Heather Graham

by The Kings Pleasure

  But he didn’t. He left the shadowy illumination of the fire. She heard him strip down in the darkness and slide into the bed beside her.

  But he didn’t touch her. He turned his back on her.

  It seemed that a very long time passed. She was almost certain that he slept, when he shifted to his back, causing her to jump. “So I am at fault, Danielle? And you should be returned to Aville?”

  “Yes,” she said, keeping her distance.

  “I am to believe that you mean to keep the vow I forced from you, and no matter what I hear to the contrary, you’re true to the promises you made to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “The king has a special soft spot in his heart for you, though God knows why—you have defied him often enough. But he doesn’t trust you now, nor does his son.”

  “The king believes every word you say to him. He always has, though God knows why.”

  “Because I am honest and unwaveringly loyal?” he suggested dryly.

  “I was loyal,” she whispered. “I was loyal at Aville. It is my home. It’s where I want to be.”

  “If only …” he murmured.

  She could not see his face in the shadows, yet there seemed to be some whisper of belief. She didn’t think she could bear the distance between them, the huskiness of his whisper. Yet neither could she accept his fury when she hadn’t done anything.

  As of yet! an inner voice taunted her.

  “If only?” she queried softly.

  “If only I could believe in you,” he said. “If only you could hold Aville for me—and King Edward,” he said very softly, and she waited for him to touch her.

  He turned his back on her again.

  He had dozed. He didn’t think he’d ever manage to do so that night, but he had. Exhaustion could be a strong force, even against the furor in his heart and soul. Yet, wanting her as he had, he had fallen asleep at her side. A bloody miracle.

  And so …

  He first thought that he was imagining or dreaming her touch. Her fingertips, like butterfly’s wings, over his shoulders, along the length of his spine. Her lips … at his nape, feverishly hot, delicate, erotic, moving down his back, over his shoulders, lower again …

  He stayed very still, waiting, as angry as he was hungry, aware that he had hinted she might return to Aville if he could be convinced to trust her.

  So she had her price.

  Let her pay it.

  And she did.

  The tip of her tongue teased his bare flesh.

  He could ignore her.

  Would ignore her, he assured himself.

  Except that …

  Her lips and tongue continued to move. Stroked with tiny little laps that wickedly teased and awakened. Moved up and town, her fingertips caressing … her kisses eliciting a strip of liquid fire that burned across his flesh, into his limbs, straight to his groin. Then he felt the supple length of her body, warm as a balmy breeze, sultry as sin, as she moved more closely against him, her softly exotic kisses running the length of his shoulders again.

  He could, and would, ignore her …

  Her hands moved over his shoulderblades, onto his chest, low down upon his abdomen, stroking, lower, lower, not quite low enough. He felt himself hardening, aching, hurting.

  Be damned.

  He turned, drawing her into his arms. Her body undulated against his, his fingers curled into the silky-clean seduction of her hair. She took him into her mouth, instinctively caressed him with her tongue. He cried out hoarsely, wrenched himself up and caught her by the waist, swiftly pinning her beneath him in the shadows. By God, indeed, she had her price, and if it had not been for that thought, he might have told her that there could be no other woman, ever, for him.

  He took her with a searing, swift, force, scarcely able to contain himself until he felt her shudder beneath him before soaring to his own explosive climax. Exhaustion, satiation; and contentment filled him, and he drew her close, amazed, happy as he had never imagined, that she had come to him with such sweet hunger.

  But then it seemed his mind snapped back and he remembered that he had teased her with the hint of a promise …

  He lay still as she curled against him. Her voice, soft and young and innocent, teased his ear.

  “Adrien?”

  “My lady?”

  “I … I did nothing. I swear it.”

  “Ah …”

  “Please, bring me back to Aville.”

  The room was cast in shadow, yet he thought that he could see her beautiful face and the glitter in her emerald eyes.

  He let her words play upon the air, as if he considered them.

  Then he rolled to her, rested upon an elbow, and studied her lithe, supple form and luxurious hair in the shadows.

  “Never,” he said flatly.

  “But—but you said—”

  “You’ll stay here, Danielle. And that is that.”

  She looked away from him, biting her lip as tears stung her eyes.

  “Seducing me is not the same as earning my trust,” he told her. “You can’t go home, Danielle. But may I say, as your husband, I was absolutely delighted.”

  “Oh, you may go right to hell.”

  “I could return the favor.”

  “Don’t you touch me!” she cried, which was, of course, ludicrous, because she was powerless and he was touching her in many ways. Her head twisted to the side. “Don’t you touch me! I mean it, Adrien, get away, don’t … don’t … you’re a bastard, and I do not forgive you for this!”

  Something within him hurt, for her voice was cold in a way he had not heard before.

  “If only I could trust you!” he whispered.

  She stared at him. “You could trust me! Please!” she cried, distressed. “You are hurting me.”

  He thought that his weight might be crushing her, and he eased himself to her side. She leapt up, finding the huge linen bath towel and wrapping herself in it.

