by Dee Brice
Come hell or high water, she would go home.
Chapter Five
“You want me to do what?” Adrian shouted, slamming the door to the only semi-private space on the castle grounds.
Created by hot natural springs, steam rose from the bathhouse pool wreathing Walker’s face and torso in wispy fog. Some ancestor or other of Adrian’s had restored the bath once William the Conqueror had granted Belleange to him. A relic from the Viking occupation of the site, Adrian viewed it as his sanctuary, coming here to sweat out problems and make decisions.
Finding Walker there was bad enough. Hearing his proposal tempted Adrian to remain dressed and seek solace in a tankard of ale. That being Arnaud’s solution to even the smallest worry, Adrian changed his mind. After all, he could just drown Walker and toss his body out to rot.
Now naked, he slid into the pool and repeated his question.
“You heard me,” Walker said, a grin revealing lots of straight white teeth Adrian wanted to knock down his throat.
“Mayhap I did hear you and only wish I had not.” Allowing that one half-filled tankard would do little harm, he poured from a pitcher at his side.
“Why? Your brother’s widow is comely enough. Seems to have all her teeth. Has a sizeable dowry to consider along with her other womanly charms.”
That dowry almost made Adrian forget the major obstacle to taking Arnaud’s widow as his own wife. Almost. “Henry ordered her to marry my brother, not me.”
“I read the decree, my friend,” Walker reminded him. “Henry signed it and affixed his seal. Of that there’s little doubt. As for the document itself…”
That incomplete thought, the lowered voice, Adrian recognized as ploys to pique his interest. “What about the document?” he mumbled.
“Likely written by a scribe who—no doubt harried by our king to write as fast as he could, unaware Arnaud had a twin brother—wrote only ‘A de Vesay, Earl of Belleange’.”
“And?”
“Henry could have intended that you marry Diane de Bourgh.”
Adrian started to deny it but found the idea somewhat appealing. “What about the church? Does it not proscribe a man marrying his brother’s widow?”
Walker shrugged. “Who will contradict the king? Show the new Canterbury archbishop the document and he cannot say what Henry meant. Ask Henry himself. Will he admit his decree does not reflect his true wishes? Given his stated desire to have Thomas Becket removed as archbishop and what happened as a result…”
Shivering at the thought of murder being committed in the cathedral, at the high altar itself, Adrian offered another objection. “The priest who performed the rites—”
“Who would think to ask him? If asked, will he deny you were the man who stood at Lady Diane’s side and made his vows?” Walker’s snort put paid to that idea.
Rubbing his chin as he thought, Adrian offered up the single greatest impediment to Walker’s suggestion. “What about Diane’s uncle? Diane herself?”
Of course Walker ignored her uncle-baron and seized upon the lady herself. “Why would she object? She knows a little about what your brother was and must feel grateful to have escaped him. As for her uncle…I heard there is little if any affection between them. Why would she want to return to him? Be relegated to tending her sister’s children when—God willing—she could have her own…with you.”
Walker’s gaze sharpened on Adrian’s heated face. While he could hope his friend would think the hot waters had caused his discomfort, Adrian knew better and braced for a lengthy set of questions.
“What did you do?” Walker said, his soft voice renewing Adrian’s gooseflesh.
“Nothing more than you did when you rode off, taking her horse with you.” Aye. A good offense on Adrian’s part might eliminate the need for defense.
“Her mare wants breeding and followed my stallion. What excuse have you for abandoning the lady? How do you expect to bed her after leaving her to trudge five leagues home?”
“I did not leave her at the cottage. In truth, she had only a few steps to take to reach the postern gate.”
“How few?”
Swearing under his breath, knowing Walker would hound him until he confessed, he said, “One league, no more.”
“Why?”
Glaring, Adrian muttered, “She asked about the fire. Guessed that Arnaud had set it and… By damn, the witch knew why he did it.”
“Knew that he was in bed with all the Days? Knew he was drunk and damn near burned them all to death?”
“Not all that…precisely.”
