Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  A subtle change rippled through Raoul, distorting his handsome façade. His lips twisted, his expression momentarily one which, had she seen it, would have shaken Elaine of Montrose. But neither Eloise nor her mother had yet seen him clearly; Raoul had made certain of that. The taking of Eloise de Versallet to wife was a goal he would not jeopardize. The haughtiness of those females descended from Montrose was a byword throughout the kingdom. It was there in Eloise—an indefinable quality that showed itself in her carriage, in the set of her head, in the regal sway of her slim hips.

  Pride—women’s pride.

  Raoul ached to crush it.

  Smoothly, he leaned forward and ran a blunt fingertip down the back of Eloise’s hand, molded about the wedding goblet.

  Eloise didn’t jump; her control held firm, despite the rigidity that gripped her.

  She turned to face Raoul, her lips curving, her eyes wary. “Yes, lord?”

  Pale, almost opaque eyes held hers. “How now, wife?”

  When she made no reply, Raoul reached for the goblet. Lifting it from her hands, his unnerving eyes holding hers, he drained the goblet in one gulp. Setting it aside, he returned her smile. “Tis time to retire. Summon your lady mother and do so.”

  Eloise knew, then, that her amorphous, ill-defined fears were not groundless. The coldness in her husband’s eyes promised some terror she couldn’t comprehend beyond the fact that it frightened her. But never would she show him or any man fear; she inclined her head in an unconsciously regal manner. “As you wish, lord.”

  As Eloise turned away to catch her mother’s eye, Raoul’s expression hardened, but he was smiling good-humoredly when the ladies, with light laughter and smiles, stole her from him. The men closed about him, eager and raucous.

  Eloise allowed herself to be led upstairs. She let her mind flow into the chatter of her mothers’ ladies and the high-born guests who had been invited to take part in the ritual.

  In the bridal chamber, she stood silently as they removed her headdress and unplaited and brushed her long hair, then removed her wedding gown, the gold embroidered surcote trimmed with ermine and pearls and the tight-fitting silk cote. There were giggles as her garters and hose were rolled down; the giggles died as her chemise was removed and she stood naked, tall and slender, her body not yet fully formed.

  Her fifteenth birthday was a month away; while her bones had finished growing, flesh had yet to soften the contours. She was painfully aware of her adolescent body; a soft blush tinged her cheeks. Then a fine linen nightrail, embroidered by her mother, was dropped over her head and pulled down.

  Soft hands urged her into the big bed plumped high with featherbeds and covered with satin and furs. She moved in a daze, distanced from the proceedings. Mayhap if she held fast to her mental sanctuary, the nightmare lurking in her husband’s eyes wouldn’t reach her.

  The touch of her mother’s lips on her forehead, the unexpected sight of tears in the dark eyes so like her own, forced her to return to earth. She managed a weak smile.

  The door burst open.

  Chaos invaded, along with a host of drunken knights who had carried her husband, stripped to nothing more than his braies, up the stairs. It was plainly their intention to deposit him beside her, but to her surprise, he broke free, and, aided by her father, turned the rowdy crowd, ladies and all, from the room.

  The melee retreated, leaving Raoul leaning back against the door. Seeing a bolt beside his head, he slid it into place, then straightened.

  His pale eyes found Eloise, sitting primly against the pillows.

  Raoul let his lips curve cruelly; he was no longer restrained by the need to ensure the wedding took place. Eloise was his now—his to tame, his to break.

  Coldly viewing her, he untied the girdle of his braies, then stripped off the linen folds. Flinging the garment aside, he stalked, naked, across the room. He halted a yard from the bed, hands on his hips, feet apart, legs braced.

  Eloise could not tear her eyes from him. With four brothers and the run of a castle packed with warrior males, she’d seen naked men aplenty, but few had been as aroused as Raoul de Cannar—none as menacing. She forced her gaze upward, over his chest, broad and covered with a pelt of black hair, to his hard, shadowed jaw, to his contemptuous smile. His eyes were as cold as a winter’s fog.

  “Get out of bed.”

  The words were steely, the command inflexible. Eloise obeyed, as she’d vowed that very afternoon to do. Slipping from beneath the covers, she stood before him. With an effort, she kept her head high.

