The Devil's Temptress

by Laura Navarre

  “Did you never hear how she died?” Her throat ached with unshed tears. “I have never been certain how widely the tale is told.”

  His breath brushed her ear. “I was in Outremer. Tell me.”

  “She was badly injured when a tower collapsed in a deserted wing of the castle. She should not have been there.” She swallowed. “The stones . . . crushed her spine. She lingered in a sort of twilight for nearly a year, but never left her bed again.”

  She forced herself to speak of it, her deepest shame. “Someone else was in the tower that day—my father’s arms master, Raoul. ’Twas said . . .’twas said they were trysting, that they were lovers. But my mother swore to me, over and over, that it was not so.”

  Astonishing to reveal this dreadful secret to the man she’d viewed as her enemy. Yet he was her true champion as Thierry had never been—her light in the wilderness, with darkness all around.

  The wine’s warmth was spreading like ripples in a pond, lapping at every nerve.

  “You believed the rumors?”

  “My father did.” She sighed. “Afterward, my parents never spoke a word without rancor. I believe she died of a broken heart, mourning the death of their love.”

  “Your father believed,” he whispered, breath licking her ear, running like flames along her neck. “But did you believe?”

  “Never! Not because my mother denied it, but Raoul . . . . he was her cousin, like an uncle to me. After my father and brother took the cross, Raoul was the one who stayed. His legs were crushed when the tower fell. To the end of his days, he shall only crutch along with walking sticks. But Raoul denied the rumors—and him I believed.”

  “You fear your mother’s weakness. Fear the same willful passion that destroyed her will destroy you.”

  She had never admitted it—never acknowledged that she had donned her armor of virtue to defend from Marguerite’s indiscretions.

  Recklessly she swallowed the last sweet drops. The wine burned all the way down to the woman’s place that nestled between her thighs, swathed in layers of wool and linen. That hidden place throbbed gently, like a beating heart.

  “I have no such passions, for I am no mere Rievaulx. I am a Lyonstone first.”

  “Whatever you are, you don’t lack passion.” His lean features filled her vision, copper skin framed by the night black spill of hair.

  “I shall never acknowledge such passions, Raven, no matter what was in that wine.”

  “Think I’d drug you?” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Well, no wonder.”

  “Nay, I only meant—”

  “It’s a potion to relax you, no more.” Deftly, he hooked his fingers in her snood and pulled it free. The sensuous slither of hair unraveled down her back.

  “Place your trust in me, Alienore. Trust me this once.”

  “I trust you, Raven,” she whispered. “But I shall feel nothing in your arms—neither fear nor passion. I’ll lie with you to defeat my enemies, nothing more.”

  “Nay, brave one. Let yourself know plea sure now.” His golden eyes seared through her, through the dizzying plunge of falling, the world revolving around her. He caught her gasp with a kiss.

  His mouth was a warm vortex drawing at her resolve, flavored with spice and honey. She gripped his surcoat to anchor herself—the panther’s lush pelt sheathing his fierce heart. His arm swept around her and pulled her into him.

  She splayed her palms against his chest, her entire body thrilling with danger. She who feared no man, who defeated armed knights in battle—now overwhelmed and powerless, disarmed by a kiss. The languorous pulse between her thighs waxed and waned. God save her from this heathen wine!

  She clutched his massive shoulders. His arm was sheathed steel against her spine, yet still she was falling. He alone could save her.

  “Stop, Raven! This was not what we agreed.”

  “Too late—far too late. Tell me now you feel nothing.”

  “I feel nothing! ’Tis only the wine. Do you think I don’t know?”

  “Brave as a lion,” he muttered, curse and endearment mingled.

  Above, the star-filled heavens shaded from black to cobalt, for dawn was coming. A bird’s silhouette perched on the wall. Skilled as a troubadour, the Raven plucked the lute strings of her flesh, kissed the pulse that hammered against her throat. A glissade of gooseflesh raced along her skin.

  In that instant she understood, with piercing clarity, the sweet beguilement of sin. She would sell her soul gladly to prolong this exquisite cascade of the senses.

