Linda Skye

by A Pleasurable Shame

  Giselle watched his entire body stiffen at her proximity. He looked away and closed his eyes, the muscle in his jaw working furiously. When she reached out to lightly touch his shoulder, she swore he nearly jumped.

  Giselle was sure of it: Seigneur Eustache was not the cold-hearted, bloodthirsty monster that the townsfolk made him out to be—that she had taken him for. Though his experience of war had certainly hardened him, his curt manner was not borne of hate but of inexperience with the fairer sex. He was clumsily sweet and gruffly affectionate—which made it impossible for Giselle not to want to tease him. Her heart swelled large with emotion. She had managed to fall into the arms of a lord who wanted more than the debauched life of a noble and who seemed to want to treat her kindly. Well, she thought with a grin, she would make him appreciate the titillating pleasures of having her as a chambermaid.

  “Mon seigneur Eustache,” she whispered coyly, “won’t you look at me?”

  Eustache grit his teeth and opened his eyes. He looked down in time to see Giselle slowly stripping away her clothing, piece by piece. Naked, she gently pressed herself against his clothed body, the rough fabric chafing deliciously at her exposed skin.

  “What are you doing?” Eustache hissed through clenched teeth, his fists tightening.

  “You still don’t understand?” she asked with a slow, sweet smile.

  His jaw muscles were taut with tension as he fought his screaming instincts. He was not entirely sure what the little minx was playing at, but he did know what it was doing to his body—and he didn’t want her to regret it.

  “I might hurt you,” he said, failing to conceal the heat in his voice as he shut his eyes against the sight of her.

  “No, I know you won’t,” Giselle purred, as she slid her small hands up his chest. “Please take me.”

  In an instant, Giselle found herself pinned against the wall, Eustache looming above her. With his large hands, he lifted her off the floor and hooked her knees above his hips, pressing his arousal against her firmly.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he panted, his breathing harsh.

  “I do,” Giselle countered.

  She ground her hips against his, punctuating the movement with a small gasp of pleasure. With that, Eustache gave in to the dizzying wave of passion. Dipping his head, he caught her in a fevered kiss, his tongue sweeping demandingly past her lips. Giselle moaned against his mouth as he reached down to stroke her sex, his thumb and fingers deftly exploring. A tremor raced through her lithe body as the rough pad of his thumb circled her, and she threw her head back, grasping desperately at his shoulders.

  With an impatient grunt, Eustache drew back slightly to unbuckle his trousers. With a quick jerk, he was free—and when he pressed back against Giselle, the skin-to-skin contact was searingly wonderful.

  But then he stilled suddenly. His body flush to hers, holding her against the wall, he stopped and took her face tenderly in both hands. Her lashes fluttered over flushed cheeks, and her lower lip trembled. He leaned in to press his forehead to hers.

  “You are so beautiful,” he breathed. “A woman like none other.”

  She pressed her lips to his cheek, and he could feel the curve of her smile.

  “As are you,” she replied with a teasing nip.

  He pulled back, searching her face.

  “I want to have you now,” he told her seriously. “And over and over again.”

  She grinned happily.

  “Then take me,” she said, bracing her arms around his broad shoulders.

  He was inside her in one hard, upward thrust, and she cried out in pleasure. Hooking one of her knees in the curve of his elbow, he drove into her wildly as he pushed her up against the wall. She dug her fingernails into his arms as he slammed into her again and again, his breathless kisses hot on her skin.

  Suddenly he pulled her away from the wall and carried her effortlessly toward the bed. She whimpered at the loss of friction and began to clutch at his shoulders, searching for leverage to continue. He chuckled as he climbed onto the bed, easily supporting her weight with one arm. He lay down on his back, letting her sit atop him, her long legs straddling his hips. When she offered him a plump pout, he just smirked and pulled off his tunic and undershirt.

  “I like the view,” he told her, his hands sliding up her body to palm her breasts.

