Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  As her mother would have wished.

  Elaine of Montrose had had very definite ideas, frequently and clearly stated ideas, on how far the male of the species could be allowed to run amok before the sobering hand of a lady was brought to bear. Eloise had discovered that she was very much her mother’s daughter.

  Glancing at Julia, she ventured, “Once you’re ready to take up the reins, I’ll gladly pass them on.”

  “Oh! Nay!” Eyes wide, Julia all but flapped. “You do such a…a remarkable job—why, no one would want you to stop.”

  Eloise grimaced. That was true. Everyone, from her father to the villeins in the fields, turned to her, and, far more than she, would resent any incompetent replacement. “Twill have to happen someday. As I told you this morn, you—and Emma, too—must learn to treat with your men. I’ll allow they are oftimes thickheaded, but if you insist, they’ll come to terms.”

  Leaning against the battlements, she frowned sternly at Julia. “It may be an effort, but it must be made if you’re to forge a partnership—tis the only true measure of successful marriage.” Her mother had been her father’s right hand, and, to give the devil his due, he had always treated her as his queen.

  “But there’s no real need.” Julia smiled placatingly. “While you’re here, everything will run smoothly.”

  Eloise bit her tongue. Something would have to be done. Unfortunately, it was now impossible for her to live at the castle and not be its chatelaine. Perhaps it was time to return to Claerwhen.

  Straightening, she drifted along the battlements to glance down at the bustle in the courtyard below. Julia trailed after her.

  This time, Claerwhen could not be the answer, not permanently. She was not cut out for the cloister; that much she knew. Unfortunately, thanks to Raoul, the only other acceptable career for a noblewoman was no longer a possibility for her.

  Once, she had dreamed of being the lady of a castle, her children about her, a strong husband at her side.

  Her dreams had turned to dust.

  With a brisk shake of her head, she resettled her veil. “Come—I must find Sir John.”

  Together, she and Julia headed for the stairs, nodding to the guards as they passed. Eloise led the way down.

  She had vowed she would let no man take her dead husband’s place.

  Her lips curved, cynical humor returning. Adhering to that vow had cost her no pain, and had provided hours of entertainment through the years.

  Raoul’s private legacy to her.

  Pausing by an arrow slit, she peered down, and drew a determined breath, forcing her mind from the memories that still haunted her, dwelling instead on the amusement she felt at the continuing interest in her as a bride, and the bewildered frustration she delighted in placing in so many men’s eyes.

  Amidst the bustle in the courtyard, she spied her father striding through the melee, bellowing orders right and left. His harassed steward scuttled in his wake. Turning from the sight, she continued down the stair.

  To give her sire his due, he hadn’t pressed her to remarry. Neither had her brothers. They continued to introduce the subject along with potential suitors, but she only had to shake her head and they would retreat. Puzzled, but accepting.

  Julia murmured an excuse and parted from her, heading for the solar.

  Smiling wryly, Eloise stepped into the hall. She suspected her brothers thought they were doing her a favor by offering up all the eligible males they could find. They couldn’t fathom how she, their sister, could stomach a celibate life. They, poor souls, driven by their apparently unrestrainable urges, simply couldn’t understand her.

  But she understood them. Very well.

  She knew that the service of the castle whores was not restricted to the de Versallet men-at-arms, but, on occasion, was solicited by their masters. To her mind, if neither Emma nor Julia felt inclined to protest, then she could hardly do so. Her father and brothers were only men, after all.

  Men. She could see that they might serve some purpose in the greater design of the cosmos, but, for her, they were largely redundant. There was very little she needed of them. Yet women of her station had to pander to their whims, and today their whims meant dancing girls.

  Halting at the top of the keep steps, she saw her father still bending his steward’s ear. Rather than expose herself to her sire’s innumerable questions on duties she had already performed, she summoned one of the pages.

  “Tell Sir John I wish him to hire the troupe of dancers waiting in the outer bailey.” Absentmindedly, she pulled the young page’s jupon straight and settled his girdle more levelly. “The usual rates. We’ll need them immediately the last course is cleared.”