  Was this what Marguerite had felt? Was this what condemned her? She shuddered as his lips found the hollow below her ear, stirring ripples of shivery pleasure.

  “Does this please you?” he whispered.

  At last, she’d found a man who matched her strength. A man whose powerful sense of honor guided him like a rudder through the treacherous shoals of life, a man she could admire . . . even love.

  His fingers brushed the wool-sheathed curve of her breast. A shock jolted through her. “My God, Raven . . .”

  All the blood in her body was rushing to that point, her breast swelling to fill his hand, rising to a peak. Extraordinary, these ribbons of sensation unfurling to her center.

  She struggled to speak, voice so husky it sounded like a stranger’s. “This is indecent.”

  He chuckled like the devil himself, his thumb brushing back and forth over the swollen peak until she could bear no more, the heart of her body throbbing.

  When he tugged at her lacings, she clutched his shoulders.

  “Wait, Raven! I am no longer certain this is a wise notion.”

  “It isn’t,” he murmured. “You deserve a better man.”

  A warning whispered through her, forgotten when he kissed her, and fueled the slick throbbing where her thighs pressed together. When their tongues twined, his breath caught. For the first time, she knew the heady rush of feminine power, to render this fearsome knight helpless with a touch.

  A seam of cool air opened along her spine as the gown slipped from her shoulders. The curves of her breasts stood outlined, pushing boldly against her linen shift. In his face, she surprised an expression of brooding tenderness, foreign to his hardened features—affection, shadowed by remorse. She wondered at it until his fingers teased and stroked again. Until she closed her eyes, forgetting.

  “Alienore, you’re ready for this, brave one. I’ve waited for you forever . . . far longer than you know.”

  In a sudden rush of modesty, she gripped his hands.

  “A moment,” she whispered, seeking some last reassurance. “Tell me your true name first.”

  A raptor’s lids slid down to hood his eyes. He went utterly still, face closing around his secrets, and she knew he would not answer.

  Then his gaze probed hers as if searching for her soul. His breath released in a sigh. As though the tower were filled with people, he pressed his brow to hers and whispered.

  “My Christian name was . . . Jervaise.”

  “Jervaise.” He trusted her with his secrets, as she trusted him with hers. “’Tis a beautiful name and naught to be hidden.”

  When he tugged her shift gently, the lines of her body were revealed. How could he like what he saw: the ripple of muscle honed by years of sword-play, her breasts too full, as she’d always thought? Suddenly, she was torn between an abashed desire to cover herself and the need to pull him closer.

  He eased her back on his cloak, warmed by his body and fragrant with musk. The plush fur caressed her naked skin. Though she could not say what she desired, her fingers spoke for her, trailing along his coat.

  He unhitched his sword belt, swung aside the sheathed crescent—disarming himself in her presence, trusting her that much. Then he peeled off his coat and bared the colossal physique that stole her breath.

  Bronzed by the dying fire, his skin stretched tight over slabs of muscle, dusky male nipples, torso crossed by the pale slash of old scars. The double column of his abdomen plunged do
wn into his braies. She dared lower her gaze no farther just yet.

  Her curious fingers traced the bulge of his arms. His skin burned with fever, heat radiating in waves she could almost see. She had never thought a man’s skin could be smooth and supple as doeskin. The feel of him fascinated her, the contrasts between smooth and rough, fierce and gentle.

  Suddenly she longed to feel him everywhere. Smiling, she pulled him toward her.

  He laughed deep in his throat and bent over her—

  The harsh caw of a raven did not alarm her, even when the ripple of warning ran through the Raven’s body. The wolf raised his head and growled. Too late she heard the clump of booted feet on the stairs.

  Behind the Raven a torch flared, illuminating the men who followed: guards in Plantagenet crimson, eyes flying wide with speculation, an incredulous Sir Guy Aigret. Bringing up the rear, scarlet with mortification and betrayal, stood Thierry de Beaumont.

  Stunned, she remained where she was. Surely the Raven would leap up, his scimitar flashing to defend her as always. Yet he made no move for his blade.