  That action sealed her fate.

  Rage welled behind Raoul’s dark mask, but he’d learned to control and conceal his emotions. Every instinct impelled him to sink his fingers into the rich mahogany tresses spilling down Eloise’s back, to rip her nightrail from her and take her as violently as he wished; her screams would be heard, but no one would intrude, not even her family, the haughty de Versallets. The satisfaction would be great—the idea was sorely tempting.

  But Raoul needed this alliance. If her family ever learned that he had mistreated her, he would receive none of the military support he was counting on. If he showed her less respect than they expected, then went out on a limb, they would let him hang. He hadn’t gambled half his income for that.

  Plumbing the dark depths of Eloise’s eyes, he allowed his features to contort with the lust he no longer needed to conceal. “Take it off.”

  Eloise blinked then obeyed, forcing her stiff fingers to the laces. The tension gripping the dark body towering before her was palpable. Raoul didn’t move as she tugged the fine shift off over her head and laid it on the bed. Inwardly quivering, she turned back to face him, pale, composed, her gaze distant.

  Raoul’s gaze touched hers, then he looked down, boldly assessing.

  Eloise held herself proudly, the fine bones of her shoulders and long limbs outlined beneath her delicate skin. Her breasts were small, mere suggestions of what was to come. Her waist was indented above slim hips, not narrow so much as unformed. The long sweeps of her thighs were sleekly muscled; she was tall as women went. Overall, her figure was boyish, yet distinctly feminine.

  The sight pleased Raoul immensely. With a smile of brutish anticipation, he raised his eyes. “Turn around.”

  Eloise obeyed.

  From behind her came silence.

  Eloise’s senses pricked wildly, trying to gauge Raoul’s intentions. Oddly, the sight of her girlish body had, if anything, aroused him further. It was a struggle to keep her limbs from shaking—to keep breathing—yet she refused to give way to her fear.

  Hard, calloused hands reached around her, capturing her breasts.

  Eloise suppressed a shocked start.

  Raoul kneaded firmly, then with thumbs and forefingers captured her nipples and squeezed. She frowned. Before she could decide on any comment, he released her nipples; hands surrounding her breasts, he pressed against her.

  She sucked in a breath. With a powerful motion, he ground his hips against her, his thrusting manhood, hard and hot, riding in the cleft of her bottom.

  Taut, tense, her thoughts chaotic, Eloise stood stiff and unmoving.

  To her relief, Raoul stepped back; she drew in a quick breath. His hands shifted, one lowering to splay across her belly; with the other, he gripped her nape, then, slowly, traced callused fingertips down her spine.

  Eloise’s eyes widened, then she let her lids fall. Fists clenched, rigid yet quivering, she forced herself to suffer her husband’s touch.

  Coldly, clinically, Raoul appraised the smooth, ivory globes of his wife’s bottom, fondling, probing. His lips lifted in a satyric leer. She would serve him well. He would get heirs on her; she would also give him great pleasure. Satisfied, he looked up, and noted her clenched jaw; his eyes gleamed.

  Smiling coldly, he released her. “Get into bed.”

  Eloise complied. She reached for the covers; rounding the bed, Raoul pulled them away.

  “Not yet. I want to lo
ok at you.”

  Stiffly, Eloise lay back and wondered if she dared close her eyes. Raoul sprawled beside her, then came up on one elbow to examine her. After a long, thorough inspection, his eyes lifted to hers, his gaze penetrating, then he flopped back on the bed. “Go to sleep.”

  Slowly, Eloise turned her head. He lay on his back, one arm across his eyes, the other at his groin. Caution suggested she obey unquestioningly, but she had to ask; she couldn’t bear not knowing. “You wish to sleep first?”

  He raised his arm. His eyes searched hers, then he lay back, his arm once more screening his face. “I’m not going to take you tonight. I’ve decided to train you first.”

  “T-train?”

  “I’m a demanding lover. I’ll teach you what I expect before I take you.”

