Heather Graham

by The Kings Pleasure

  “No servants will attend you here tonight, milady,” he told her, fighting for control. “When I discovered your foolish treachery, I saw to it that I could bring you back unseen. These are no longer games you play with me! You and your indignant protestations of innocence! This was treason, Danielle. The servants have been sent out for the night. Don’t look to others for help.”

  “I look nowhere for help!”

  “Nay, lady?” he queried.

  She didn’t respond, but her trembling increased.

  “Get those things off!” he commanded. But she lifted her chin stubbornly, staring at him, ready for a fight.

  “They are causing you to shiver,” he snapped.

  “I shall shiver if I choose.”

  It was all he could do to manage to stand still.

  “Indeed,” he replied. “You shall shiver, but because I choose—I want you to shiver in abject fear!” He took a step toward her and she must have been more unnerved than she appeared for she moved backward, emerald eyes on his, and cried out bitterly, “As you—command!”

  He could hear her teeth grating as she dropped the cloak, and then began stripping away her soaked clothing. He grabbed the blanket from the bed, then waited as her clothing fell piece by piece. He locked his jaw, watching her, wondering why the icy water couldn’t have done more to dampen his ardor for her. Her breasts seemed swollen, roundly enticing, her nipples hardened to rose peaks that would tempt a saint.

  He tossed the blanket to her. She wrapped herself quickly in it. He let his own cloak fall and stood before the fire, again fighting his temper, and his desire.

  She was dead still in her blanket, not moving, not saying a word in her defense.

  “Sweet Jesu!” he swore soundly. “Edward does not deserve this hatred on your part!”

  “I wished no harm to Edward. I don’t hate him. I merely sought to warn King Jean—”

  “King Jean is well aware there will be battle, and what aids the French king injures the English one! To help Jean, lady, you do great hurt to Edward!” He paused a moment, realizing himself just how dangerous a game they played. “My God! Do you know that heads have rolled, that necks have been broken, for far less than you attempted this night? Good Lord, I should strike you down, you little fool!”

  But she stared at him defiantly still, and denied him. “You are Edward’s lackey. You have gained everything through him.”

  “Including you?”

  “Including my lands and titles!”

  “Would that I had been deprived! And, aye, lady! I am his lackey, I am his man, and I warn you now, don’t ever forget it again, or that you are my wife!”

  Her chin went even higher. She spoke with dead calm. “Well, sir, you came for me—I was duly stopped in my efforts. And I know that you will judge me and sentence me as you see fit—you condemned me when I was innocent. At least this time I am guilty of hoping to see King Jean live! But as you are in such a wretched mood, I am well aware that there’s nothing else I can say to you this evening. I cannot apologize to you for what I meant to do, I have never lied to you about my loyalties or—emotions.”

  He stared at her, amazed. After this, after this night, she thought that she would walk on by him. Did she think that she could command him not to touch her again, after tonight?

  He stared at her as she walked across the room, heading for the door.

  He let her reach it—almost.

  “Oh, no, milady! You’re not leaving tonight!” he assured her, and he strode past her, not touching her yet, but blocking the doorway.

  She stepped back, still silent, lashes lowered. She didn’t move; she didn’t tremble. His temper snapped.

  “I should flay you to within an inch of your life!”

  “I had to—”

  “Ah, yes, the hell with the English blood in you, you had that French vow to keep! Well, that somewhat explains why you would so wretchedly use the very king within whose household you were raised.”

  “Then give me over to the king!” she cried. “Let’s end this—”

  “End it? We’ve barely just begun.”

  Words began to spill from her, angry words, taunting words. “Surely you are needed elsewhere. You are the king’s champion. Have you no enemies to challenge tonight? No dragons to slay?”

  “No dragons this evening for me, my pet. Just one for you. Me. Tell me, milady, just what did you write to that dolt, Langlois? You had taken no vows? No marriage was consummated?”