  He sighed and stood, then walked over to her. “Danielle, you can’t go back to Aville. Not now.” He dropped to one knee, reaching for her chin. “Danielle,” he whispered softly, amazed to realize that his voice was growing husky, and that he wanted her again. Ached for her. He had been away too long.

  She wrenched her face free from his touch, stood, and walked away.

  “Don’t you touch me!” she whispered vehemently again.

  He stood, too, wishing he wasn’t tempted to sweep her up and throw her down again. But the sun was rising—if he could make love to her just once again …

  “I mean it, Adrien, don’t touch me. I don’t want you—I can’t bear … I can’t …”

  “Make me believe in you,” he said.

  “Don’t ever think to touch me!” she repeated.

  He forced himself to shrug. “If that is your wish, my lady.”

  As if he weren’t suffering the pain of hell’s fire and damnation. As if his limbs were not coiled into knots of agony.

  He turned away from her and began to dress.

  He knew that she watched him. He didn’t glance her way. He donned his pants, shirt, tunic, and boots, and swept his great cloak around his shoulders.

  He walked to the door, opened and closed it.

  And did not look back.

  Chapter 19

  PRINCE EDWARD AND HIS forces were gone, riding the countryside—preparing to attack the French king, Danielle assumed. She chafed at being basically imprisoned, even though the Castle de Renoncourt was a fine facility and the surrounding land beautiful. She was allowed to ride, accompanied by two older knights, Gervais de Leon and Henry Latimere. From her first morning under guard at the castle, she studied her circumstances. One of the two knights was always near her, standing guard at the outer door. Terese did not seem to be in the castle, and Danielle was far more distressed than she was willing to admit to learn that the girl had accompanied Prince Edward’s troops. Neither was her husband’s squire about, having ridden to attend to Adrien’s horses and arm
or.

  Different servants brought her meals, tended her room, prepared baths, and came to collect her clothing for the laundry. Listening to servants’ gossip outside her rooms one day, she heard that Prince Edward had ordered that she not be attended too often by any one servant, lest she manage to befriend anyone who would help her leave the castle.

  The days seemed very long, the monotony maddening. She had never been good at needlepoint. She read, she rode, she waited. The food didn’t agree with her, and she sometimes felt exhausted and ill. As more and more days went past, she grew more restless, and more angry. She’d never really done anything to Prince Edward—or to Adrien. They had no right to do this to her. Aville was her home, and she belonged there.

  At night, as she tried to sleep, she was tortured by images of her husband and Terese, and she would he awake, ruing the role of women in politics and society. It wasn’t fair, none of it was fair. When she wasn’t angry, she was afraid—afraid for Adrien, and afraid for the French.

  While pacing one night, she realized that there was a small, semi-circular balcony off her room. She liked to stand there, watch the night sky and the stars, and pray that she wouldn’t go mad with the waiting, that God would send her a solution.

  God did. Leaning against the wall, she discovered that it opened, and a narrow, circular staircase led downward from the balcony to the courtyard below. It was dark, covered in spider webs, and at first, she was loath to go down it, but finally she lit a lamp and explored the old stone stairs. They led to a corner of the courtyard near the stables.

  First, just to prove it possible, she decked herself in her long, hooded cloak and took a walk about the courtyard.

  The next night, she walked into the village, where children fetched water from the well, fires burned in small cottages, and farmers and craftsmen rested after long days of work. She was elated to realize that no one knew she had left the castle.

  She took numerous jaunts at night, all well within the town limits. She grew bolder, starting out earlier, and buying little pieces of jewelry from a silversmith who worked near the castle walls. One night, as she was about to walk away with a charming new brooch, he stopped her. “Countess?”

  Startled that he was aware of her identity, she paused, glancing at him more carefully. He was perhaps fifty, a serious, slim man with long, delicate fingers, well suited to his craft. She didn’t reply, praying that she had not been discovered beneath her hood by a fanatical follower of her husband or the prince who would feel obliged to find one of the men and tell him about her nocturnal jaunts. But the man leaned forward. “If you ever wish to go further than the village, you only need ask my help.”

  She froze for a moment, aware that she had found a loyal follower of King Jean. For a long moment she stared at him as he stared at her. With a strange ache in her heart, she wondered if she shouldn’t just accept his offer—and flee this place, and the husband who had so completely forgotten her—and seek refuge with King Jean, a man who recognized her rights to her own home. But no matter how furious she was with Adrien, she didn’t want to run away. She wanted him to realize that she hadn’t attempted treason against him, and she fantasized a charming picture of her husband on his knees before her, abjectly apologizing for ever having doubted her.

  She watched the man, shaking her head slowly but smiling as well so that he wouldn’t fear the fact that he’d given himself away. “I must remain a guest of Prince Edward. But it is good to know, friend, that you are here.”

  He indicated the silver bauble she had just purchased. “If you need help, send it to me through my boy, Yves. He works in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you,” she told him.

  “To serve you would be my greatest pleasure.”

  She thanked him again, and hurried away.