  Eloise lay back and stared at the canopy. Gradually, it dawned that, given the choice, she’d rather lose her maidenhead tonight, knowing her mother would be near in the morning. Tomorrow, they were to leave for Cannar Castle, many miles distant. Besides, she’d been keyed up to play her part, to lie dutifully beneath him regardless of whether he pleasured her or not. “It won’t do. What about the sheets?”

  Her calm question drew Raoul from his absorption. After a moment, he heaved a sigh and rose. Crossing the room to where his squire had left his clothes for the morrow, he located his belt knife. On the way back to the bed, he noticed a songbird tethered to a perch. “Perfect.”

  In a second, the songbird was dead.

  Stifling a cry, Eloise scooted back against the pillows, watching, horrified, as her husband held the dripping carcass so that blood artistically splattered the sheets.

  “There.” Raoul strode to the window, pulled back the shutters and flung the dead bird into the blackness outside.

  Eloise thought her heart would choke her. She watched Raoul stride to the chest, swiping up a towel to wipe his hands and knife. Struggling to breathe, she reminded herself she’d never liked songbirds, not tethered ones, anyway. By the time Raoul returned to the bed, she’d stifled her reaction sufficiently to ease down, avoiding the bright red splotches on the sheets. She made no further attempt to argue his intentions.

  When he fell back in the same position as before, and said nothing, Eloise risked closing her eyes. Subduing her inner trembling was imperative.

  Raoul had left the shutters open; a cool breeze wafted in, raising goosebumps. Cracking open her eyes, she spied the covers tangled at the foot of the bed. Half sitting, she reached for them.

  “Not yet. I’m not finished.”

  Finished? Eloise glanced at Raoul. The hand at his groin was curved about his thick member, moving rhythmically up and down the turgid length. For a moment, Eloise simply stared, then her cheeks flamed.

  From under his arm, eyes agleam, Raoul watched her.

  Wrenching her gaze away, Eloise lay down. Rigid, her arms at her sides, she stared at the canopy.

  Raoul laughed; the harsh sound shredded the silence and echoed through the chamber. His hand left his groin; he reached for her hand, then hesitated.

  “Turn over.”

  Eloise obeyed.

  Grinning coldly, Raoul changed hands, lowering the one he’d used to shade his eyes to his groin, while with his right hand he reached for his wife’s delectable bottom. She went even more rigid, but, as he’d expected, she made no demur. Feeling her flesh beneath his hard fingers, he closed his eyes and gave himself up to his quest.

  Her crimson cheeks pressed to the pillow, Eloise suffered his pleasure in silence. He didn’t hurt her, but his probing fingers filled her with shame. Even when, with a deep groan, he achieved his release, his fingers didn’t leave her, but continued to play until, finally, apparently satisfied, he turned over and went to sleep.

  One by one the candles guttered; blessed darkness blanketed the room. Even so, it was many hours before, exhausted, Eloise fell asleep.

  A single question had dominated her mind.

  What manner of marriage was this?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Versallet Castle

  Late August, nine years later

  “By all the saints! What’s wrong with dancing girls?” William de Versallet, broad as a destrier’s rear and equally uncompromising, planted his feet on the battlements and glared at his sister.

  Eloise glared back. “I am trying,” she enunciated witheringly, “to ensure the celebrations in honor of your marriage maintain an appropriate tone.”

  “Tone?” William looked thunderstruck. “There’s nothing amiss with the tone of dancing girls—it’s what the men expect.”

  “Aye—what the men expect. But what of the ladies?” Eloise whirled to include the woman standing behind her. “What do you imagine your wife thinks of dancing girls?”

  William glanced down at the pale, sweet-faced child he’d married a month before.

  Suddenly finding herself at the center of this typical de Versallet dispute, and not being a de Versallet but a much more timid sort of mortal, Julia wrung her hands. Like a startled fawn, she stared at her huge husband.

  William smiled perfunctorily. “You see nothing wrong with having dancing girls at the banquet tonight, do you, Julia?”

  Blue eyes darting from one overpowering de Versallet to the other, Julia blinked. “I…that is…” She swallowed. “If that is what you wish, my lord.” Submissively, she bowed her head.

