Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  Montisfryn had promised to seduce her.

  Her smile was irrepressible—she could not, despite all her wisdom, summon any sense of threat to harden herself against him. Here, in the privacy of her bed, she could admit that she would regret denying him, bidding him adieu, never to see him again, never again to feel his arms about her and his lips on hers. Yet deny him she would—she would not cede her independence to any man, much less a powerful, predatory male like Montisfryn. He might not set off the same physical alarms that Raoul had, but he was alike in many ways.

  However, provided he conceded her her right to deny him, she would grant him his ride—she was looking forward to learning how he proposed to steal one last kiss; she was sure he would make the attempt. Considering the prospect, she rolled over.

  “Aarrgh!” Blanche’s eyes gleamed from beneath her lids before she resolutely shut them.

  “Good morning. The sun’s up.”

  Blanche opened one eye and focused on Eloise’s smile. “I’m stunned. I would have thought that you would be praying that today would never dawn.”

  “Nay—why so?” Eloise sat up. “Dawn has come and passed. The day is nigh—tis time I got up and faced it.” She left the bed.

  Blanche turned on her side and stared at her. “You do realize, don’t you, that Montisfryn is very likely to win?”

  “William is also very strong,” Eloise dutifully replied as she headed for the ewer and basin on her chest. “There’s quite a few wagers that Montisfryn may have met his match.”

  A snort came from the bed. “You’re indulging in daydreams, my girl. There’s no power on earth will stop Montisfryn from winning.” Blanche watched as Eloise splashed water on her face. “Will you accept him?”

  “Of course not.” Eloise mopped her face. “If I ever again decide to take a husband, twill be a man I will chose—I will not have him thrust upon me. As a widow, I have all rights in bestowing my hand.” Discarding the towel, she started unpicking the ribbons of her nightrail. “My status is not something I have sought to hide—neither my father nor Montisfryn can claim ignorance.”

  “True.” Rolling onto her back, Blanche stared at the canopy. “Tis what puzzles me most. What exactly is their reasoning? They must know tis unlikely you’ll happily yield your hand to Montisfryn as his prize. Tis an iniquitous suggestion, in truth.”

  “Aye, and will avail them naught. If Montisfryn wins today, I will simply inform them that they will have to rethink their wager—I will have no part in settling it.” Pulling her nightrail over her head, she added, “As for their reasoning, I have long known tis wasted effort trying to comprehend the minds of knights engaged in chivalrous pursuits—they are often unbelievably stupid.”

  Blanche giggled. “You’ll get no arguments from me. Richard’s sometimes so brainless I despair.” Blanche watched her dress; when Eloise’s attention was fixed on her lacings, she asked, “Do you not feel at least a little tempted to take up Montisfryn’s offer?”

  Eloise shook her head. “Nay.” She saw no reason to elaborate, to explain that Montisfryn’s offer had come about more by accident than design. He’d only made it to bring her under his control, to make her subject to his will, the move driven by lust, nothing more. “You know my thoughts on that topic, and Montisfryn is precisely the sort of man I would most seek to avoid. He’s powerful, predatory, arrogant, ruthless—the list is infinite. I will not marry such a man.”

  “Not even when he’s attractive enough to make most women swoon and bold enough to satisfy the most demanding?”

  “Particularly not then.” Her lips twitched; ruthlessly she stilled them. Blanche’s description was most apt.

  “Ah…then it was not you I saw in the herb garden last night? Montisfryn was there, with a woman wrapped all about him. She wore a dark gown—I had thought twas you.”

  There was no hope of hiding her blush. She shot Blanche a warning glance. “Twas the payment of a wager—nothing more.”

  Blanche snorted. “It looked a great deal more to me.”

  “Tis not important.” She reached for her surcote. “I do not consider Montisfryn as suitable husband-material.”

  “Indeed?” Blanche raised her brows. “This grows interesting. What do you look for in a husband?”

  Settling her surcote, Eloise paused, for the first time in a very long while actively considering that question. “He would need to be strong, both physically and mentally. I have never had much time for dolts or weaklings.”

  “Aye, that is true enough.”