  Leaning forward so that her dark hair fell over him like heavy drapes, Giselle planted her hands firmly on his chest and began to move. Eustache groaned when she clenched around him as she rode up and down, her head thrown back in passion. As they spiralled toward a dizzying completion, Eustache grabbed her hips and bucked underneath her. She shuddered around him in ecstasy, and he released deep within her with a wild shout.

  They slowly stilled, their breathing laboured and their skin slick with cooling sweat. Giselle crumpled onto his chest, pressing her cheek to his chest. He covered her with one arm and reached for the covers with the other. Safely cocooning their bodies in the heavy sheets, he wrapped his arms around the already dozing woman.

  “Thank you for warming my bed,” he whispered.

  Chapter Five

  Giselle woke in the cool, dark hours before dawn. Her lover was snuggled against her back, his face pressed against her shoulder blade and his arm looped around her waist. For a moment, she let herself revel in his warmth, burrowing deeper against his muscled body.

  But duty called, and Giselle regretfully slid out from under Eustache’s heavy arm. He grunted and frowned in his sleep but did not wake; instead, he rolled over to the other side. Giselle sat up, smiling down tenderly at her lover and lord. He had been inexplicably kind to her, sweetly gentle in love-making yet unexpectedly fiery in passion. Perhaps her fortunes in life had turned for the better after all.

  With a soft sigh, she climbed out of his bed, reaching blindly for her clothes. She dressed quickly, blinking so that her eyes would adjust to the dark. Then she took the water pail and quietly padded from the bed chambers.

  The chateau was cold and silent, so her steps down the great stone staircase seemed loud to her own ears. She crept through the great hall and out into the courtyard, heading for the well. The manor yard was deserted, and all she could hear was the occasional snort from the horses in the stables. When she reached the well, Giselle set the bucket on the stone rim before tying the long role to its handle. Pausing for a moment, she rubbed her arms to warm up against the morning chill.

  To avoid a loud splash, she slowly lowered the pail to the water below using the long rope. When she felt the heavy bucket hit the water and sink, she turned to the crank and gripped its handle with both hands. Gritting her teeth, she pulled and pushed to turn the crank, the thick rope coiling around the bar above the well. Bringing up the heavy pail of water was slow and difficult, but the work warmed her cold limbs. When finally the bucket rose above the well’s rim, Giselle reached for the rope and pulled the bucket over the ledge. She gripped the heavy pail with both hands and set it down onto the cobblestones below, taking care not to slosh and waste any of the hard-earned water. With a sigh, she wiped her brow of sweat and straightened, stretching out her spine.

  Grey had begun to creep up the horizon, and Giselle knew from experience that the sun would sleep for at least another hour or two. She smiled as an idea bloomed in her mind.

  A treat before the day begins, she thought to herself.

  Giselle skipped eagerly over to the horses’ stables, her fingers nimbly unlatching the door. She crept quietly in, peering into the dim stalls. The hay, which crunched under her feet as she walked, filled the stables with an earthy, homey smell that made her grin.

  “Bayard?” she whispered, looking over the door to a large stall.

  A massive horse snorted, its breath clouding in the cool air. It plodded over to where she waited, hand outstretched. Giselle clucked her tongue at the majestic war horse, gently scratching its velvety nose. Her master’s horse—just like Eustache, this imposing beast was
intimidatingly powerful and yet capable of surprising gentleness.

  “Good morning, Bayard,” she said softly, leaning in to pat its neck.

  Giselle rested there for a few moments, basking in the calm atmosphere and familiar smells. But all of a sudden, the horses became agitated, stamping their feet and restlessly moving around in their stalls. Even Bayard reared back, his eyes rolling into white. Giselle frowned and stepped back.

  “What is it?” she asked, her brows drawn together in confusion.

  And then, she heard it, too.

  It had begun as a low buzz in the distance, a murmuring in the wind. But it grew and grew, gradually increasing to a violent roar. Giselle ran from the stables and into the courtyard. Looking up, she saw the sky was cast in bright orange—but it was still too early for sunrise.

