Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  “She’ll leave with me nonetheless.” Alaun caught Roland’s eye and signaled to the door.

  “Hmm.” Henry eyed Alaun measuringly. “I feel I ought to warn you, but…” He shrugged. “You’ve made your bed…” In mock commiseration, he shook his head.

  Raising a brow, Alaun caught Henry’s gaze. “Fear not. She’ll lie in it.”

  Disconcerted, Henry frowned.

  Smiling lazily, Alaun nodded and headed for the door.

  *

  He wasn’t smiling when, ten minutes later, he paused in the passage outside Eloise’s chamber. Four of his men were stationed on the stairs below; Rovogatti lounged in the alcove nearby, dark features impassive, his gaze directed down the stair. Satisfied, Alaun gripped the latch.

  Eloise was pacing before the fire. She whirled as he entered, then drew herself up, the chilly cloak of her dignity wrapping about her. He took in her silks, noting their colors, then met her gaze, unsurprised to find it haughty, challenging, as defiant as ever. Deliberately, he held it, then, equally deliberately, scanned the room.

  No chest. No evidence she’d even considered packing.

  He spied her maid on a stool in the corner. “Leave us.”

  The girl started, then glanced at Eloise.

  “You may wait in the passage—your mistress will have need of you shortly.”

  That, of course, refocused Eloise’s glare on him. With a curt nod, she authorized his command; the little maid scurried out—gratefully, he suspected. He waited until the latch fell before, gripping the twin reins of his temper and his lust, he walked slowly forward.

  Ignoring the frizzling sensation that had chosen that moment to afflict her nerves, Eloise waited, outwardly unmoved, for him to come to her. She’d been looking forward to this confrontation for hours—nothing, but nothing was going to interfere with the retribution she had vowed to exact. By the time she’d finished wringing an apology from him—likely a difficult task, but one she knew she would enjoy—he would be in no state to gainsay her in delaying his departure long enough for her to organize her escape.

  Regally erect, she watched him approach. He was dressed for traveling in a brown houppelande which reached to mid-thigh, and high boots of soft leather. A cloak trimmed with fox-fur was slung back from his shoulders and fastened with a heavy gold pin. Unbidden, her mind conjured the image of his heraldic arms—of the lion that stalked, rather than slept.

  He halted a foot from her, forcing her to look up to meet his gaze.

  She narrowed her eyes; she was in no mood for subtleties. “I’m truly amazed, my lord, that even you possess sufficient gall to face me thus.”

  One tawny brow rose, but distantly, as if her tart comment was of no more than passing interest. She struggled not to grind her teeth. “Your use of my garter this day—”

  “Why have you not packed, lady?”

  The low, grumbling growl startled her. Then the turmoil in his eyes registered, and wariness bloomed.

  Impassively, he looked down at her. “Your father informed me he told you to pack a small chest.”

  Nothing, but nothing. She tilted her chin higher, cursing the fact that he was so very tall. It was utterly impossible to look down her nose at him. “We will discuss the details associated with my joining your household momentarily, my lord. First, however—”

  “Nay, lady—we will not discuss the matter at all. I have men waiting—our departure is imminent.”

  Her temper surged. Ruthlessly, she harnessed it, but allowed it to infuse her eyes and stiffen her stance. She met his gaze—and saw the same emotion swirling in the golden depths, clouding their brilliance. His muscles were tense, his jaw clenched. She frowned. “Why are you so angry? Tis I who am the injured party here.”

  His eyes flew wide. “You? Injured? With that tongue you deploy like a sword and your hauteur for a wall, twould be a wonder indeed could any get close enough to manage it!”

  For an instant, his golden eyes blazed. She needed no intuition to follow his battle to regain control—it was there in the thinning of his lips, in the hardening of his face.

  It was a battle he lost.

  “But if we are to talk of injury, what of me, lady?” The words came out explosively, clearly against his will. “Doubtless it passed beneath your notice, yet today alone I defeated four men—four warriors—to win you. And what was my reward? Did I get so much as a smile from you?” His eyes burned—with accusation and something else besides. “Nay—all I have got is a chilly reception and a taste of your temper to boot. And you say you are injured!”

