The Devil's Temptress

by Laura Navarre

  Surprise flashed through her. “But how—?”

  “That story must wait.” His face closed like a door, sealing away his grief as though it had never been. “They’re expecting us for supper.”

  She had misjudged him.

  Alienore sat in the high-backed chair, bare feet stretched to the brazier, while Nesta drew the brush through her hair. She sat in her bridal chamber, chilled in her night rail and pelisse, and recalled everything she knew—and did not know—about the man she’d married.

  He’d claimed his share of honor once, yet that could change nothing. This outcast knight had lied to her, schemed to win her fortune. No doubt there remained much he had not told her. He’d said naught of Damascus, for one thing.

  A soft sound snatched her attention. Hands clenching on the chair, she looked up.

  Jervaise filled the doorway, a slice of night that prowled and breathed. Darkness entered with him, wrapped around the crouching furniture. Shadows limned the crucifix against the whitewashed wall, pooled under the canopied lair of the bed.

  She lifted her chin to show she did not fear him—though that would be a lie. Her heart thudded against her ribs hard enough to make her dizzy.

  Nesta bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll just be takin’ me leave.”

  “You had better sleep here, Nesta.” Alienore rose. “I dislike the look of that merchant’s son without.”

  “Ooh, milady!” Nesta’s cheeks turned pink. “I’ll find me own place tonight.”

  Alienore blushed fiercely at the unsubtle emphasis.

  “I bespoke the tanner’s wife on your account,” Jervaise told Nesta. “She’ll expect you to share her pallet. Appeal to Sir Guy if the need arises.”

  Scurrying out, Nesta cast her mistress a coy glance that made Alienore clamp her teeth around an irritated rejoinder. Her tiring girl had been overwhelmed by the excitement of these nuptials. Happily discarding the better part of a year’s anxiety, Nesta viewed the entire wretched affair as a love match.

  Watching the girl abandon her, Alienore suppressed a sigh. In truth, she hadn’t believed Jervaise would be daunted by a servant’s presence. When he bolted the door, she swallowed against a bone-dry throat.

  She resolved to take command of the situation. Yet she could not seem to frame the words in her mouth. In mounting agitation, she watched him discard one boot, then the other. His bare feet were strangely elegant, as were his hands as he unknotted his sword belt.

  Suddenly, he glanced up. “Some wine before bed?”

  Her composure unraveled. “I think not. I shall not be drugged into submission . . . this time.”

  His mouth curled wryly. “There’s the abbey’s wine, poor vintage though it is. And I’m no man to drug a woman into submission.”

  “Are you not?” Her nostrils flared. “I vow that has not been my experience.”

  “That wine was meant to ease your fears, no more. The rest was your doing. You offered yourself to me—remember?”

  She maintained her scornful silence, for she would not bandy words with him. But her composure slipped further as he swung off his belt, scimitar thudding against the chest with muted menace.

  He peeled off his surcoat. Before he could disrobe to the skin, she gathered her resolve.

  “Monsieur, I would have a common understanding between us.”

  “Indeed, wife,” he said softly. “Let’s have that.”

  Her spine stiffened when he called her wife, fortifying her to say what she must.

  “I am your wife unwilling, as you fully know—your bride in name only. For propriety’s sake, I am resigned to the unfortunate necessity of sharing your chamber. But that is all this shall be. Do you understand me?”

  “Let’s say I don’t.” Still as a crouching panther, he watched her. “What do you see between us, wife?”

  “I am not your wife—except by name. I do not intend to allow any . . . intimacy . . . until I petition the king.”

  Her words rang boldly, yet she felt anything but brave. Concealed among her saddlebags, her sword would enforce her will if it must, though she was averse to baring steel in their bridal chamber. Still, she would do what she must, if reason and persuasion failed.

  “You’d claim lack of consummation.” His voice scraped out. “To annul the marriage.”

  “That, and my lack of consent to the match.”

  “Bismillah, do I seem a lackwit, to give you that weapon?”

  A frisson of warning slid down her spine. Refusing to show fear, she lifted her chin.