  For a long, silent moment, Eloise stared at that down-bent head, at the sheen of blond hair showing through Julia’s veil. She resisted the urge to grind her teeth, and remembered to relax her fingers from the fists they’d curled into before turning back to her brother. She met his gaze coldly. “I’ll tell Sir John to hire the troupe presently in the outer bailey.”

  William beamed. “Good.” Still grinning, he added, “You won’t be disappointed.”

  The glare Eloise hurled him sizzled. Chuckling, he lumbered off.

  Lips compressed, Eloise turned to her sister-in-law. “Truly, Julia, if you’re to make any mark in this castle, which, one day, will be yours to run, you must start acting as its lady. You know you will not enjoy seeing the men ogling and pawing the dancing girls.”

  Julia lifted a face so disarmingly mild not even the devil could remain irate. “Oh, but…if it pleases my lord…”

  Smothering a snort, Eloise refrained from further expostulation. Chiding Julia was pointless. She would let William clomp roughshod over her as long as that was the easiest course, then, years from now, she would carp and complain that he paid her wishes no heed. Julia’s future was Julia’s concern—Eloise had a castle to run.

  “I must find Sir John.” Sir John Mattingly, her father’s steward, would not be surprised by her order. Eloise left the castle-side of the battlements, but instead of heading for the stairs, she glided to the northwest corner, to where the rising expanse of Salisbury Plain hid the distant Welsh hills.

  Timidly, Julia followed. “You often look out that way—what can you see?”

  “Tis the direction in which my old convent lies.”

  “Claerwhen?”

  “Aye—in the shadow of the Black Mountains, in the valley of the Dore.”

  “Do you pray for assistance?”

  “Nay.” Eloise smiled wryly. “Merely for strength.” Patience, actually, but then, these days, that was often the same thing.

  “You spent years there, didn’t you? After your husband died, I mean?”

  “Aye, twas my sanctuary.” A place to heal and grow. To recover from her month-long marriage, a marriage ended when the saints had heard her prayers and had released her from purgatory in the only possible way. With a lightning bolt, they had removed Raoul de Cannar from this earth, and had set her free. As free as a woman could ever be. “As a wealthy widow, there was much they could yet teach me, and I was eager to learn.”

  So she could remain free, and retain control over her own life.

  Leaning on the battlements, she gazed at the distant horizon. “There was also the matter of
my jointure—my husband’s family tried to deny it me, but Claerwhen came to my aid.”

  Faced with a writ and the threat of a Chancery suit, the de Cannars had capitulated. For the past nine years, Eloise had received half the yearly profits of their extensive estates. As the brother who had succeeded Raoul had proved remarkably talented in commerce, her accumulated wealth—much to the de Cannars’ disgust—now approached the legendary.

  Almost enough to make her forget the month she had spent with Raoul.

  Her expression blanking, she straightened.

  Julia was still frowning. “But you must have been quite young—did not your parents wish you to return here?”

  “Aye, they did.” But Eloise had been too wary to risk it—to risk being given in marriage again, used as a pawn to cement some other alliance. “But I wished to remain in the peace of the cloister.”

  Julia’s glance was shy. “You must have loved him very much.”

  Eloise didn’t answer.

  “And you only came back when your mother died?”

  “Not immediately. But when my father came and begged me to return, I could not say him nay.”

  That still surprised her. Her mother’s death five years ago had rung in the changes. Eloise had already begun questioning her continued presence at Claerwhen. The peace and quiet had grown monotonous; a curious restlessness had gripped her. Her studies were long completed and there was nothing to fill the void. Even so, she had ignored her father’s and brothers’ written pleas. Then, unheralded, her father had arrived. On seeing how deeply her mother’s death had affected him, and hearing how sincere was his plea, she could no longer deny him. She had returned to Versallet Castle.

  “And you’ve been chatelaine here ever since.” Julia made it sound like the triumphant ending to a tale.

  Her expression hardening, Eloise inclined her head. Despite William’s marriage, despite her father remarrying two years ago, she was still chatelaine of Versallet Castle.

  The fact filled her with no joy—neither Emma, the new lady de Versallet, nor Julia, she of fawnlike fright, could stand up to her father and four brothers. She, on the other hand, could, and did. She might lose a few battles, such as the one this morn, yet overall she managed the castle much as she wished.