  Taken aback, she held her position. “You did not do battle for a smile.”

  The quiet statement gave him pause; the fires in his eyes died. “Nay,” he agreed, through clenched teeth, “and that is a matter we will discuss later. For now, I am concerned with leaving forthwith.”

  She opened her mouth to argue—then remembered that she had yet to hear anything remotely resembling the apology she’d promised herself. She eyed him straitly. “Be that as it may, my lord, I consider your use of my garter—purposely misleading people to believe that I was enamored of you—to be beneath contempt. I will hear an apology—else I will not stir one step.”

  The lion’s jaw dropped. “Leading people to believe…” He stared, then shook off his surprise. “Lady—I have news for you. I care not a fig what people think—the wearing of your garter was a message for you and you alone. Clearly, you did not understand it!”

  His fury was back, lighting his eyes, lapping about her in vibrating waves. She held firm, but couldn’t resist asking, suspiciously, “What message?”

  The answer came in a low growl. “I like it not, lady, that you deny what is between us. Tis there—and nothing you can say will change that.”

  “Nay—” She saw the flames in his eyes ignite. A muscle flickered along his jaw; a vise closed about her chest. Inclining her head, she let her lids veil her eyes. “Tis nothing more than a passing attraction.”

  He was silent, then said, his tones clipped, but no longer so heated, “I realize it has been some time since you were close to a man, lady, but you may believe me when I say ours is not an ‘attraction’ likely to simply fade away.”

  She considered the comment, and its inferences, for a long minute. Then she raised her head and met his gaze. “What do you think to gain by this arrangement? By having me in your care?”

  His expression was unreadable; one tawny brow rose. “Did your father not mention that I am in dire need of an experienced chatelaine?”

  She raised her brows. “A chatelaine? And that is to be the sum of my role whilst in your household?”

  Alaun held tight to his emotions, no longer sure which held the upper hand. “Nay, lady—you know the truth of that.”

  “I will not be your mistress.”

  He looked down at her, at the defiantly proud tilt of her head and the warning flashing in her dark eyes. “Aye,” he said, “you have that right—you lack the first qualification.”

  “What?”

  Her tone—startled incredulity with a hint of pique—did wonders for his temper. “A soft and soothing tongue.”

  It was no effort to summon her dignity; Eloise fixed him with a cool, not to say icy, glance. “I would have all clear between us, my lord. Regardless of any fantasies with which you may delude yourself, I will not lie with you.”

  “Nay, lady, the wise never promise what they cannot ensure.” He held her gaze steadily. “You feel the flames as well as I. Henceforth, you will be part of my household—tis not a situation conducive to our fires dying of neglect. The embers will smolder, constantly scorching—eventually you will be forced to let them burn. Then the flames will flare for however long they are destined to. Tis the nature of such things—you cannot deny it however hard you try.”

  She read the truth in his eyes—felt it stir within her. She might not be able to deny it, but she could certainly do something to avoid it entirely. “We shall see.”


  His eyes narrowed; when she met his gaze steadily, lips firmly closed, he reached into his houppelande. “Allow me to return to you something you mislaid.”

  Her gaze fixed on the wad of pale ice blue that he drew forth from the neck of his houppelande. Her scarf. The scarf she’d forced on William, along with her favor, rather than allow Montisfryn’s claim to it to stand. Without looking up, she took it.

  And felt his heat, trapped in the silk. He’d been carrying it against his skin. Abruptly, she dropped it on the stool beside her. She glanced up at him. His expression was graven, impassive. Raising her head, she met his gaze. “And my garter?”

  “Nay. That I have won. You have lost all claim to it.” Just as she was shortly to lose all claim to her black gown—Alaun managed to keep the words from his tongue. Abruptly, he turned and headed for the door, growling as he went, “Now hurry and pack, lady—we must leave within the hour.”

  “Nay, lord—tis a point we must discuss. Tis not possible for me to leave with you this night.”