  “Chivalry alone demands it and your honor as a knight. Have I not made it plain? I am unwilling!”

  “Chivalry and honor?” His voice roughened. “You mistake me for a true knight. I prefer a willing woman, aye. But too much swings in the balance to be swayed by sentiment.”

  Fury coursed down her spine and flooded her with reckless courage. She drenched her words with all the contempt of an earl’s daughter. “Then you’d resort to rape to serve your purpose. To serve your greed.”

  Roughly he dragged the coat over his head along with his linen shirt. For a sizzling instant she reeled beneath his impact: the chiseled strength of a fighting man, the broad planes of his chest gilded by fire, knotted column of muscle plunging down to his trews.

  “This’ll be nothing like rape.” Eyes hooded, he met her gaze. “You’ll be willing enough.”

  Battle heat seared through her. He declared his intent as clearly as a blown trumpet. Abandoning persuasion, she fired into motion and lunged for her saddlebags. If he forced her to the sword—

  The impact of his body knocked the breath from her lungs. She landed facedown across the bed, his heavy frame on top. If he hadn’t caught his weight on his arms, he would have crushed her. Straw scratched her skin through the mattress as she twisted, seeking a better placement. When she rolled over to confront him, the dizzying scent of musk and sandalwood filled her head.

  The hard lines of his body thrust against her, pressed her into the scratchy bedding. He pinioned her arms beside her head.

  The breath rushed from her lungs at the searing imprint of his body. Her pelisse had twisted beneath her. Through the thin shield of her night rail, the stiffened blade of manhood nudged her thighs.

  She stared into his saturnine features as his hair poured around them—curtaining them in a private world. Her brain seethed with panic. “Will you truly sink so low?”

  “I’ve wanted you since the day I looked in your eyes.” Sweet with cloves, his breath brushed her face. “And found a woman strong and fierce as a lion, who’d challenge the devil himself. I’ve wanted you my whole life . . . searched for you without knowing it.”

  Blindly she shook her head, hair flung against the mattress like a fallen banner. “It will be rape.”

  “Nay—not rape,” he muttered, and captured her mouth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  She’d yearned for this—his mouth, his taste, the urgent press of his hands on her body. Her own desire, too long denied, lanced through her armor like a fine-honed blade.

  His kiss stormed her defenses like a charger at full gallop, demanding her surrender. Their tongues sparred in combat, the insistent nudge of aroused manhood against her womb.

  She strained against him, a contest of strength, hands fisting as he pinned her wrists to the bed. Her scalp tingled as ribbons of hair snagged beneath their bodies, the pain bringing tears to her eyes.

  Senses reeling, she dragged air into her lungs. “Cease, you villain!”

  “Jervaise.” Turning his rough-shaven face into her throat, he rubbed like a cat against her skin. “I’ve waited long to hear you speak my name.”

  Tendrils of awareness uncurled below her belly. He commenced a subtler assault, tasting her skin where the fine dew of sweat sprang out. Her pulse struggled under this new offensive.

  “Stop,” she whispered.

  “Never,” he muttered, nuzzling the vulnerable nexus of neck and shoulder. Pleasure arched and stretche
d within her like a waking demon.

  Aye, fight him. Fight for your Christian soul. So she fought, but still she desired him. Caution swirled through her brain like wind stirring a pond and vanished as quickly. His hand brushed her breast, swelling like a ripe apple, veiled by white linen. Her breath rushed out as he found the stiffened peak, already tingling with expectation. She moaned deep in her throat as he teased her to swollen readiness, despair and delight mingling.

  She clung to the cracked shield of her resolve. “Jervaise . . . I do not want this.”

  “It’s no sin, Alienore. We’re man and wife.”

  Her fierce denial faded as his open mouth found her through the fabric. Darts of pleasure spiraled inward as his tongue stroked her, suckling like a babe. Surrender could only lead her to ruin, strip her of both lands and independence. Yet she could not deny him. She gripped his shoulders—to hold him back, or draw him closer?

  Sweet mercy, somehow I must stop this. If she did not, she’d find herself bound to him by flesh as well as marriage vows. Even the king could not save her if Jervaise de Vaux planted his child in her womb.

