Awakened by a Kiss

by Lila DiPasqua

  Tristan rested his head against the back of the chair in the library the next day and swirled the brandy in his goblet.

  She’d bolted.

  Thirty Musketeers, two carriages, close to forty horses, and two royal daughters—gone.

  He’d done it. He’d chased Elisabeth de Roussel away. So why didn’t he feel any joy from his accomplishment? Not only had he rid himself of the King’s most errant daughter, he’d also gotten rid of the men who’d escorted her. He’d never hidden from anyone or anything in his life, yet he found himself avoiding his former men. The last thing he wanted was for them to see him move about in his depleted state. It was more than his pride could bear.

  He should be rejoicing at the sudden solitude, but instead he was gripped by the most irritating sense of disappointment.

  He wanted Elisabeth. He wanted to do to her everything he’d described. Beneath her masculine clothing was a highly excitable, very feminine form, his every instinct telling him that fucking her would be one of the most intense carnal encounters he’d ever have. He’d seen the arousal in her eyes as well as the fear. She’d been torn between wanting to be possessed and wanting to run.

  It had taken all that he had not to taste her and stroke her into an eager willingness, driving everything from her mind except her desire for him. He had to remind himself over and over as his cock throbbed harder than his leg that she wasn’t just the daughter of the King, but the daughter whom His Majesty doted upon.

  Held most dear.

  And, therefore, that made her untouchable as far as he was concerned.

  Besides, after Veronique, the last thing he should want was to bed another of the King’s daughters. The hot rooms hadn’t driven Elisabeth away, nor had the ridiculous “lesson” in fencing he’d given her.

  He’d run her off with the promise of a simple sex game, and he wasn’t going to waste another moment feeling regret over it.

  “Good riddance, Duchesse.”

  Tristan tipped the goblet and let the brandy flow down his throat, hoping that the burning liquid would take the edge off the pain in his leg.

  Fast, hard footsteps approached the library.

  His uncle entered the room. “Tristan, are you expecting guests?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there are a number of men here.”

  Tristan sat up. “Not more Musketeers?”

  “No. More like workers.”

  “What are you taking about?”

  Gabriel walked in. “He’s talking about the fifty men who are here, clearing the gardens, repairing the façade of the château.”

  “Fifty men?” Tristan grabbed his cane and struggled to his feet. “Where did they come from?”

  Gabriel and Richard exchanged looks.

  “You tell him,” Gabriel suggested.

  “No, I’d rather you be the bearer of bad news.”

  Tristan didn’t like where this was going. “Will someone tell me what is going on?”

  Gabriel cleared his throat. “Very well. The workers are here at the behest of the Duchesse de Roussel.”

  “What?” He couldn’t have heard correctly.

  “There’s more,” Richard advised, then turned to Gabriel. “Go on, tell him.”

  “I’m trying to do that. But I keep getting inter—”

  “Get on with it!” Tristan’s ire was beginning to mount; he sensed he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

  Gabriel gave a nod. “Since you are in such a fine mood, I can’t wait to tell you the rest.” His sarcasm only served to grate on Tristan’s nerves. “We were a tad mistaken when we told you the Duchesse de Roussel had left.”

  Tristan’s stomach clenched. “Merde. You jest.”

  “No. I don’t. It turns out, she took it upon herself to change rooms,” Gabriel continued. “You see when we saw that the Musketeers and the trunks were gone, we assumed the Duchesse and her sister had left—permanently. We were unaware that their trunks were moved to the west wing.”

  “The west wing? Where my . . . our rooms are?”

  Gabriel sauntered over to him and placed a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “Precisely.”

  Tristan tightened his jaw. “Where is the Duchesse now?”

  His brother shrugged. “Who knows? She’s out and about with her entourage. In the meantime, we are having some lovely repairs done to our château.” He smiled.

  By the looks on his uncle’s and brother’s faces, they were pleased.

  Tristan was ready to strangle the King’s favorite child. The woman was beyond intrusive. She knew no boundaries.