  With an even deeper growl, he swung back; hands rising to his hips, he halted directly before her, trapping her gaze. “I understand your father has informed you of the substance of the wager I won of him.”

  She inclined her head. “Aye. But—”

  “Do you understand you are, now and henceforth, under my protection?”

  “Aye—yet—”

  “And that you thus owe me the same obedience you did your sire?”

  Eloise glared at him. Was this how his opponents on the tournament ground felt when he started raining blows about their heads? “Aye.”

  “Then I am come to collect the wager you owe me.” With obvious relish, he watched her eyes grow wide. “You hadn’t forgotten, I trust?”

  She had—completely. “No,” she said, as she saw the net snap tight. Then, as the full sum of his careful planning burst upon her, “Tis not fair!”

  “Fair?” He opened his eyes wide. “To my mind, tis justice indeed. You thought me foolish enough to accept a wager of your hand when twas not something your father could promise. You then thought to trap me into relinquishing all hold on you with our private wagers—and what else besides?” He arched a brow. “Should I hazard a guess as to what next you would have asked had you won free of your father’s wager?”

  Lips tightly shut, she glared at him.

  “Nay, lady—throw not your daggers at me. Tis by your own cleverness that you are trapped—tis fair, indeed.”

  Eloise relinquished all thought of avoiding her forfeit, yet she was far from vanquished. He might have defeated four warriors that day—he had yet to defeat her. Gathering her calm, she clasped her hands before her. “Be that as it may, I cannot leave here at such short notice.”

  “Lady—you’ll discover you’re mistaken.”

  The threat implicit in the words was emphasized by his tone; she raised a haughty brow. “Nay, my lord. Tis you who have not thought enough this time.”

  “I have your promise to do as I ask; your honor will not permit you to renege. I will hold you to our wager—you will ride with me to Marlborough this night.”

  “Marlborough?”

  “Aye—I’ve been with the king in France, and was on my way home when I heard of your father’s tournament. I sent my baggage train to await me on the downs. We will ride with my men about us—you’ll have no cause to complain.”

  She very nearly stamped her foot. “I will not become your lover—I’ll make your life miserable instead.”

  “Very likely,” came the terse reply. “You are already trying my temper sorely. But we must leave within the hour, lady—the sooner the better.”

  “Nay, my lord, you cannot have considered. I am chatelaine here. Before I leave, I must hand my duties into other hands. There’s the accounts to explain to Emma—you will have noticed her hesitant disposition—twill take hours to guide her through them. And then there’s the keys—without direction even Sir John wouldn’t know which doors they open. As a commander you’ll understand how essential it is to know which keys open the storerooms.”

  She continued calmly enumerating her duties, ticking them off on her fingers. “And then there’s the stillroom. I have potions half-completed—I’ll have to instruct my assistants in how to finish them. Why,” she concluded, looking up, “it might be a week before I can leave.”

  He reached for her, so swiftly she had no chance to escape. One large hand firmed about her jaw; slowly, he drew her to him.

  Struggling would have been undignified; she quelled her leaping heart and strove to appear unaffected as, her chin cupped in his warm palm, he looked into her eyes.

  “I have heard tell you are the epitome of efficiency, lady.” He spoke softly, gently, but steel rang beneath his words. “You may make what arrangements you must, delegate as you deem best. But you will pack a small chest as your father instructed, and I will return for you in one half-hour. The only decision you needs must make in regard to your departure is whether you wish to make it by my side—or over my shoulder.”

  His “do you understand?” was clear enough without words.

  Trapped in his implacable gaze, her pulse racing, she felt herself nod. Inwardly, she cursed; haughtily, she lifted her chin from his hand.

  “Very well, lord. I will accede to your wishes and ride this night with your company to Marlborough.” She had, it seemed, little choice. But he was a Marcher lord—his lands lay on the Welsh border; his “way home” would take him close to, or through, Hereford—close to Claerwhen.

  Lifting her head, she met his gaze with her own brand of implacability. “Once that is done, while I continue in your care, I will give to you the same loyalty I previously reserved for my father, and the same obedience. Beyond that, ask me not, for I will not yield.”