  She flushed. “I merely said that I needed his assistance.”

  Control, he warned himself. If he were to touch her now, he might well break her. “You were willing to lie with him to reach the French king?” he inquired.

  She shook her head, her face ashen. “You were there! You know that I was not—”

  “Ah, yes, my love, thank God that I am aware you were not willing to give anything away—for free.”

  “How dare you—” she began furiously.

  “How dare you ask?” he slashed back. “You seduced him with promises of your hand in marriage. Sweet Jesu, milady, but you speak of vows! I remember the vows you made to me, quite clearly, if you do not. Every vow.”

  He strode toward her.

  Now.

  Now he was going to touch her.

  “I remember the vows!” she whispered. Her eyes were locked with his, liquid, wide, beautiful. Her hair was long and rich and radiant, cloaking her like the blanket. She backed away from him. He followed, until he had pinned her against the wall.

  Control. Oh, God, his temper was soaring. His muscles wanted her, his body pulsed, his groin ached. Let her deny him now.

  “Ah, milady,” he murmured, watching the beat in the slender blue vein at her throat, “Do you know what astounds and dismays me most?”

  “What?” she demanded warily, watching him, straining as close to the wall as humanly possible.

  “That you could say that our marriage had not been consummated. Indeed,” he taunted, thinking of the way he had found her with Simon, “I remember even that first night so very well!”

  “Aye!” she cried, and raised her chin. “You threatened to prove to that rabble tonight that our marriage was real!” she accused him contemptuously. “You call yourself a knight! You speak of chivalry—”

  “I seldom speak of chivalry. And I merely informed the fools that a midwife could be summoned to prove that you were no sweet, innocent lass!”

  She gasped, horrified. “You would have had me—”

  “I would have given nothing to those wretched fools, milady, even to prove to your too amorous but well besotted Frenchman that you are legally and in every way very much a wife—my wife. But there is something I do most earnestly intend to give to you!”

  Her glittering eyes narrowed on his. His heart skipped a beat. “And what is that, milord tyrant?” she inquired coolly.

  He smiled. “A jog to your memory, milady wife. I had not realized I had so failed in my husbandly duties that you could forget such a thing as the consummation of your marriage.”

  “Oh, you fail at nothing!” she cried out. “And my memory is just fine, I haven’t forgotten a thing—”

  No more. He would take no more. He reached for her blanket and wrenched it away from her with a fury. The desire in him burned with an all-but-crippling brutality as he surveyed her, his wife. He thought of the way Langlois had very nearly raped her—when she had arranged the meeting with him.

  He didn’t know exactly what she read in his eyes then—the anger, or the desire.

  “No …” she whispered.

  The last time they had met, she had furiously denied him—for not believing in her. And now …

  Now she had proven them enemies. And he wanted her anyway. Wanted to touch and taste her, have her, caress her, drown within her. Her blanket was gone; her hair cloaked her perfect flesh, her breasts, even the curve of her hips, the slim length of her legs, the triangular shadow of hair at the apex of her thighs.
Hunger filled him, undeniable, inexorable.

  “Damn you,” he told her, bracing her there.

  She tried to wrench away. He would not allow it.

  “You will remember who you are!” he cried to her.

  “And to whom I belong?” she shouted back in angry protest.

  “Aye, lady, indeed!

  He leaned to her, and kissed her. Found her lips, pressed within them, ravaged her lips and mouth with his tongue, and wanted more. Yet his lips broke briefly from hers.

  “Please …”

  He stood still, aching, tied in knots. “Ah, lady? Beg mercy, would you?” he inquired. And if she did, what then? Could he walk away from her now?

  Never. It wouldn’t matter if the king himself commanded him to do so.

  But her eyes opened wide and furiously on his.

  “Not in a—”

  “In a pig’s eye?” he suggested, using her term.

  “You are the worst of knaves!” she cried out, “and I’ll never beg anything of you!” She was suddenly struggling against him, pounding on his chest.