  The sound of horses’ hooves striking the cobblestones in the courtyard grabbed his attention. He rushed out of the library and down the tapestry-lined hall.

  The moment Tristan entered the vestibule, he froze. So did his breathing.

  Standing on the opposite side of the grand entrance, talking to her sister and her maid, Elisabeth was in a yellow gown embellished with golden bows. Her tantalizing form was outlined so enticingly, his mouth went dry.

  As though she felt his gaze, she turned and smiled when she saw him. Immediately, she approached. Her dark hair adorned with small golden bows was perfectly coiffed, long silky curls he wanted to touch. His hungry gaze devoured her, moving down to her décolletage, enjoying the sweet little bounce of her breasts with each step she took.

  Her bedazzling smile was still on her lovely face when she reached him. She looked like an angel.

  She folded her hands before her. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  He peeled his eyes off her and looked beside him. Dieu, he’d been so transfixed, he hadn’t even realized his brother and uncle flanked him.

  They exchanged pleasantries, while Tristan, for the first time in his life, was speechless.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I left for a bit of an outing,” she said to him. “I purchased something for you in the town.” She motioned to her maid and sister.

  The moment the maid handed Elisabeth the wooden box she carried, Claire gave a giggle then quickly looked down, covering her mouth with her fingertips.

  Elisabeth handed him the box and opened the lid for him. Filling the box were numerous silk scarves.

  “They’re for later,” Elisabeth said.

  His gaze shot up to hers. She was smiling still and with a wink, sauntered away, heading toward the staircase that led to the west wing. Another giggle erupted from Claire before she quickly fell in step with her sister and servant.

  Jésus-Christ. The scarves were for binding—her. He hadn’t scared her away. She’d called his bluff.

  She meant to stay.

  Gabriel sifted his hand through the scarves and frowned. “These are for women. Merde, brother, she dresses like a man. If you’re going to start dressing like a woman, I don’t wish to know about it.”

  Tristan gnashed his teeth. The noise outside, from the workers, the newly returned Musketeers, and their horses, all merged into a nerve-grating clamor invading the inner sanctum of his home. The hammering outside was keeping time with the throbbing in his cock. Once again he was stiff as steel. Once again his château was overrun.

  All because of the most ungovernable woman he’d ever met.

  Tristan slammed the box shut, tucked it under his arm, and limped toward the staircase.

  Most unwise to give a man who wishes to strangle an unruly woman the very means by which to do it.

  4

  “Do you think Tristan will be here soon?” Claire asked while seated comfortably in Elisabeth’s newly acquired rooms. The private apartments on the west side of the château were not only cooler, but better furnished and far more pleasant.

  “I predict within the next few minutes.” Elisabeth voice sounded calm, giving no indication of just how discomposed she was. She stood near the windows, too nervous to sit, her stomach in knots. She’d just made a bold move downstairs. The boldest in her life.

  The next step was up to Tristan.

  He was ang
ry at her—for reasons she fully expected him to voice when he entered her rooms—but he was also undeniably interested in following through with his vow. She’d seen arousal flare in his eyes when he saw the contents of the wooden box.

  Her very entrails quaked with anticipation. An amorous encounter was at hand. With tall, strong, beautiful Tristan de Tiersonnier. The notion made her feel warm, weak, and a bit apprehensive—especially when she thought about how he was going to take her.

  She’d never done anything like this in her life.

  Claire burst into a giggle. Elisabeth jumped a little. Claire’s spontaneous fits of joviality hadn’t ceased since Elisabeth purchased the scarves and told her of their intended purpose.

  “Did you see the look on Tristan’s face when you handed him the box of scarves? I can’t believe you’re going to let him do something so wicked,” Claire said.

  Neither could she. His provocative promise consumed her every waking thought and had teased and tantalized her all last night. She’d vacillated, and in the end, she decided she’d come too far to quit now. She was so very close to having him. It was what she’d come there for.

  It was the only way to douse the fire.

  The door to her antechamber swung open.