  His words pulled the scales from her eyes at last. He pressed his brow to hers. “Alienore, I’m sorry. You left me no choice.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Madly the church bells tolled, clanging through the keep where the king’s men were holding her. Yet it was not the hour for prayer. Frowning, Alienore rose from her stone-cold hearth.

  A pity Sir Guy could find no better prison for the queen’s privy chancellor. Since she’d been taken into custody, she had grown weary of this drafty chamber, the lumpy pallet where she tossed at night, the limited view of muddy streets below.

  Now the view remained unaltered. Judging by the bells, she’d expected some catastrophe, a conflagration or plundering army.

  Shivering, she hugged herself, detesting the grimy feel of her gown. She’d been wearing it since Poitiers, three full days past. The teeth of worry gnawed her. Somehow she must speak with someone, learn what was happening beyond these walls, or go mad.

  Pious Ponce—where are you now, my twice-jilted suitor? Have I discouraged you at last with this latest shaming? And the queen— God save her, where was the queen? Did Eleanor believe she’d betrayed her?

  Restlessly she paced, breath puffing white, her route made wearisome by repetition. When she stooped to hug Remus for comfort, she caught a whiff of the malodorous bucket.

  The wolf was allowed out to relieve his needs, but she was not. Sir Guy would take no risks where Eleanor’s privy chancellor was concerned.

  I should have swallowed my accursed pride when he came upon us—the Devil of Damascus and the queen’s most virtuous lady, tumbled on the floor like a pair of rutting peasants. Fiercely, she banished the memories that pulsed with banked desire. Better she should flog herself for the appalling breach of judgment that landed her in that reprobate’s arms, and now in this current disaster.

  I should have explained, but I was too proud to defend myself before the king’s leering men.

  And Thierry, her disillusioned Lancelot, had been so furious he would not even look at her, all that dreadful ride to Châtellerault. She’d known no other way to withstand the scorching shame of being discovered with a known libertine in the tatters of compromised virtue—no other way but to hold her head high and ride in imperial silence. Sir Guy had ordered her captivity and thundered off in pursuit of the fleeing queen, with no time to spare for a dishonored maid.

  The church bells crashed, great deep-throated alarms that set the world trembling. Heart lurching, she hurried to the arrow loop and fretted to find the same view.

  What if Louis had sent French troops to support Eleanor’s rebellion? Or was it wrathful Ponce, come to appease his wounded pride?

  If it’s Ponce, praise God they did not take my long-knife.

  The thud of a heavy fist sent her spinning toward the door, the knife flashing free in her hand. Then she chided herself for a fool. If soldiers had taken the town by force, they would not knock politely before bursting in.

  “Enter,” she called.

  Sir Guy pushed in, clad in mud-spattered riding clothes. He avoided her gaze, and she fought down a hot blush. This good-hearted Englishman, her father’s friend, had seen her half-naked on the floor in a wastrel’s arms. She could scarce bear to contemplate what he must think of her.

  Yet not for nothing was she an earl’s daughter. She sank into a stately curtsy.

  “Bid you good evening, Sir Guy.”

  “Milady.” Speaking their native English, he darted her an uncomfortable glance. “I thought ye’d wish to know. The queen’s been captured.”

  Ah, the bells! They ring the queen’s doom. Her heart sank to her boots, but she spoke steadily.

  “Has she been allowed to account for herself? Perhaps there is yet some reasonable explanation.”

  “Bah!” No man to waste words, he grimaced. “She’s proved a traitor to any man’s satisfaction—even a wronged husband. We caught her, disguised as a man, riding hard to Paris. Her saddlebags were bursting with treasonous papers and half the wealth of Aquitaine.”

  The chamber dimmed around her as the last flicker of hope sputtered out.

  So the queen is a traitor after all. My faith in her was as misplaced as my faith in that wastrel knight. God’s truth, I must be a fool indeed to possess such appalling judgment.

  Eyes stinging, she spoke in muffled tones. “And her sons?”

  “Those whelps of the devil?” He snorted. “Richard and Geoffrey made good their escape, God rot their treasonous souls. By now, they’ll be in Paris with their worthless brother, swearing fealty to French Louis.”