  He captured her wrists with a grip of steel. She was silent, staring at him, her breasts rising and falling in the firelight. And he was both more furious than he had been in all his life, and more aroused. God, but he was in agony, and by God, she would heal him!

  “Indeed, milady,” he assured her, “tonight, by God, you will please me! For I want everything that I have remembered burned within my form and mind again and deeply, the hungers of so many nights appeased. Aye, please me. Ease away the rage. I demand it!”

  He swept her up into his arms, heedless of the few steps that brought them to the bed. He fell ruthlessly with her into the cool softness. If she twisted, he did not know. If she fought, he fought harder. He found her lips, assaulted, tasted, caressed, savored, and demanded. He touched her, caressed the fullness of her breasts, her nipples, thighs, throat …

  He rose above her, impatiently shedding his clothing. Her eyes were on his, huge, so green in the firelight. She didn’t whisper a word of protest then, but neither did she reach out.

  But she would.

  He caught her hand, and brought it to his burning flesh. His muscles bunched and pulled and leaped in anticipation as he brought her fingertips down against his chest, then around the throbbing length of his manhood.

  A shudder wracked through him. She almost jerked away. He held her to him.

  “Lest you forget!” he whispered, and she trembled, yet didn’t pull away again.

  He pressed her down, easing his weight between her limbs, and when she cried out softly, he ignored her, capturing her knees and spreading them wide to his access and hunger. He kissed and teased the soft, silky flesh of her inner thigh, then moved against her, his caress a whisper of flame and liquid fire, his intent to mercilessly coerce and arouse …

  Yet he was the one in torment, the taste and scent and feel of her infusing his blood, his every breath, the fury of his need. She writhed to escape, then writhed to come closer …

  Enough, too much, never enough, more than he could bear. He rose above her, buried himself within her. Her eyes were upon him, and he wondered again that any woman could have so much power over him, filling his thoughts so constantly, tormenting him, yet taking such a place in his heart that he would gladly die for her, kill for her …

  If any man ever touched her again …

  He met her gaze.

  “Lest you forget me …” he whispered.

  She sobbed out, closing her eyes, reaching for him. And he embraced her, his arms as fierce as the thunder of his movement as he embedded himself again and again, as if thereby he could be with her forever.

  He felt her surge against him, and in the following seconds, lost all conscious thought, violently shuddering against the crest of his own climax.

  Yet even as he held her, his seed spilling into her, he called himself a fool. Ah, indeed, he had proved that she was his, his wife, his lover, his to seduce, his to arouse. He had made her respond to him, he had proven that he could do so.

  And he had sold his own damned soul to her again. There was no one like her. She had been in his blood, in his life, haunting his soul and his senses forever.

  But she would betray him again. And again. God knew, she was French. To the core.

  And the real battle was about to commence. She was dangerous. To them both. He dared give no more, for she risked her life, and he would defend her to the end, yet both their heads might well roll.

  His muscles constricted painfully.

  And he rose.

  He wanted to stay. Hold her throughout the night. But he dared not. Damn her, he dared not!

  He found clothing in his trunk and dressed quickly. He didn’t want to look at her, but he could see her even as he pretended to give his attention to the task of dressing. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her knees drawn together and up. Her dark hair splayed over the white sheets; her lashes swept her cheeks. Her features were marble, her flesh was ivory and perfect, and he ached just to touch her again …

  He belted on his scabbard and sword.

  And slammed his way out of the room.

  Hearing the door, Danielle jumped and winced. And the tears that had burned beneath her eyelids suddenly sprang hotly into being.

  What could she have done differently? How could she have changed her fate, indeed, changed what she was, her loyalties, her own sense of honor? If only he could understand.

  What did they do now?

  Where did they go from here?

  She had wanted him so desperately. And she had had him at last, touched him, felt the violence, tenderness, hunger, and passion.