  Desperation fired as she heaved beneath him and resisted the carnal urge to rub against him like a wanton.

  “Allah’s heart.” His hand hooked in her night rail. Cool air shocked her fevered limbs as he peeled it up. Barely in time to preserve her modesty, she trapped his hand against her thigh.

  She’d braced for a contest of strength, but he was too clever for that. His sword-roughened palm found the virgin skin of her inner thigh, where no man had ever touched her. The sheltered opening between her thighs flared into throbbing life. She dared not move nor even speak, lest she betray herself. His hand claimed her terrain, one breath at a time.

  When he found her petal-soft folds, smooth as any lady’s, a hot rush of urgency pulsed through her. She panted like a winded fighter as cool air teased her thighs and squeezed her eyes closed in an agony of embarrassment. She would squeeze her legs together if he weren’t sprawled between them.

  “Bloody hell, Alienore. I’ve dreamed of this.”

  The musk of salt and arousal teased her nostrils—the scent of her own body. The tender channel of her womb clenched, as if to grasp him.

  “Stop this.” She trembled. “I cannot—I will not—”

  “Oh, you will.” He spread her wide. “And revel in it.”

  As her last bastion threatened to crumble, she leaped for her final chance.

  “I am revealed to your eyes,” she whispered, “yet you hide from mine. Would you demand more than you are willing to give?”

  It smacked of trickery rather than the clean strength of defiance, and she reviled the lie. Yet he stilled, poised to spring.

  “I’d give you all I own.” He paused. “Nakedness between lovers is no sin, Alienore. I learned that in Outremer.”

  He knelt between her knees, eyes sweeping her body, and the knowledge of what he saw seared through her. Legs supple with unwomanly strength, the brazen exposure of that place between her thighs, sweat-damp linen clinging to her breasts, cheeks flushed with libertine passion.

  Now he sees the truth of me: my lack of a maid’s softness, and the wanton lust of a Rievaulx. Yet to unlace his chausses, he released her. It was enough, more than enough opportunity for a woman with her skills.

  Lightning swift, she rolled away from him. Her bare feet smacked the floor. Pushing out a harsh breath, he leaped for her and snared her pelisse. She twisted out of it, leaving the garment trailing from his fingers as she dove for her saddlebags.

  He was already springing from the bed with a curse, already lunging across the floor as she dragged her sword free. With one hand she flung the sheath away, and swung the broadsword up between them—barely in time.

  He twisted into stillness a blade’s length away, half-bound chausses entangling him. He eyed her ready stance, feet spread and weight balanced, both hands gripping the broadsword. Firelight seared along the blade.

  She itched to put distance between them. Yet she dared not move, lest she tangle her feet in her own garment. She watched his chest rather than his face, ready for any flicker of movement.

  “If you love life, monsieur, do not approach.”

  Black humor threaded his ruined voice. “Never knew such sport could be found in the bridal bed.”

  “There shall be no bridal bed for us.” She held the blade extended, its tip grazing his sternum. “I tried to spare us this moment, but you refused to listen.”

  “Think you could best me? I’d overcome you in a heartbeat.”

  Nay, she was not so great a fool.

  “I believe there is something left of the Christian knight you were.” She prayed she had not misjudged him. “I believe you would not rape an unwilling woman.”

  “That’s your mistake.” Sparks flared in his eyes. “I learned long ago not to harbor a tender conscience—or I’d be dead.”

  Her shoulders burned as she held the heavy blade extended, but she dared not betray weakness. She swallowed against the knot of dread and stared coldly down the sword. “If you are truly as despicable as you claim, then at least I shall know it.”

  As always he was difficult to read, emotions sealed away behind saturnine skin. His eyes narrowed, his scarred features hardening.

  “Say I agree to delay until we find the king. Say he refuses to see you, or denies your petition. What can I expect in exchange?”

  The knot of fear tightened in her chest. Her arms and shoulders were screaming from the sustained effort of holding the blade. Aye, he was negotiating, but they had not come to terms.