  “Aye, lady.” The page suffered her ministrations with resignation, flashing her a smile when she released him with a nod.

  Eloise watched him wriggle through the crowd. Hands rising to her hips, she surveyed the noisy courtyard. The tournament announced by her father to celebrate his eldest son’s nuptials, formalized a month before at Julia’s father’s keep, was due to start tomorrow. The guests would roll up through the afternoon; she had already organized the evening banquet. The rooms were prepared; dinner had been served and cleared. There was nothing more to do, to oversee.

  Glancing at the sun, Eloise estimated that it was just after midday. The notion of sitting with Emma and Julia in the solar, quietly embroidering until the sound of arrivals summoned them, did not appeal.

  With a last glance around, Eloise turned inside.

  Twenty minutes later, garbed in nondescript brown, she nudged her palfrey through the postern gate. She had avoided her father and brothers; they would insist she take a full escort even though she wasn’t going far. Her drab cote was sufficiently like those of merchants’ daughters to pass without comment; her telltale hair was hidden beneath a simple wimple and veil. Her palfrey, of course, bespoke her station, but she wasn’t trying to fool anyone, just avoid notice. The guards at the postern knew her too well to question her.

  A plank bridge had been rolled out to ford the moat, giving the serfs bringing in produce easier access to the bailey. Within minutes of leaving the castle, Eloise was cantering along the ride leading south along the Bourne, skirting the outliers of the forest.

  There was another, more practical reason for her drab clothing. She had recalled that the swineherd had gone to round up his charges. The main herd with the fattening pigs had been taken to pannage in the forest, an annual treat. Rounding up the piglets was a game for many; most of the castle children would be helping the swineherd today. There would be laughter and plenty of innocent play.

  She felt sure that, by the time she found the herd, she would have invented a reason for joining them.

  *

  Deep in the forest where the boughs of old oaks intertwined overhead, a group of horsemen plodded along, followed by three swaying wagons.

  “There.” Alaun de Montisfryth, first earl of Montisfryn, pointed to where the stream they were following widened into a deep pool.

  “Perfect.” The rider alongside him craned his head to look. “Sweet water to wash away the dust.” Roland de Haverthorne slanted a glance at his cousin. “Of the road and, perchance, from your memory?”

  Alaun grunted.

  The party dismounted, tethering their palfreys close by the pool. Within minutes, all ten knights had stripped and plunged into the clear water. Their squires scurried about, collecting discarded clothes and laying out their masters’ armor.

  With smooth, powerful strokes, Alaun swam to the pool’s center, dove, then resurfaced, and slicked back his wet hair from his face. The water was cool on his sun-warmed skin. They’d ridden hard from Amesbury; the wagons and destriers, sent out before dawn, had been overtaken on the road. Now, with his party gathered, he was intent on ensuring they presented a suitably imposing spectacle when they rode through the gates of Versallet Castle.

  Looking around, he saw the squires, their chores completed, hanging back in groups
. “You, too.”

  The order was greeted with dismay, but obeyed instantly. Noting the reluctance with which his own squire, Bilder, a veteran of numerous campaigns, stripped off his short cote, Alaun shook his head. “Why is it that a man has to reach knighthood before he’ll willingly bathe?”

  “The saints only know,” Roland returned, stroking past. “Still, the poor bastards have been up half the night polishing our armor until it gleams, so perhaps you should let them off lightly.”

  “They can have an early night tonight.”

  “What? And miss the banquet and all the excitement?”

  “What excitement?”

  “Why, the excitement that’s bound to ensue when you challenge someone, or run someone through, or whatever it is you have in mind to pay back old Henry Hardnose for beating you into the dust nine years ago.” Eyes half closed, Roland tensed, waiting for some response to that taunt.

  But Alaun merely humphed and turned to float on his back. “It’s just a tournament.”