  “And he would need to be protective rather than aggressive—a lord who looks after his family and people, and defends them as he should.”

  “Aye.” Blanche nodded sagely. “Tis what any sane woman seeks.”

  “He would have to be of reasonable age, and hale and whole.”

  “And attractive enough, with a sense of humor and no tendency to black tempers or madness—I think we can take such as a matter of course.” Blanche smiled. “You are, after all, not so very different from the rest of us.”

  Eloise arched a brow. Stepping to the shutters, she pulled them wide, flooding the room with light. “His birth must be noble, his position in the land secure—I do not seek to marry outside my class, nor would I be comfortable knowing my worth was what underpinned my lord’s standing.”

  Blanche frowned. “In your case, tis a valid point.”

  When, unraveling her braids, Eloise added nothing more, Blanche prompted, “And that’s all?”

  Slowly, Eloise unwound her long hair. There was one other criterion, one she hadn’t thought of for years. It was present in Blanche’s marriage and, she had slowly come to realize, had been present in her parents’. But she’d rarely seen it elsewhere; it was not recognized as a necessary ingredient—she had never heard its worth propounded. “Aye,” she eventually answered. “Tis enough.”

  Blanche muted her snort. “It has occurred to you, has it not, that Montisfryn fits your prescription? Extremely well? Indeed, I cannot see how you can turn up your nose at arrogant and powerful knights, when tis precisely those qualities that support those you seek. Tis two sides of the same coin, if you ask me.”

  Eloise frowned, looking down, easing the tangles from her hair. Having steadfastly avoided the subject of husbands for nigh on nine years, that consideration had not, until that moment, occurred to her. However, there remained the fact that, with Raoul, satisfying all the logical criteria, even to the arrogant and powerful, had not yielded the desired result.

  “Tis my belief you would do well to consider Montisfryn more carefully before you dismiss him. Mayhap you might find you’ve misjudged him?”

  She humphed.

  With a determined snort, Blanche sat up.

  The latch lifted. Jenni entered. Grabbing up a comb, she hurried to assist Eloise.

  With a sigh, Blanche sank back on the bed.

  Mentally blessing Jenni, Eloise closed her eyes against the tug of the comb. In one respect, Blanche was right—she had misjudged Montisfryn. He was not like other men, as easily dismissed from her mind as they were from her presence. Indeed, dismissing him on any level was an art she had yet to master. Too often he invaded her thoughts, rendering all else inconsequential; when he was near, her senses rejected the world to focus on him. Even more surprising, she enjoyed his kisses—and hungered for more, prey to a compulsion to touch him, to explore the powerful contours of his chest, to lose herself in his strength.

  Abruptly, she opened her eyes—and forced her mind to her duties.

  With her braids finally stowed in their crespines, a wimple tucked over the whole and draped about her throat, she turned just as Blanche threw back the covers and stood.

  Only to turn a delicate shade of green. “Oh, dear.”

  Eloise hurried forward. “What is it?”

  Sinking back on the bed, Blanche smiled weakly. “Nothing. Or rather, tis merely confirmation of what is to come.”

  Eloise dispatched Jenni to ro
use Blanche’s maid, then, turning to her friend, lifted a brow. “Again?”

  “Aye.” Blanche’s smile gained in strength, in depth, until her face glowed. “I wasn’t sure—I haven’t told Richard yet.”

  “He would very likely not have let you come.” Hands on her hips, Eloise looked at Blanche, very tempted to scold.

  “Nay, he is not so silly. Tis the third, after all. He’s grown used to the business.”

  “Humph. Should you stay in bed?”

  “Nay. Tis not my way. Tis very early—twas but a woozy feeling. I’ll feel better if I eat.” Warily, Blanche rose again. “There,” she said, her smile returning. “Tis past.”

  Eloise humphed again. “I’ll wait and go down with you.” Briskly, she helped Blanche undress. Tippet, Blanche’s maid, appeared with Jenni, both with eyes shining and questions in their faces. Blanche laughed and made them free of her secret. Eloise yielded her place to the maids, waiting in silence while, in concert with Blanche, the pair discussed the impending future.