  For a long moment, their gazes held, then he gravely inclined his head. “I ask only what we agreed. As for the future, we will treat as lord and lady, day to day.”

  It was her turn to regally agree. As he was so determined to take her, she would go—and make use of his escort as far as Claerwhen.

  “I’ll leave you to your packing, lady.” He turned and headed for the door. “I will send in your maid and your stepmother and sister-in-law. You will doubtless wish to take your leave of them.”

  “Aye. And Blanche d’Albron.”

  “As you wish.” He paused by the door. “I will return for you in half an hour, lady.” His eyes met hers. “Do not think to delay me.”

  Eloise put her nose in the air. “I will be ready and waiting, lord.”

  His lips twitched. “Your father held you were obedient, lady. Tis reassuring to have the fact confirmed.”

  The sizzling glare she hurled across the room bounced harmlessly off the door as he pulled it shut behind him. With commendable rectitude, she refrained from gnashing her teeth. His time would come. That was one thing she would see to—before she left him.

  He was, however, as good as his word; Jenni popped through the door, eyes wide, almost immediately. They hurriedly crammed a selection of clothes and Eloise’s most treasured possessions into a small chest.

  “What of this, lady?”

  Eloise glanced up; Jenni held up her pale blue scarf. For a moment, she simply looked at it, her thoughts disengaged. Then she held out a hand. “Give it here.” She crammed the silk into a corner of the chest, then, pressing the contents down, quickly shut the lid and secured the straining clasp. Dusting her hands, she nodded at Jenni. “Now hurry and pack a bundle for yourself.”

  Jenni darted out, eyes shining.

  Hands on her hips, Eloise cast a careful glance around the chamber. Nothing vital remained. Except her herb-box. Lifting the special box she’d had made for traveling from its shelf, she crossed to the old linen chest containing her private stock of herbs and specifics. She was busy making her choices when the door creaked open.

  Emma slipped in. “Oh, dear.” Her father’s tiny second wife just stood, eyes filling, in
the middle of the room, wringing her hands.

  Stifling a sigh, Eloise laid aside her packets and went to hug Emma. “Don’t. You’ll make yourself ill.” Bethinking herself of Emma’s monthly troubles, she asked, “Have you enough raspberry leaves for the next few months?”

  “Oh, yes,” Emma gulped. “But tis I who should be comforting you. Oh, Eloise! How could he do this to you?”

  “Now, Emma.” She spoke firmly. “Tis nothing so sensational you need have hysterics.”

  “But it is! It’s barbaric!”

  Realizing that Emma was still laboring under the misapprehension to which she herself had fallen victim, Eloise succinctly informed her of the facts, painting the outcome in the mildest of lights.

  “Oh.” Emma blinked. After a moment, she darted a shy glance at her. “You don’t mind going?”

  Turning back to her herbs, Eloise shrugged. “I would rather stay here, but, as Montisfryn wishes otherwise, I will go with him.”

  She was forced to repeat her story to Julia, her next visitor. After drying their tears, she struggled to impress on both Julia and Emma the importance of the accounts, the barest understanding of her keys, and sundry last commands to be conveyed to her assistants in the stillroom and elsewhere.

  Wide-eyed, thoroughly apprehensive over the duties that were now theirs, they finally departed.

  To be replaced by Blanche, agog, unable for the life of her to credit it. “It’s like one of those extravagant tales the minstrels tell—too utterly unbelievable to be true! I can’t believe my papa is lending countenance to such a scheme!”

  So Blanche, too, had to be favored with the facts.

  “Oh.”

  Setting her restocked herb-box atop her chest, Eloise turned to find Blanche eyeing her keenly. Brows rising, Blanche slanted a suggestive look her way. “You know, that might just be…well, interesting.”

  Eloise frowned. “You, Blanche d’Albron, are in sore need of having your husband take you in hand.”

  “Saints, does it show that much?”

  “Aye.” Eloise hesitated, then said, “You will understand, will you not, if I cannot visit after your next confinement?” If she sought refuge in Claerwhen against Montisfryn’s wishes, it might well be years before it would be safe to emerge.