  Three nights later, she crept down the stairway at night again. It seemed that Adrien and the prince’s forces had been gone forever. She was sick, uneasy, and restless, and it wouldn’t be quite so bad if she could just go home. Monteine wrote to her, as did Sir Giles and Daylin, and she wrote in turn. But she longed to be in Aville with them.

  As she exited the secret door out of the stairway, she paused in fear, flattening herself against the wall as she saw a group of three armored horsemen who had just ridden into the courtyard. She started to hurry back into the stairway, but then paused, hiding in the shadows, listening as they began to speak. None of them noticed her, and their words were brash and freely stated.

  “What a way to end the war, eh? Seize the French king himself, and if his people want him back, they can pay for all our arms and forces for his return!” said one young knight, dismounting from his horse.

  “Aye,” said a companion, “but how do we find him in the midst of battle?”

  “It’s possible,” said a third man, whose tunic showed that he was from the English house of Percy. “But there’s sound rumor that three nights from now, he’s to be riding from field to field, rallying his forces. He’ll have a small escort. If he can be ambushed by a small force …”

  “Such as ourselves?” inquired the first man.

  “Aye, aye! And if we kill him in the contest, so much the better for our good King Edward, eh? And what a boon to us! We’re sent here to see that the Countess d’Aville remains safe. We not only do such duty, but kidnap or kill the French king! The prince will reward us well!”

  “As long as we’re careful not to die!” said the first young knight.

  “What is life without risk?” taunted the other.

  Laughing, clapping one another on their shoulders, the men left their horses to a groom and headed into the castle keep.

  Danielle could barely breathe. She remained where she was for long moments, flattened against the castle wall. She had sworn before Christ that she would do her best to help Jean if his life were threatened. Treason, her husband would say. But if she managed to warn Jean and save his life, then her part in this travesty might well be done. She had promised that she would help once, but only once. Her vow to her mother and her promise to the false priest would both be fulfilled. Perhaps she could then be the countess her husband desired.

  Her husband. The man who had ridden away from her …

  With his mistress following behind?

  She turned and quickly followed the stairway back to her room, afraid that someone would be calling on her that night—to see to her welfare. She had scarcely reached her balcony before she heard a tapping on the door, and Henry calling to her. She quickly sped across the room and opened the door. He stood there, one of the knights from below behind him.

  “Yes?” she inquired.

  He bowed. “We’ve just come to see if there’s anything you need, my lady.”

  She shook her head, staring at the knight behind Henry.

  “Sir Ragwald, my lady.”

  She studied the young man. “Have you come from my husband?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Oh?”

  “From Prince Edward, my lady.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  He went down on a knee before her, his head bowed. “If there’s any way I can serve you, my lady …”

  “Thank you. There nothing I need. Good evening.”

  She closed the door to her rooms and began to pace. After a while, she took her silver brooch from her cloak and started out into the hallway. Now, only Henry stood guard. “I’ve found myself famished, and need wine as well. Could you send for the kitchen lad?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Henry bowed and left her in the hallway. He turned a corner—but returned very quickly. “I’ve sent a maid, my lady.”

  “You’re too kind,” she said. Smiling, she went back into her room. She found paper and a quill and set about writing a hasty letter to Comte Langlois. Worried that the letter might be seized, she didn’t address it, explain the danger, or sign it. She wrote about her own situation, signing herself as a loyalist bound to a man who served the English king.
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  There was a tap on her door and she hastily folded her letter, men opened the door. Henry was there with the lad, Yves. He had a tray for her. As he set it on a table before the fire in the outer room, he cast a glance her way. She dropped the silver brooch in his hand. Henry remained in the hallway. Danielle watched him carefully as she whispered, “Tell your father this must reach Comte Langlois. Someone can find him through the Twisted Tree Tavern. Will your father know the place?”

  “Aye, my lady. It’s no more than an hour’s ride from here, if the ride is hard.”

  “My thanks.”

  “Nay, lady, our thanks!” the lad whispered quickly. Pocketing the brooch and her letter, he quickly left the room.

  That night, she lay awake in more torment than ever. What if Yves were caught? He might be tortured, killed. What if the father failed her? And just what had she written in the letter? Enough to entice Comte Langlois to come to her aid? Yes, definitely. She had hinted that she was unhappy, desperate to see him. Had she promised him anything? No, surely not …

  The following day, her stomach was in knots. She paced endlessly, worrying herself into a frazzle. But that night, Yves returned to her room, bringing wine. He left her a letter in return.

  Nervously, she ripped it open. Comte Langlois had written in return: The Twisted Tree Tavern, tomorrow night, an hour after sunset. Your obedient servant, L.

  She exhaled and lay down, suddenly drained. Tomorrow night she was going to have to slip down the stairs, find her way to the tavern, speak with Langlois or have him bring her to King Jean—then slip back into the castle!

  Could it be done?

  She left the castle that night and hurried to the place by the wall where the silversmith worked. He was there, working very late by firelight.

  “The Twisted Tree Tavern, my lady, is not hard to reach.”

  “On foot?” she queried softly.

  He smiled. “There will be a horse in the copse beyond the courtyard. Yves will be there, and ride with you part way.”