  Turning to the window, Eloise tried to block out the chatter. Blanche already had two lovely little girls, one six, the other three.

  “This time, you have no excuse not to visit me and my latest arrival—and stay for longer than two nights.” Blanche, fully clothed and coiffed, came to slide an arm through Eloise’s. “Your father can spare you—he has a wife and a new daughter-in-law to see to the chatelaine’s duties. I will expect you for a sennight at least, and would urge you to come for a longer stay.”

  Eloise smiled. “I’ll see what I can arrange.” She wondered how, this time, she was to avoid the trial.

  It was not that she disliked infants—more that she liked them too well.

  She let Blanche’s chatter wash over her while they descended to the hall. By the time they reached the threshold, she had succeeded in refocusing her mind on the day—and the many challenges it would hold.

  The first of those immediately greeted her. On entering the hall, she became the absolute focus of all attention.

  Calmly gliding to her place at the board, she gave no sign of having noticed. With few exceptions, the ladies eyed her with insincere pity and poorly concealed envy. As for the knights, as most had been eliminated, there were many eager to discuss the rival merits of the finalists and place wagers on the outcome. The assessing glances thrown her way informed her that other bets were also being laid, ones in which she herself figured. She was reputedly unattainable; the idea that Montisfryn might win by arms what others had failed to gain by conventional means had stimulated the salacious interest of even her father’s vassals.

  Her brothers, of course, were unimpressed. William, sitting at the high table, ignored it all, but her other brothers, John and Roger, who, with William, had won through to the last day, and Gregory, the youngest, who had been eliminated yesterday by one of Montisfryn’s knights, were all scowling blackly, growling at anyone unwise enough to tempt them.

  Eloise hid her smile behind her mug, then reached for the bread. A sudden hush had her turning her head, following the communal gaze.

  Montisfryn entered. He glanced up; his features hardened. His golden eyes flicked her way; his gaze touched hers briefly. She suppressed a spontaneous smile, substituting a cool, very formal curving of her lips and a small, regal nod.

  It seemed to her that he hesitated before nodding distantly in reply. He moved to his usual place, quietly greeting Emma, who was, of course, thoroughly distracted. Settling on the bench, he reached for his ale mug. As he sipped, his gaze slowly traveled the room.

  The whispers died. Those who had been most garrulous in their wagering suddenly found their bread and ale fascinating. A wary silence descended on the hall.

  Eloise glanced back to see William grin, then nod to Montisfryn. Montisfryn acknowledged the salutation with an inclination of his head, then returned to his ale. She followed his lead.

  Only when he stood to leave did he again look her way. Having watched him through her lashes, she raised her head and met his gaze squarely. The expression in his golden eyes was unmistakable. Neither complacent nor overconfident, it was simply possessive. To him, she was already his.

  With a nod which set the words, “Until later, lady,” ringing in her mind, he stepped down from the dais and, with characteristically deliberate stride, left the hall.

  “Oh, my!” Blanche turned, wide-eyed.

  Drawing in a steadying breath, Eloise ignored her. St Catherine’s teeth! If he could shake her now, what state would she be in when he won? When, after refusing him, she went with him on their ride?

  The thought elicited a most unexpected reaction—a sort of thrilled panic. Pushing it from her, she rose and left the hall to immerse herself in her household duties. An eminently safe, reassuringly mundane occupation.

  *

  “Tis time to leave for the pavilions.”

  Eloise glanced up from her ledgers to see Blanche shut the door.

  Her friend raised a brow. “Are you going to go—or sit it out here? It would be easy to invent some catastrophe, wouldn’t it?”

  Eloise smiled and laid aside her quill. “Exceedingly easy. However”—she shut her ledger—“if Montisfryn wins, twill fall to me to remind that gaggle of ill-educated males that it lies not in even my father’s power to compel me to marry. My presence at the ground, with not the slightest vestige of trepidation for the outcome, is a necessary supporting tactic.”

  Having cited her logic, thus excusing her interest, she smiled sunnily and rose. “Come.” She linked her arm in Blanche’s. “Let’s see what the day brings forth.”

  Her appearance in the stands was noted by all, along with her buoyant spirits.