  So must all honest Englishmen think of their princes now. She swallowed past the ache in her throat. “I pray you, what will happen to her?”

  “She’ll not see the light of day again, except through iron bars—never go free while our king lives. Maybe he’ll divorce her, for never had a man greater cause.”

  “He’ll not divorce her and risk losing Aquitaine,” she whispered. “But how she will hate being imprisoned.”

  Even after all the queen had done, a rush of compassion nearly undid her.

  Whatever she is, whatever she has done, I love her. Just as I loved my mother.

  “Where will they take her?”

  “King’s issued orders to hold her at Chinon. Those lands will hold loyal—not like Aquitaine.”

  “Chinon is in Anjou.” A spark of hope flared in her battered heart. “A day’s ride from here.”

  “I set sail by river at dawn. Now this thaw’s rotted the ice, it’s easier than wading hip deep through the mud. God knows I’d enough of that business while we hunted her down.”

  “Sir Guy.” Clasping her hands, white-knuckled, she lifted her eyes to his. “I know you’ve no cause to think well of me—now. Nonetheless, I would ask a boon.”

  Embarrassment furrowed his brow at this oblique reference to a lady’s shame. He scrubbed his face with a calloused hand.

  “Aye, well, ye may ask.”

  She drew a careful breath. “Her Grace will be devastated, with all her poor hopes in shambles. I am her godchild, and . . . ‘twould mean a great deal to be allowed to see her.”

  “Christ, milady.” Groaning, he stumped to the dead fire and scowled at the bucket with its foul contents.

  “Ye’ve been kept in poor comfort, haven’t ye, lass? I’ll ask yer pardon for that. Theobold’s daughter deserves better.”

  Her cheeks burned to hear the words of condemnation he did not utter. This was her own doing. If she’d remained with the queen, she might have prevented—

  With difficulty, she quashed the thought. “I know what it must have seemed. What you must have thought when I fled without a word and then . . . later.”

  Her voice nearly failed her, but she forged through the burning wall of shame. “I swear to you, upon my mother’s soul—I was going to the king. I had naught to do with the queen’s escape, I swear it!”
/>   He puffed out a skeptical snort.

  “I left a note to bid her farewell. You may ask my tiring girl. By my faith, I am no traitor!”

  Though he refrained from heaping his doubts upon her head, the forthright old soldier avoided her gaze. “Aye, that Raven said the same—defended ye. But what else could he do, the way we found ye?”

  The Raven had entrapped her, compromised her, coldly planned her humiliation like a military campaign, then dared to apologize as the king’s men took her. She’d not glimpsed the wretch since her imprisonment. But she would not ask her guard about him for all the riches in Outremer—those selfsame men who’d found her in his arms.

  Jervaise. Is that even your name? She had nothing to occupy her mind save thoughts of him. No doubt that was why she could not forget him.

  Sir Guy stabbed the ashes with his poker as if wishing he could run the man through. “The Raven—ha! What manner of godless name is that for a Christian knight? Damned if I know what to make of him.” He fixed her with a shrewd eye. “He claims he’s the king’s man now.”

  “So he has always claimed.”

  “But I can’t disprove it, can I, without the king’s word? And well the villain knows it. So I’m holding him under guard.”

  The Raven held captive! Savage vindication speared through her even as alarm knotted her stomach. Her muddled reactions to the man infuriated her. Surely that unprincipled knave deserved whatever befell him. He had betrayed her, betrayed Eleanor, betrayed his country and his God when he fought for the Saracens. What would prevent him from betraying Henry too? If Sir Guy threw the Raven into the deepest pit in Aquitaine and left him there to rot, it would serve the man right.

  Still, there was justice to consider. Whatever his motives, he’d saved her on the road to Castile, saved Remus from drowning too. She owed him something for that.

  “I suppose he must be allowed to clear his name, Sir Guy—if he can. We shall address the king when you take me before him.”

  The old knight threw her a cross look. “I thought ’Twas Eleanor ye wished to see.”