  She had really loved him so very long. So long. And she’d missed him, wanted him, ached for …

  Well, tonight she had had him.

  And lost him. If only he would come back. What then? She could whisper the real truth. That she loved him. He wouldn’t believe her, and it wouldn’t matter. Not tonight.

  Nay, not tonight …

  She allowed herself the luxury of tears.

  Chapter 21

  THREE WEEKS AFTER ADRIEN left his wife at Aville, the armies at last clashed in the giant battle that had long been coming.

  The Battle of Poitiers took place on September 19, 1356. King Edward was in England at the time; the campaign and battle were waged by his son, Prince Edward, known after as the Black Prince, for the color of his armor as he led his forces into the fray.

  It was a splendid victory for the English; the French were soundly defeated. Adrien, being part of the mounted assault, had followed the archers onto the battlefield, riding Matthew and bearing down on his enemies with tremendous power and speed. He fought with his sword, a fallen mace when he was disarmed at one point, and with an opponent’s battle-axe. The day’s work was grim, and at one point, mired in a combination of blood and mud, the battle was so horrible that had he time to think, the horror would send him howling from the field. He did not have time to think. His enemies—strangers who raged at him with their own weapons—sought his death, and there was little to do but fight them in return.

  As the French gave ground, he shouted to his men to encircle them. In the midst of the fighting, he realized that he and his men had the French king in their net, and so it was that King Jean of France became a prisoner of the English.

  Adrien could admit to admiring the man, for he was a young king, courageous while he fought—and valiant in defeat. He was a striking fellow, a charming Valois, quick-witted as he was escorted to Prince Edward. “Ah, well, Laird MacLachlan, if I am to be taken, at least I am escorted by an in-law. How is my fair young cousin of Aville?”

  “She is well, King Jean.”

  “Despite the machinations of men such as Langlois,” King Jean muttered, smoothing his dark hair. He shrugged, smiling at Adrien as they rode. “Naturally, Laird MacLachlan, I am not a fool. I heard what happened at the tavern; Langlois was not so remiss as to fail to warn
me that the countess had been trying to reach me. I can see where this might have been a matter of great marital tribulation for you.”

  “Frankly, I feared for her life should Edward discover her treason.”

  “Then he’ll not discover it,” Jean said shrewdly, and again, Adrien thought that he liked the man.

  They came to the battlefield tent where Prince Edward awaited his royal prisoner. “Cousin!” Edward greeted Jean. “What a pleasure!”

  “For you, surely,” Jean said.

  “You are a valued guest.”

  “What is my value going to be?”

  “When he discovers that we have you, my father will be calculating the sum,” Edward told him. He clapped a hand on Jean’s back. “I can hardly ask you to drink to my great victory, but I will drink with you in commiseration, eh?”

  Prince Edward remained joyous, which was natural. His victory had been complete, and around the campfires, men already noted that it was a battle so great it would go down throughout generations in song and story. Soldiers would study the tactics; kings would take note.

  But though Adrien joined Edward in his celebration, he was anxious to see to his own men and his horses. Despite the sweetness of victory, there was a bitterness in his soul. He couldn’t forget that his wife had so willingly risked her life to go to the Twisted Tree Tavern. And he couldn’t believe that he loved her still, beyond sense and reason. He couldn’t trust her. The danger she had threatened to the English royal house was over now, with the French army so soundly defeated and King Jean a prisoner, but he suddenly wanted her out of France. Perhaps it was the anger in the soul. She was at Aville now; he had left her there under guard, since he’d had time for little else with the armies in motion. But it galled him that she was there, for it seemed that she had achieved what she wanted through treachery. And she would soon learn of Jean’s defeat, and God alone knew then if she would begin plotting for his freedom …

  She wasn’t going to stay at Aville. He’d been gone too long from England and Scotland. He wanted to return to his border lands, he realized. Home was a place where he could replenish his soul. And whether she found his rocky northern terrain barbaric or not, it seemed the ideal place for her.