  “What’s to happen today?” Blanche asked. “Just jousts?”

  Eloise nodded. “Under formal rules.” Each pair of knights, fully armored and mounted on mail-caparisoned destriers, would charge each other with lances, the tips swaddled to prevent mishap, each hoping, at the very least, to break their lance on their opponent’s shield, ultimately, to unseat him. That accomplished, the victorious knight would dismount and take up arms while the fallen knight was hurriedly assisted to his feet and likewise armed with mace or blunted sword. The contest would continue on foot, until one or other knight yielded.

  From the start, the bouts were grueling. The first eight matches saw every man joust. Reining in her thoroughly misplaced interest, Eloise looked on, outwardly unmoved, as Montisfryn unhorsed his opponent on the second pass, then, when they resumed on foot, forced him to his knees with a succession of mighty blows.

  Clapping enthusiastically, Blanche grimaced at her.

  When William dispatched his opponent with skill and vigor, Eloise clapped approvingly.

  By the time the ladies withdrew for dinner, only four knights remained unbeaten—Montisfryn, William, Roland de Haverthorne and Edgar de Brasely, a local knight.

  “Well,” Blanche said, as they returned to the stand, “I have to admit your father’s tournament has been infinitely more exciting than any other I’ve attended.”

  When Eloise shot her a skeptical look, Blanche grinned. “Nothing to do with his organization, but simply the quality of the contestants.”

  Eloise raised her eyes heavenward, then looked to where William was preparing to take the field against Roland de Haverthorne.

  Blanche translated the soft sighs rising about them. “Sorry, Eloise—I’m cheering for de Haverthorne.”

  Eloise shook her head. “I’m truly amazed.”

  “You’re biased—and blind as well, at least in that respect.”

  Eloise didn’t reply.

  Unfortunately for Montisfryn’s cousin, the support of the ladies was insufficient to permit him to overcome William’s great strength. Although he labored long and hard, the outcome was never in doubt. A blow taken high on his shoulder sheered into his helm. Laid out on the ground, Roland wearily raised a gauntlet and yielded.

  Montisfryn, waiting by the side of the lists
to engage with de Brasely, paused only to assure himself that his cousin had taken no serious hurt before mounting his black destrier and riding into the arena.

  Eloise couldn’t help but note the avid, almost voracious interest his appearance provoked. The ladies openly stared, their eyes following every movement of his huge body encased in chased steel. Mail winked and blinked in the sunlight; his armored plates gleamed. Managing the huge destrier with his knees alone, he hefted the heavy lance in one hand.

  “Don’t try to tell me you’re impervious to that,” came Blanche’s whisper in her ear. “You would have to be dead.”

  Her mask firmly in place, Eloise cast Blanche a reproving glance.

  De Brasely was slower coming to the mark; Montisfryn showed no impatience, sitting his destrier, preternaturally still.

  “Like a statue,” Blanche murmured.

  Like an avenging god, Eloise thought as, the signal given, Montisfryn surged into powerful life. De Brasely went down on the first pass.

  A mighty cheer rose from the knights and commoners gathered about the ropes. It was echoed by a softer exclamation from by the more delicate occupants of the stands.

  De Brasely, a trifle stunned by his fall, gamely faced up to Montisfryn.

  “He’ll never last,” was Blanche’s opinion.

  Within minutes she was proved correct; de Brasely’s squires rushed out to collect him as, to cheers and roars of approval, Montisfryn saluted the judges.

  He paused, his gaze remaining on the center stand.

  “He’s looking at you,” Blanche, quite unnecessarily, informed Eloise.

  Eloise could feel his gaze, warm as ever, yet with the definite hint of a challenge behind it. She met both gaze and challenge with polite disinterest, refusing to acknowledge the thrill that coursed through her.

  With the slightest of nods, Montisfryn turned and walked away.

  There was a lull before the final joust to allow Montisfryn to refresh himself and attend to his armor as William already had, and to allow even more wagers to be placed—on who would win, and on whether Montisfryn would collect his prize. Thrilled chatter swelled, lapping the arena; excitement, tangible, rose on the air.