  “Ah, I see. Just a general, run-of-the-mill tournament, which just happened to hold sufficient attraction for you to turn aside from our long-awaited journey home—to your estates, which, as you well know, are crying out for your attention. This despite the fact that you, not to say we, have had a bellyful of tournaments in the recent past, having had to sit through a year of siege in company with a king who reaches for a lance on the way to the garderobe.”

  A rumbling chuckle vibrated through the water. “Edward’s not that bad.”

  “I’ll remind you you said that when you receive your next royal summons. How long do you imagine that will be after our esteemed sovereign returns to these fair shores?”

  Alaun groaned, but didn’t open his eyes.

  When his liege lord remained silent, Roland prompted, “Just to appease my curiosity, are you going to challenge de Versallet?”

  Alaun sighed. “Why do I put up with you, Roland?

  “Because I amuse you,” Roland replied. “And because you know you can rely on me to cover your back.”

  Rolling over, Alaun met Roland’s eyes, then turned and stroked for the shore. Roland followed. As they rose, water coursing down bodies hardened by two years of almost constant campaigning, let alone the years before that, Alaun stated, “I have no plans to challenge de Versallet. I’m not even sure I’ll enter the lists.”

  Roland accepted the rough towel his squire, also naked and dripping, hurried to hand him. These days, Alaun frequently sat out from tournaments, his experience and enormous strength making him a formidable opponent at even the highest levels of chivalry. No one in their right mind would look him in the eye and call him coward for it. Yet Roland would have sworn that competing was the purpose behind their present excursion.

  They’d landed in England four days ago, having departed for France more than a year before. As Earl of Montisfryn and one of the Marcher lords, Alaun had joined Edward in most of his recent campaigns, this last proving no exception. The Montisfryn banner had flown to the left of the Prince of Wales’s standard at Crecy, the commanders in charge of the Prince’s battle having specifically requested Alaun to take that position. As their request had been followed by an essentially identical one from the Prince’s father, an old and valued friend, there they had been, in the thick of it.

  While at Crecy the result had been glory for all, Roland, for one, considered his cousin’s pre-eminence a mite hazardous. That had proved true when Edward had moved on to lay siege to Calais. While many of the other commanders of rank had been allowed to retire from the field, Edward had requested—such a diplomatic way of describing it—Alaun and a number of his similarly experienced vassals to remain and provide the mainstay of his besieging force.

  A full year spent outside Calais had tried their courage in ways battle never had. In the end, however, even boredom and sickness had been defeated, along with the burghers of Calais. Even Edward had had a change of heart, dispatching Alaun back to England immediately the town’s gates had been opened and the booty distributed.

  Roland hadn’t believed it until he’d learned that Edward, as canny as ever, had realized that, with Roger de Mortimer a mere lad of sixteen, with Alaun still away, there was a large section of the Welsh border defenses which had been without strong leadership for nearly two years. The Welsh border was not a district it was safe to leave poorly tended for long.

  So they had commandeered four ships and set sail, the cogs wallowing deep with the weight of their accumulated booty. The saints had smiled and the crossing had been peaceful. From Southampton, they had commenced their long trek, a line of heavy wagons rumbling between detachments of archers and men-at-arms. With over one hundred knights and men-at-arms, and more than five hundred archers, together with the inevitable camp-followers of assorted trades, their cavalcade resembled a small army.

  They’d camped outside Amesbury last night. A squire, released to visit the town, had returned hotfoot with the news of a noble tournament, open to all comers. Alaun had shown little interest—until the squire mentioned the name of the castle hosting the tournament. Then, of course, the orders had come; no drawing straws this time, just the pick of Alaun’s knights.

  Handing his towel back to his squire, Roland accepted his braies, then his hose. He was shrugging on his shirt when the first shrieks drifted through the trees.

  Every man in the clearing froze.

  The shrieks continued, high-pitched, feminine, clearly shrieks of enjoyment.