  With a cry of dismay, Giselle ran toward up the steps of the chateau walls. Her heart was hammering in her chest, dread clawing its way up her throat. When she reached the parapet, her knees nearly gave out in horror.

  The sky was alight with red and orange—but not from the sun. It was from the fires. The village was on fire.

  Shouting for all that she was worth, Giselle sprinted toward the night watchmen, who were still sleeping soundly at their posts. Not even realising what she was doing, she pointed and yelled. They jumped up, and stared over the parapet walls, their eyes growing wide with fear as they sounded the chateau alarms.

  For a moment, all was silent.

  And then, the courtyard burst into a sea of activity. Guards poured from their sleeping quarters, limping as they struggled to don the bare essentials of their armour. Stable boys pulled prancing war horses from their stalls, readying them for battle. The great doors to the courtyard were pushed open and the first few peasants who were fleeing for their lives poured into the once quiet yard.

  Giselle watched all of this with mounting terror. The first farm folk to seek refuge lived near her parents’ land—but her mother and father were not among them. She looked back over the chateau walls, to where the cries of fleeing villagers shredded the night air. As grey dawn approached, she could see the shadows of mounted bandits tearing across the land. The air was filled with the clashing of metal and the roar of destructive flames consuming houses and crops.

  She tore her eyes away from the horrifying scene; her only thought was for her parents. She ran down the steps to the courtyard, heading for the doors. A sea of escaping peasants flooded in, and she fought to push against the flow. When she finally made it past the multitude of panicking bodies that congested the manor house gates, she found herself in a very dark world.

  The hill was dotted with people fleeing the village…as well as with the bodies of those killed or trampled in the struggle. Eyes burning with tears, Giselle began to run in the direction of her family’s hut.

  Surely she would see them running toward her any moment, she told herself desperately.

  There was a stitch stabbing at her side, but she ignored it and searched the faces of the people coming toward her. And there—yes, there! Two elderly people crested the slope of the hill, their familiar silhouettes dark against the fiery remains of their home.

  “Maman! Papa!” The words tore away from her throat in a shriek.

  They were only a few lengths away. Only a few more lengths, and she would be in their arms. A sob wracked her ribs. She could almost see their faces.

  But they stopped short, and the expression on their faces was not one of relief—it was of horror.

  Giselle only had a second to register the feeling of confusion…and then she was ripped from the ground by the back of her dress. She had the briefest sensation of flying as she was jerked into the air, and then she landed belly first over the pommel of saddle. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but it was the butt of the rider’s sword that knocked her unconscious as he galloped away.

  Giselle had been kidnapped by bandits.

  Chapter Six

  When the first alarm sounded, Eustache was awake, instantly sitting up in his bed. His hand automatically went to Giselle—only to find her gone. Cursing violently, he sprung from the mattress and rushed to put on his clothing. He tore out of his chambers and through the great hall.

  “Son!” His father’s commanding voice stopped him. “Where are you going?”

  “Where is my chambermaid?” Eustache returned, his voice clipped.

  “Is this the time to worry over your little plaything? The manor has been attached by bandits.”

  “Bandits,” Eustache repeated, his voice flat and emotionless.

  “Yes,” his father said, gesturing wildly. “The night watchmen report that bandits have set fire to the village and are terrorising the peasants. They will certainly steal as much as they can—perhaps even attempt to breach our walls!”

  Eustache’s eyes narrowed dangerously. His fingers tightened into rock-hard fists, the tendons in his forearms rising in sharp relief.

  “Where is my armour?”

  “It is kept near the stables,” his father answered as he took a step back from his warrior son.

  Eustache turned on his heel and strode away briskly, the servants parting before him.

  “What are you going to do?” his father called to his back.

  “What I do best,” Eustache said darkly, not even bothering to turn back.

  The courtyard was in an uproar. Half-dressed guards and screaming peasants milled around the yard. Eustache ignored the commotion, heading straight for the stables.