“Then what, precisely?” Walker’s gritted teeth betrayed his growing ire.
Since Walker was his liege lord, second only to the king, Adrian answered truthfully. “She suggested he wanted to give her untainted space. You know…a bed in which he had not swived the Days.”
“Which prompted you to think her a witch? Fool!”
“Fool, true.” If he admitted it Walker might cease harping, leave Adrian to bathe in peace and think about taking the widow as his wife.
“You called her a witch? Said it to her face?”
“I did, yes.” Expelling a huff, he added, “Which means she will prefer going home to marrying me.”
“What it means, fool, is that you shall court her.”
“I shall? No. Why would I?”
“To continue all the restoration and additions to your home. To keep your niece and nephews safe. Above all, to have Diane de Vesay in your bed.”
Adrian had to admit she had an oddly seductive walk that made him imagine her hips thrusting her quim into his face while her juices soaked his lips and chin. Most women—especially noblewomen—took care in both attitude and appearance to seem demure, shy and virginal. Even widows who had buried several husbands ofttimes strove for an air of innocence. Diane de Bourgh took every advantage of new styles more formfitting than before and played the color game his sisters had told him about to perfection.
Wishing for a faithful wife? Dressed in shades of blue, Lady Diane wore a simple coronet atop her plaited hair. Seeking passion? In hues of green, her hair unbound and adorned only with gem-encrusted flowers, with her hips canted forward, she presented an image of seductive temptation. That walk turned the heads of experienced and innocent males of any age.
It had caught his eye on the few occasions they’d met before their wedding. His brother’s wedding, he reminded himself, aware of how he had noticed that walk again when she entered the chapel and proceeded slowly toward him.
How he had envied his brother all that long-limbed walking temptation that was Arnaud’s to tame.
Now Adrian’s to tame—could he persuade her to take him as her husband? Take him into her bed and body?
While thoughts of her dowry suited his rational side, the lure of her body convinced him. He would more than enjoy hearing Diane scream in ecstasy. Feeling her quim milk him as they pounded together.
Still…Walker’s insistence caused him some concern. The duke always had reasons for his actions, be they dire or pleasurable. “What do you gain from my marrying her?”
Rising, Walker strode to a nearby bench, took up a towel. “Your happiness, of course.”
What else? Adrian wondered, but let his concerns die. The enormous task ahead made his stomach roil. He would sooner face a melee than try to convince Diane de Bourgh to become Diane de Vesay for the second time in little more than a month.
A firm knock on her door doubled Diane’s heart rate. Having returned to her rooms scant moments earlier, she knew of only two people who would rap so imperiously—only one with reason to do so. Had Adrian decided to burn her at the stake, hang her from the nearest tree, or throw her out?
“C-come in,” she called, standing and clinging to the carved bedpost. Her legs felt as limp as overstretched rubber bands but she refused to cower. Thinking to hide in the privy, she darted an anxious look at the door leading to her garderobe. Her outer door opened and Adrian appeared, making esc
ape all but impossible.
Essie, her maid, followed with a basin and a bucket. Since steam rose from the bucket, Diane assumed it contained hot water. What a relief! If he’d had hot water delivered, he must not mean to harm her. Unless he intended to drench her with it in hopes she’d melt like the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz. But how could he even know about that? The book hadn’t been—wouldn’t be written for another eight hundred years or more.
“Sit,” he said, motioning her to the single chair near a table.
Wondering if he meant for Essie to throw the water, Diane tilted her chin in defiance but did as bidden. She kept a close watch on him, half expecting him to grab the bucket and do her in all by himself. Not that she’d melt. Silly to even think that. Burn her skin to blisters? All too possible if the water were really hot.
Essie knelt at Diane’s feet, then half filled the basin from the bucket. Adrian handed the maid a pitcher off the table, watching as Essie splashed the combined contents over Diane’s toes.
“Too warm, m’lady?” the girl asked. “Too cold?”
“It’s perfect but wh-why?” she asked, meeting Adrian’s eyes.