  Tristan entered, a scowl on his handsome face, the wooden box under his arm. He dropped the box onto the marble-top table in the room with a clunk.

  A fresh wave of nervous excitement crested over her. “A knock before entering a lady’s apartments is customary, is it not, Tristan?” Elisabeth said.

  His nostrils flared. “I’ll do as I bloody well please. This is my château. A concept you don’t seem to grasp.” He spoke in a low snarl, slowly advancing upon her, his purpose to intimidate, no doubt. She rooted her feet to the floor to keep from bolting from the room. “You don’t change rooms without asking my permission. You don’t order my staff to move your trunks. And you certainly do not hire men to alter my château! Do you understand?” he barked, stopping before her.

  Clearly, he was quite livid. Perhaps the workers were too much to add to the mix today.

  “Yes, Tristan. Of course.” Her mother had taught her that the best way to counter a man’s ire was with soft tones. Agreeable words. If she had anything at stake, a woman only stood to lose, to suffer, if she didn’t promptly calm the storm.

  Elisabeth had something at stake. He wouldn’t take her when he was this angry.

  Yet unlike her dealings with other men, she didn’t want to simply voice empty words just to appease him. For the first time ever, Elisabeth found herself wanting to offer a man an explanation. It actually mattered to her that she made him understand.

  “Claire.” Her sister had shot to her feet the moment Tristan had barged into the room. Warily, Claire watched the exchange between Elisabeth and Tristan. “Why don’t you go back to your rooms. I shall speak to you later,” Elisabeth said.

  Claire glanced at Tristan and then back at her. “Ar-Are you certain?”

  “Quite certain,” she assured her with a smile.

  Reluctantly, her sister murmured a “good day” and left Elisabeth’s apartments.

  Elisabeth tried to ignore the wild fluttering in her stomach. She was, for the first time, alone with Tristan in her chambers. She folded her hands before her. Just being this close to him made her quiver. “Now then, I seem to have angered you. That wasn’t my intent. The men were hired as a gesture of thanks.”

  “Thanks?” he snorted. “For what?”

  “For two reasons: first, for my personal gratitude for your years of loyal service to the King and our family.”

  She saw the surprise in his eyes. An expression she couldn’t name crossed his face, his features softening slightly. Her words had come from her heart. His effect on her was so strong, she had to be careful not to go any further. Not to offer up any more emotional revelations.

  “The second reason for the workers was in thanks for the fencing lessons. On the day we arrived, I sent one of the men to you with a sizable purse as payment—though at the time I didn’t know your lessons would be quite so brief. In any event, you wouldn’t accept payment. That night I had two of the Musketeers ride back to Versailles with the order to return with gardeners and workers. What I did was meant as a gift. I had hoped you’d be pleased. Obviously, I misjudged your reaction.” All right, perhaps that wasn’t the whole truth. She’d hoped to fix up the château lest the King see it in its current state. It would help cast a more favorable light on Tristan as a potential husband. “The men will cease immediately, if that’s what you wish. As to the changing of the rooms, you and I both know you purposely placed me in rooms that were uncomfortable. You want me gone. Clearly, I’ve earned your disdain.”

  He remained silent. His expression was guarded.

  Elisabeth pressed on, her heart pounding. “It is because you think I’m spoiled. His Majesty’s favorite daughter, privileged and self-indulgent. Oh, and yes, let us not forget a coquette. That accurately sums it up, doesn’t it?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Actually, it does, madame.” The man believed in being honest—even when that honesty had bite. Still, it made him a better man than others she knew. She didn’t know any other honest men.

  “Tell me, Tristan, how many men have you seen around me at court?”

  “Many,” he said without hesitation.

  “And of those men, how many have you seen me turn away?”

  “Almost all.”

  “And did it ever occur to you that I may have had good reason to reject them?”

  “Really,” he said dryly. “What reason would you have?”

  “Because I know they wanted to bed me simply to get close to the King.”

  He cocked a brow.