  “My armour,” he barked imperiously.

  But the groom seemed to be in a right state, cowering fearfully in the corner with his hands over his ears. Eustache marched over and grabbed the man by the front of his tunic, hauling him to his feet. He shook him hard.

  “Get my armour and my horse,” Eustache shouted over the din, “or die here like a coward, you worthless maggot.”

  He dropped the groom, who crumpled to the ground in a useless heap. Swearing loudly, Eustache strode past the man into the armoury. He grabbed his chain-mail hauberk, pulling it over his body. It was not a task he usually did alone, but a sense of urgency pumped through his veins, forcing him on. His leg and knee defences were next. Then, he pulled on a helmet and grabbed a heavy axe.

  When he exited the armoury, the groom was waiting with Bayard—who was already saddled and ready. A small stool had been set down beside the horse. The groom held out the reins to Eustache with trembling fingers.

  “Good,” Eustache grunted, taking the reins and swinging up into the saddle.

  With a kick of his heels, he had Bayard galloping through the courtyard. The peasants parted to make him a path, raising their fists in a loud cheer. They watched in awe as Eustache rode out of the closing chateau gates, his incredibly large battle axe raised high.

  The situation outside the chateau walls was grim, but it was nothing that Eustache had not before encountered on the battlefield. He rode through the ranks of the bandits, swinging his axe and mercilessly bringing down both horse and rider. The formidable sight of their young lord fighting spurred on his vassals, who renewed their fighting spirit to challenge the attackers.

  It was not long before the tide of bandits turned back, and they began to flee. Eustache chased them to the edges of the manor and then turned back. Not wasting a precious moment, he turned Bayard and spurred him into a wild gallop back to the chateau.

  When the heavy gates opened for the young lord, he was greeted by joyous cheers. He ignored them, his eyes searching the crowd below. A hand touched his foot, and he glanced down to see an older woman with tears running down her wizened cheeks.

  “My daughters,” she said, weeping. “They took my daughters.”

  Another family of peasants took up the wailing, each begging Eustache to tell them if he had seen their girls. He shook his head and kept searching the crowd, his lips thinning into a line. Mounting dread clenched his gut, and his knuckles went white.

  Suddenly he saw an olde
r man and woman clutching each other’s hands. They looked to be praying. He advanced Bayard toward them, and when the woman looked up, he saw Giselle’s features in her wrinkled face.

  “You,” he said, his voice sounding strangled to his own ears. “Do you have a daughter?”

  To his horror, the woman broke into violent sobs. The man held onto his wife and looked up to answer.

  “Yes, mon seigneur,” he said. “But she was taken by the bandits.”

  “Her name,” Eustache barked, his heart heavy as a stone, for he already knew the answer.

  “Giselle.”

  Eustache’s face remained frozen, but rage bubbled from his belly up to his chest. They took her. His mind whirled. They took her. He spun Bayard around and shouted for his armed vassals, leading them through the crowd toward the gate. His father and brother—who had stayed indoors throughout the entire ordeal—blocked his path.

  “Well done, my son,” his father congratulated him. “But where are you going now?”

  “After them,” Eustache answered curtly.

  “Why?” his father asked, genuinely confused.

  “Move,” Eustache said, his voice dangerously soft. “You do not want to be in my way right now.”

  Alphonse’s eyes widened. He nudged his father from the horses’ path.

  “Come, father,” Alphonse urged, “let Eustache bring the bandits to justice.”

  With a shout, Eustache led his small band of riders from the manor courtyard. They rode hard into the afternoon, chasing the trail of the bandits. For all that time, Eustache’s face was a hardened mask of fury, his insides churning with anger and dread.

  But the bandits had not expected the manor lord to pursue them further, so it was not long before Eustache and his vassals caught up with them. The bandits had tied up their horses and were inspecting their loot when the young lord overtook them. Without a word of warning, the warriors tore into the bandits…and in moments, the few surviving offenders were on their knees in a row.