“I thought your walk might have caused you pain or injured you.”
His indifferent tone belied the courteous words and raised her hackles. “As if you care,” she murmured, as aware of Essie’s eager eavesdropping as he must be.
A wave of his hand sent the maid scurrying out the door, which she closed without a sound. Diane imagined the girl attempting to listen through the thick oak planks and prayed she couldn’t hear anything—even if Diane gave in to fear and shouted as loudly as she could. Would Essie dare to return, aid her mistress? Diane doubted it.
When Adrian settled a pillow on the spot Essie had knelt, Diane’s scathing, defensive scold lodged in her throat. When he seized her right foot, she kicked her left, splashing her bare knees and his damask tunic.
“I’m so sorry.” But his stunned expression brought laughter bursting out of her. “I r-really… I am—”
“You are not,” he accused, using her sodden chainse to blot his chin and tunic. To her utter shock he laughed, adding, “You may not have meant to kick out as you did, but you are not sorry.” Looking up, he met her eyes. “I, on the other hand, am.”
“Am—are what?” She couldn’t believe he would apologize for the mess she’d made, so he must have meant something else. But what?
“I tossed you from my horse. Left you without knowing if my actions had harmed you or caused you pain.”
At her nod, he gulped and looked about to swallow his own tongue. She waited, breath held, for what he might say next.
“It was behavior unbecoming a knight. Unfitting for a man of my…my…”
“New status?” she suggested, wanting to laugh, while concerned about his obvious discomfort. Men having such tender egos, she offered comfort instead and smoothed her hand over his cheek. Besides, he had so much on his plate…small wonder he barked at her, or left her at the side of the road. “I accept your apology and thank you for—”
He surged to his feet. The basin spilled. They both ignored the water seeping around their feet.
“I regret leaving you without transport. For that I have no excuse, but I owe you no apology.”
Typical man, unable to admit doing something beastly—even when he’d already claimed being at fault. But then, men seemed to think admitting fault and being sorry for it didn’t mean the same thing.
“Are you saying I earned your anger? That I deserved to walk all those leagues—”
“A few steps,” he corrected, some emotion twitching the corners of his mouth.
Hoping he fought laughter, her anger seeping away, she countered, “Several thousand steps.” His warm smile banished any remaining ire. “Which caused me neither pain nor harm. As you can see.”
Sticking out both feet, she clipped his chin. He careened backward, landing on his butt, his surprise soon replaced by outrage. He sputtered, fisted his hands so she jerked back. Yet he made no move to strike her. Instead he leaned back on his elbows and looked at her, his expression so…mild she didn’t know what to think.
“I truly…regret kicking you.” Regretted it, yes. Sorry for it? Hell no! He deserved it. Making her feel almost cherished by bringing her water for her sore feet. Making her laugh with him. Making her like him, for heaven’s sake.
Men of his station—hell, men of any station—did not bathe a woman’s feet. Adrian obviously wanted something from her. All she had to do was figure out what and she could best him at his own game.
Rising to his knees, he righted the basin then refilled it from the bucket. “The water feels cool enough.”
His nod invited her to test it so she did. “Most pleasant,” she told him, a small smile curving her lips.
To her shock, he lifted her right foot then stroked her sole. It tickled, making her jerk. He held fast, tugging each toe in turn as he kept his gaze on her face. Her breath caught as she tumbled into those Caribbean-blue seas, willing to drown or burn as he willed.
His gaze never wavered. “I hope you will stay.”
His thumbs pressed into her arch and she moaned, it felt so good. “Stay here? With you?”
“Here at Belleange. My home.”
Not exactly an answer but she doubted he’d give one more definitive. “If you want me to stay…” She shrugged.
“I would not ask were it otherwise.”
Hesitating for a moment, trying to determine his sincerity, she nibbled on her lips. His stillness persuaded her as a hail of words could not. “Then, yes, I’ll stay.”
