower perched above the road.

  “The keep that stood there was reduced long ago,” she said. “But enough remains for shelter while the horses rest.”

  “There’s a village near, aye? An abbey to shelter travelers.”

  “’Tis the hamlet of Châtellerault.” She cast him a guarded glance. “But these lands are loyal to the queen. I would not break cover until we leave Aquitaine well behind.”

  “The tower then.” He reined Lucifer into the turn. Despite a roof open to the sky, the walls stood intact, easy to secure.

  They stabled their horses on the ground floor and worked side by side in companionable silence. Covertly, he watched her—a constant surprise. The earl’s daughter was capable as any squire, courage and resolve emanating from her. Confident and graceful in split skirts and high boots, she hummed under her breath—her smoky contralto, her boudoir voice that set his blood seething.

  When would he see her in his bed, long limbs wrapped in furs, burnished curls tumbled around her face as she took him in her mouth?

  Hard and aching with desire, he climbed the winding stair to the roof, its crumbling walls framing open sky. A lambent moon gleamed in the bowl of night.

  While Alienore spread her blankets in a dry place, he put his back to the wall, where he could watch the stair. Remus curled at his mistress’s feet. Soon the wolf’s ribs rose and sank with the rhythm of sleep.

  While the Raven kindled a fire, she sliced brown bread and sharp cheese—meager fare, but fresh. Bismillah, he’d eaten worse. As their meal progressed, the pensive line between her eyebrows deepened. Gradually, her gaze hardened to steely resolve. At intervals, for no apparent reason, a blush suffused her fair skin and her eyes faltered, lashes sweeping down to hide her gaze.

  Is she thinking of a man? By the Prophet, Ormonde would suffer no lingering affection for Richard Plantagenet or that Beaumont puppy once she married.

  She hugged her knees to her chest. “My unwelcome suitor has hunted me like an animal from England to Aquitaine. Somehow I must persuade him to abandon me.”

  “Can’t see how you’ll discourage him.” The Raven’s eyes hooded. “Sees you as his salvation, maybe.”

  “I am no priest to absolve his sins.” Uneasily, she shifted. “We must expect him at court, sooner or later.”

 
“Likely sooner.”

  “Yet I am confident of the outcome. I shall persuade the king of my loyalty and regain my inheritance. Ormonde’s suit I shall consider in due course.”

  Trouble was, Ormonde couldn’t afford to wait for a marriage-shy maid to arrange her affairs and consider him in due course.

  “Still, I will not leave the question to chance.” Her silver eyes flashed. “I must ensure I am such a woman as no proud Norman lord will marry.”

  Oho, clever girl, what scheme do you weave now?

  “Do you plan to surrender your lands?” he asked casually. “Donate your inheritance to the Church?”

  Let her not consider it.

  Eyes blazing, her proud head lifted. “Surrender my father’s legacy for my own comfort? I think not.”

  “How then?”

  For a long moment that quivered with intent, she held silent. “The duke has bragged on the virtue of his bride. How then if I am shown to be . . . tainted?”

  Cold fury washed over him. Allah’s blood, did Richard—?

  “Do you . . . comprehend what I am suggesting?” Her eyes eluded him as she stroked the wolf.

  “Speak plainer.”

  “Oh, Raven,” she sighed. “If you would have me speak plainly, then so I must. By the time we reach court . . . I would be . . . no longer a virgin.”

  He pushed out a breath, waves of jealousy crashing through him. Beaumont, it has to be. By all that’s holy, I’ll kill the puppy!

  “What lucky fellow’s chosen for the deed? Or would any willing blade suffice?”

  Crimson flooded her skin, but 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.”

  Unease rippled through him. “My wager?”

  “From shame your noble heart shrinks to confess.” A wistful smile curved her lips. “Aye, Richard told me everything. You wagered to seduce me.”

  That was not everything, for no doubt Richard left out his own role. Shame over that thrice-be-damned wager clenched his belly. “Why me—of all men living?”

  “I am aware of your besetting sins. Women are clearly your weakness, along with a fondness for drink. But there are worse faults a man may have.”

  He was strangling on the dry bread and cheese of their supper. “Oh, I’ve worse—”

  “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 in all her glory, a costumed goddess at Richard’s masque, passion for Alienore of Lyonstone had possessed him like a demon. He burned to claim her, to trumpet his possession to the hopeful gallants who worshipped her. He burned 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 like lamps.

  “Aye, ’tis a mortal sin,” she said huskily. “Yet we shall both obtain what we desire. You shall win your wager, and I shall win my freedom.”

  She would surrender her maidenhood on the basis of a lie. 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.”

  Staring at the Raven, who lounged like a panther on the floor, Alienore could scarcely believe she’d made this shocking proposal—offered herself like a wanton to the Devil of Damascus.

  It had been pure impulse, temptation sprung full-blown as she watched him: dark and deadly as sin, scimitar lying across his knees, ready to defend her always. She placed her mortal soul in jeopardy to protect her honor—and surely for no other reason. By his own admission, he wanted her. Was it so wrong to use that? His passion, her passion, the frisson of raw need that arced between them when they kissed?