  “The King’s favorite daughter has great appeal to those driven by ambition, Tristan. You’ve been at court. You’ve seen the maneuvering. The backstabbing. Too many of the men have no qualms about using a woman to get to the King. I refuse to be used that way.” She never left herself open to it. By maintaining an emotional distance, a level of detachment, she was able to keep a proper prospective and see the scheming. She never fell for false words of affection and devotion. Her mother had taught her that a woman had to be strong, stay strong, and never—not ever—allow herself to be vulnerable in matters of the heart. It clouded a woman’s judgment. Should Tristan become her husband, she still had to distance herself emotionally. Even as his wife, she couldn’t permit herself to continue to feel the things she felt for him.

  It laid her bare. And a woman could never do that.

  Too many women had made the mistake of allowing tender sentiment to go unchecked for their husbands or lovers—to their detriment. At times, to their ruin.

  With Tristan, she’d already broken too many of the rules she lived by.

  “I’m selective, Tristan. Not coquettish. There is a difference. Besides my husband, I’ve only been with two men.” She’d never admit she’d given herself to Selle and Leymont with the hopes of quashing her yearning for Tristan.

  Unfortunately, it hadn’t worked.

  He gave a nod. “The Marquis de Leymont and the Duc de Selle.”

  He’d noticed? He’d watched her that closely? Of course he had. It was his duty. He was responsible for the welfare of the royal family. He was supposed to know who was in the inner circle.

  Elisabeth looked down at her hands and immediately squelched her disappointment.

  “Everyone thinks that being the favorite daughter of the King is an enviable position to be in.” She looked up at him. “It has its serious flaws. The King gave his favorite daughter to his friend, the Duc de Roussel, as a gesture of his esteem for the man. It didn’t matter that the Duc was twenty-five years my senior. That he had no interest in having another wife, or any more children. The Duc accepted his “gift.” Shortly after our marriage, Roussel shipped me to his country château. I lived in that dilapidated, drafty abode for three years—until the Duc’
s death—so I am not as pampered as you think.”

  He studied her quietly for a moment. “This is the first time I’ve ever heard you be in any way candid. It’s a pleasant surprise.”

  It was true. It was the first time she’d been candid with anyone. As wrong as she knew it was, it felt good to open herself up a little to him.

  He reached out, grasped her arm, and pulled her to him. She collided against his hard body. A jolt of sensations shot through her distended nipples the moment they came in contact with his chest. She barely caught her moan in time.

  He snaked his arm around her waist, his enormous shaft pressing insistently against her belly. “Why have you come to me? I want the truth.”

  “I want lessons from the finest swordsman in the land,” she said honestly, having always been in awe of his skill.

  He removed his arm from around her waist and placed his hand at the nape of her neck. “Why else?”

  Gazing up into his beautiful blue eyes, she silently begged him to kiss her, needing it with jarring desperation, the bud between her legs pulsating wildly, each hungry throb a torment. Say it, Elisabeth. It’s just three words. Tell him the truth here, or this won’t happen.

  “I . . . want you.” She’d never said that to any man and meant it.

  “You’re truly going to let me have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I warn you, Duchesse, once we begin, I’m not going to stop, so if you’re having any qualms . . .”

  She shook her head. “No qualms. I won’t stop you.”

  The most sensual smile lifted the corner of his perfect mouth. “Excellent. Then you’re mine.” He lowered his head.

  She held her breath and braced herself for the thrill of his lips. He didn’t disappoint. At the first touch of his mouth, he sent a hot rush streaming through her body, leaving her toes tingling. He tasted better than any man had a right to. Better than she’d dreamed. His tongue pushed past her quivering lips and possessed her mouth with a hot thrust. Her sex tightened in response and in anticipation of his possession yet to come, of his cock in her core.

  His hand held her head securely, and he angled it slightly, confidently commanding her senses the way only a master of the carnal arts could. She gripped his strong shoulders and held on in the maelstrom of sensations radiating out from the feel of his body pressed so sumptuously against hers, and his heated, hungry kiss.