She’d heard or read someplace that the nerves in a person’s feet connected directly with every erogenous zone in the body. She hadn’t believed it, even when her pedicurist had done a deep massage on Diane’s feet and calves.
She believed it now.
Maybe because Adrian seemed so intent on pleasing her. Every moan of pleasure from her brought a concerned look from him. Soon, however, he seemed to realize her groans were ones of bliss, that he wasn’t hurting her at all. Far from it. Every stroke of his calloused hands swept away more of her tension. Every press of his fingers sent awareness of her needy body parts soaring through her mind.
He watched her, those Caribbean-blue eyes taking in her every expression. In moments he learned which strokes eased her and what pressures aroused her almost to the point of orgasm.
Almost.
Looking into her eyes, mesmerizing her, he kept her on the sharp edge of bliss. Then finally, he let her slide, boneless, into oblivion.
She awoke when her outer door crashed against the stone wall. Groggy, yet with adrenaline racing to all her extremities, she sprang from the bed. Realizing she was naked, she groped for the chainse she’d worn yesterday but couldn’t find it. Forced to settle for what lay within arm’s reach, she grabbed at the sheet on her bed.
Walker Mornay, Duke de Beaumont, leaned against the doorjamb, a frown on his face, an unholy gleam in his devil-dark eyes.
Ignoring him, she gave a frantic jerk on the sheet and wrapped it around her. A muffled groan came from the man in her bed, his head buried under a pillow. A very naked man who now rolled to his back, his morning erection waving at her and the duke as if inviting them to lie down with its owner. A blush, sudden and unexpected, heated her face. Feeling like a teenager who’d never seen a penis, she gazed at her feet.
Or was the heat fury at finding Adrian in her bed? Had he massaged her feet with the idea of lulling her to sleep? Had his consideration been nothing more than a ploy so someone would discover them together? Why she had imagined besting Adrian at his own game, when the game was someone else’s?
Someone?
Hell no, the devil duke himself had no doubt plotted the entire scene.
“I thought I might find you here, Adrian.”
“Well, I didn’t!” Diane snapped, gritting her teeth to hold back shouts of protest. “And if you think to force me to ma
rry your friend,” she directed her vitriol at Walker, “think again.”
“I have no intention of forcing you to do anything,” Walker said, his voice slick.
She imagined oil on water, the oil so thick nothing could escape it. Snorting her disbelief, she saw her chainse on the floor, scooped it up then strode to the connecting door to the garderobe. Walker’s voice made her trip. Stumbling to a halt, she willed her ears to block his words. She failed.
“You shall repeat your vows gladly. Renew them with joy for your husband’s people. After all, having lost their lord, they deserve a reason to celebrate. Adrian is beloved here, so you shall pledge yourself to him. Of your own free will. Won’t you, my lady…witch?”
Her knees shaking, her breathing like desperate gasps, she refused to acknowledge his threat. She didn’t have to. The devil duke knew he had her, capturing her with a single word. A word given to him by his minion and her future husband, Adrian de Vesay.
* * * * *
She ate even less than she had at her first wedding feast. At least her new husband’s people seemed gladder…umm, more glad? Happier than her people had—even though she’d left them and whatever resentment of her they held. They might have cheered her departure as they hadn’t cheered Walker Mornay’s toast to the bride. Tonight, however, she did drink more wine. And enjoyed it too, silently applauding its oak aroma, its subtle fruity flavor. Emptying a jeweled cup, she held it up for a footman to refill.
To her right, in a place of honor, the duke shook his head and covered her cup with his hand. Ignoring her glare, he gripped her arm and drew her to her feet.
“It is time, milady, for you to retire. Your husband will soon join you.”
“What about you, milord? Will you also join me? Us?” Pulling free, she swayed a little but steadied when he glared at her.
Unscathed, he rallied. “Do not tempt me, Diane. Do so at your peril for, although I cherish Adrian’s friendship, it is not so great as to keep me from what I want.”
Baring her teeth, she murmured, “Touch me again and I’ll stuff your balls down your throat and pray you choke on them.”