  Roland glanced at Alaun. His cousin, still bare-chested, slowly rose from the rock on which he’d been sitting. Hands on his hips, he listened to the sounds of high-flown revelry percolating through the forest. Every one of his men was watching him.

  Alaun slanted a questioning glance at Roland.

  Roland sent the glance right back.

  Alaun’s lips curved. Shrugging lightly, he headed for the festivity.

  His men were right behind him.

  *

  In a forest clearing two hundred yards away, Eloise held her aching sides as yet another of the swineherd’s rowdy helpers landed on their backs. While the heavy sows were placid and easily herded, the piglets were running amok. Every time one struggled free, squealing at the top of its lungs, it spurred the others on to greater efforts. Despite the sizeable force the swineherd had assembled, the pigs were winning.

  Just then, a pink bundle on tiny legs streaked in her direction. The cobbler’s son, in hot pursuit, tripped over his own toes and went sprawling. Infected by the gaiety, Eloise dispensed with dignity and pounced on the piglet. She trapped it between her skirts, which it had tried to run right through.

  Within seconds, she discovered why it was taking so long to capture a few piglets. Every time she tried to gather the squirming bundle to her, it wriggled out of her arms. Determined to conquer, she bent over the piglet; bracing her legs, trapping its undulating body between her feet, she gripped its front trotters.

  She was about to straighten and hoist her captive into the air when a very large, definitely masculine hand stroked slowly, leisurely, and all too knowingly, over her bottom.

  Eloise shot upright, pig and all. Her breath stuck in her throat—she couldn’t even gasp. Furious, panicked, and a great deal more, she rounded on her attacker, purposefully swinging the piglet before her. As she completed the half circle, she let go.

  Alaun barely had time to register a pair of flashing dark eyes, and the fact the woman was uncommonly tall, before thirty pounds of squealing piglet slammed into his chest. Instinctively, he caught the beast, stepping back with the impact.

  His heel caught in a tree root; the piglet heaved.

  The next thing Alaun knew he was measuring his length on the forest floor, a virago—she was definitely his vision of a virago, her hair tumbling loose from beneath her veil, rippling in a dark river all the way to her hips, with lightning in her eyes and scorn on her lips—standing over him, hands on her hips, pointedly inquiring, “One of your
relations, I presume?”

  With that, she swung around and stalked off.

  Eloise marched a good ten paces before what she’d seen impinged on her brain.

  She halted, raised her head. She blinked, then swung around and stared.

  The piglet, released, ran off, squealing, to join its fellows. Slowly, her attacker sat up. Muscles rippled under golden skin stretched over a stomach resembling one of her serving women’s washer boards—ridged and rock-hard. Her gaze traveled upward across what seemed acres of tanned flesh, a generous dusting of golden hair gilding the smooth contours. His shoulders seemed impossibly large. Her palms prickled. The thews of upper arms and thighs were all in proportion, yet, for all that, he did not seem overly muscled. She decided he was just plain huge. He was wearing braies and mailed hose, which observation answered several questions. He was doubtless a knight on his way to her father’s tournament.

  Suddenly realizing what she was doing, she jerked her gaze up to the stranger’s face.

  His body had stopped her in her tracks. His face hit her like a blow—she couldn’t have breathed to save herself. His forehead was broad under a mane of wavy, golden-brown hair. His nose, and the set of his mouth and chin, informed her that he was no mere knight—this man commanded. His eyes, well-spaced under straight brows, were tawny golden, too.

  They were watching her, a speculative glint flaring in their depths.

  As the full impact of his presence registered, Eloise watched one tawny brow rise.

  A slow, thoroughly suggestive smile softened the line of his lips.

  Eloise stiffened. She let fly with a scorching glance, then turned on her heel and stalked off.

  She’d tethered her palfrey out of the way, beside a fallen tree close by the edge of the forest. It was the work of a minute to regain her saddle. Her composure would take much longer.

  Muttering curses beneath her breath, she swung her horse toward the ford. Minutes later, she was cantering across open ground heading straight for the safety of the castle.