  He had stated what he was prepared to offer, and she did not care for it. But if she won some small respite, she was certain she could persuade the king. She was a Lyonstone, after all.

  “If you agree to delay this matter until I have petitioned the king,” she said carefully, “and he refuses me, then I will know there is no hope. In that case, I will . . . allow you to share my bed.”

  “Nay,” he said, intent. “I’ll have more from you when the time comes than stoic endurance.”

  “Would you have me behave like a wanton?” Her nostrils flared with outrage.

  “Not a wanton. Like the woman you are, Alienore. Don’t deny your nature or the pleasure you find in my arms.”

  The pleasure you find in my arms. His words slid over her skin like a caress. Standing barefooted in her night rail, she shivered.

  “You are deeply mistaken about my nature.” With all her being, she strove to believe it. “But if the king refuses my petition, I will . . . oblige you. You have my word of honor.”

  He searched her features. “Then you’ve mine—whatever that’s worth. Your willing body in my bed’s a prize worth the wait.”

  Heat flooded her face at the dark promise in his tone.

  “Lower your sword, my lady,” he jeered. “Your virtue’s safe from the devil . . . for now.”

  Her mind was far from easy, but she could hardly maintain her vigilance all night. With a sigh, she lowered the blade, point resting on the ground between them. Relief flooded through her trembling limbs. She had held him off, for the moment.

  I was right about him. By my faith, I was right. Whatever he said to the contrary, Jervaise de Vaux would not force himself upon an unwilling woman. He was not the conscienceless monster he painted himself—not quite.

  Before her visible relief, his face twisted. With knife-sharp motions he retied his chausses, then jerked on his boots. Still gripping the sword for insurance, she retreated to the brazier and gave him a wide berth.

  He dragged his coat over his head—never mind the shirt—and flung his surcoat around his shoulders. Without a glance at her wary figure, he strode for the door.

  “Where are you going?” She could not help asking.

  He wrenched the door open without looking back. “To hell.”

  Fear gripped her belly as he strode across the threshold and slammed the door behind him.

 
; She should be pleased to be spared the devil’s attentions.

  For the hundredth time, Alienore reminded herself what she should be feeling as she knelt in the abbey church. She should be singing paeans of thanksgiving for her deliverance. Instead, she’d spent her wedding night tossing in the abbot’s scratchy bed while she awaited Jervaise. But he had never returned.

  Certainly he had not appeared for Mass. Behind hers, the pews were crowded: the dutiful monks, her yawning Plantagenet guards, a motley band of travelers. But Jervaise was not among them.

  The rumble of hosannas rolled from the monks, her contralto rising above them. Beside her, Sir Guy hoisted himself up with a grunt, knees popping. She cared not to think what he must be speculating. No doubt Ormonde’s raging emergence from the bridal chamber had not escaped notice. In all likelihood, Sir Guy knew where Jervaise had slept. But she would not lower herself to ask.

  In a cloud of incense, the abbot swept past, bearing the heavy penance candle. All would be dolorous throughout Christendom until Lent gave way to Easter. Sighing, she crossed herself and followed the procession.

  The dripping gray sky did not lift her spirits. The muddy yard was crowded with milling horses. Near the gate, a black-clad figure murmured to his turbaned squire, Remus panting at their feet.

  Her heart gave a bound of pleasure and relief. As if she’d cried out, Jervaise turned toward her.

  Bareheaded in the rain, he’d clubbed back his hair to bare his feral profile. The lines around his mouth and eyes were deeper chiseled, as if with hardship. But he was stalking toward her like the predator he was. She must compose herself. She clasped her hands and waited.

  “Bid you good morrow.” She was pleased with her distant courtesy as she ruffled Remus’s fur.

  “I’ve seen better morrows.” His eyes raked the yard, scattered with bedraggled chickens. “Restful night?”

  She looked down at the wolf, her cheeks scalding. “I am prepared to resume our journey.”

  “Good. We break fast in the saddle.” He pitched his voice loud enough to reach Sir Guy, hovering watchfully nearby. “A royal courier just passed. The king keeps court at Le Mans—no more than a day’s ride.”