  She submerged unruly excitement beneath a sea of cold logic. “Pleasure is not our purpose. That is to say,” she hurried on, face flaming, “I do not begrudge you whatever . . . physical fulfillment . . . you may glean from the undertaking. I warrant some degree of . . . ah, pleasure . . . on your part is needful.”

  “Aye, it’s needful.” Swinging his scimitar aside, he uncoiled from the floor. “And not only on my part.”

  “Wait!” Her hands flew up to keep him at a distance. Now that she’d removed the bastion of propriety that stood between them, the cold composure of the queen’s minister deserted her, leaving her red faced and stammering as any maid.

  “Ah, certainly that is a noble impulse, Lord Raven. But I would prefer not to linger in the vain pursuit of . . . carnal pleasure.” Her voice wavered. “By my faith, I am convent reared, and hardly capable of such.”

  “You’re capable.” His amber eyes kindled. “Believe me.”

  “Nay! I would have you commence the deed swiftly—once I am fully prepared—and thus bring the act swiftly to completion.”

  “Do I comprehend you?” He spoke with deceptive softness. “I’m to fall on you like a beggar at a Yule feast—once you’ve braced for my assault—then barrel through the act with no heed for your pleasure?”

  “Aye.” She set her chin. “I prefer to forgo delay, which only encourages timidity and vacillation.”

  “You’d find it unpleasant, Alienore—and downright painful.”

  “Jesus wept! How painful can it be? Most maids survive the experience. Why, even if ’tis painful, I do not fear that.”

  Chuffing out a frosty breath, he vaulted to his feet and prowled the chamber. “This isn’t some challenge to conquer on the tourney field.”

  She willed her pulse to slow its headlong gallop. If only he looked less like the devil they called him, a lithe shadow sweeping before the fire.

  “I have offended you,” she said, contrite. “I meant no slur to your . . . abilities. I withdraw the offer—”

  “Nay!” He pivoted, surcoat billowing, and speared her with a gloved finger. “I’ll do the deed, Allah have mercy on both our souls.”

  She hardly knew whether to feel relieved or horrified. “Then I suppose I must . . . thank you? I hardly know what to say—”

  “Not one damn thing. If you intend to do this, we go about it my way.”

  Uncertain, she eyed him. She’d supposed this man of the world would accept a lady’s advances with greater polish. Instead, he smoldered with contained wrath; she’d grown too accustomed to his restraint. Now she was thankful to have space between them, though she knew with a fluttering in her belly that soon he must come much closer.

  No other strategy would save her from Ponce. Bravely, she swallowed her misgivings. “I shall not counsel you.”

  Indeed not, for what shall I do if he changes his mind?

  She conquered a last desperate clutch of modesty. “I fear you must—instruct me how to proceed. Shall I—shall I disrobe?”

  Across the chamber, he searched her features. She could not read him, but the harsh cast of his features softened.

  “Don’t be so hasty,” he growled softly, sending chills scudding across her skin. “Let’s take some wine. Happens I’ve a vintage, very rare and . . . special.”

  “By all means,” she said, relieved.

  He stalked to their possessions and produced a copper fla
sk. When he poured her a tiny cup brimming with golden wine, the heady aroma of honey and cardamom curled out.

  Senses swimming, she tingled when their fingers brushed. “Is this something you brought from Outremer?”

  “Long ago.” He dropped down beside her. “I was saving it for you, Alienore . . . though I never knew it.”

  Her heartbeat quickened at this familiar use of her name, which she had more than invited. But he stretched out without touching her, laid his sword within easy reach. Clearly, he would not pounce on her just yet.

  The wine coated her mouth in sweetness. Tendrils of heat unfurled in her belly. Liquid warmth pooled and pulsed between her thighs.

  “’Tis . . . pleasant.” She hoped he would attribute her blush to the fire.

  “Ah, but you care not for pleasure. Tell me, what do you fear?”

  His proud profile was etched against the fire, his sensual mouth framed with lines of bitterness and pain. White against bronze, the thin scar slashed down.

  Once, she’d thought his face betrayed cruelty and dissipation. Yet now she saw only the strength carved by suffering, the wisdom of experience, and the relentless resolve she’d grown to admire. He was valiant and baffling, her unlikely savior—a crusader without a Christian name.

  Eased by the wine, her question slipped out. “Did you ever meet my mother?”

  “Nay. I came not to court.”

  He alone might understand her tangled knot of grief and secrets—this disgraced knight who, despite his public shame, had kept his secret honor.

  “She was one of Eleanor’s ladies when Eleanor was Queen of France and called the most beautiful woman in the world. My mother too was beautiful, and high-spirited—like Rohese.”

  She hesitated. “But my mother kept her virtue . . . not like Rohese after all.”

  Her contrite glance absolved him of the sins she’d heaped upon him, but his scowl only deepened.

  “My father fell in love with Marguerite the moment he saw her and besieged her with wooing until she agreed to wed.” She closed her eyes against the memories, her parents laughing and loving in her childhood. Then later, drawn with suffering and hostility when her father turned against her dying mother.