Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  “Aye,” Blanche grudgingly conceded. “But you will ask for leave to visit, won’t you?”

  Eloise nodded, tempted to reveal her plans. But she recalled that Montisfryn had men without; she knew not how close to the door they stood.

  “Will you do me one favor—for our years of friendship?” Blanche asked.

  Eloise arched her brows. “What?”

  “Think about Montisfryn. I know you’re only being taken into his household, but tis plain as the day that he wants you.”

  Eloise snorted.

  “Nay, do not be so dismissive. If you will but consider marriage, I’m certain he’ll be only too happy to oblige.”

  Eloise glanced at the door, then moved closer to Blanche. “You are only part right. He wants me, but tis only my skills as chatelaine he is interested in retaining on a permanent basis.” The waspishness in her tone shocked her; resolutely, she shut her lips on any further revelations.

  Not that Blanche waited for more. Missing her subtle admission of Montisfryn’s lustful designs, Blanche’s “No?” was disillusioned, but she rapidly came about. “I don’t think you can be right, Eloise. Why—just remember how he…”

  While Blanche relived every glance Montisfryn had bestowed on her, Eloise shut her ears and pondered a more pertinent point. Montisfryn was, indeed, utterly unlike other men—he was not, nor had he ever been, interested in marrying her. It was her body he sought—he had made that abundantly clear from the first; he was the first man to approach her with no interest in her hand and the fortune that went with it. It was a novel situation—she wasn’t sure what she thought of it.

  Before she reached any decision, the door opened again. This time, it was Montisfryn.

  Blanche rose and shook out her skirts. “I’ll bid you adieu, then, Eloise. And God speed.”

  Eloise returned Blanche’s embrace, then watched her friend exchange polite nods with Montisfryn before leaving the chamber.

  Closing the door, Alaun turned to view his prize. There was, he noted, no hint of intransigence in her stance. She appeared her usual, calmly assured self—and was still wearing his colors.

  As he started toward her, he wondered if she knew how desirable she appeared, standing before the flames, slender and straight, her head regally high, innate pride in every line. He was beginning to wonder if she actually understood the challenge she posed to men such as he. Lifting his gaze from her gown, he raised a brow. “You did not change?”

  She hesitated, then her chin rose defiantly. “I thought this attire most appropriate. No doubt you’ll wish to flaunt your prize before the jackals in the hall.”

  “Nay.” He picked up the cloak laid out upon the bed. Henry had, indeed, suggested such a triumphant procession, but Alaun’s sense of self-preservation had prevailed over his ego—much to Henry’s delight. “Tis not my intent.”

  He held up the cloak, a hooded pelisson lined with ermine.

  Eloise threw him an uncertain glance, then turned to accept the cloak. He draped it about her, then his hands settled on her shoulders, not gripping, but holding her still. Her heartbeat accelerated, her breathing seized. She felt his gaze on the side of her face.

  “Lady, if my wearing of your garter caused you distress, then I apologize. Twas not what I intended.”

  Stunned, she looked up. He stood by her shoulder, blocking out the room, his face lit by the fire, his eyes gilded by the flames.

  He was serious. Sincere.

  She let her lids veil her eyes; her mother’s voice rang in her head. It takes a very strong man to admit he’s wrong—an apology from one should be treated with respect.

  Slowly, she inclined her head. “Best we consider the matter forgotten, lord.”

  His hands lifted from her shoulders; abruptly, driven by she knew not what, she faced him. “But if we are speaking of apologies, I would explain that tis not my way to give the masses food for talk.” Level, her gaze fell on the tanned column of his throat. Dragging in a quick breath, she lifted her eyes until her gaze met his. “Tis why I would not smile at you. If I had, twould have been said…” She held his gaze for a moment, then blinked; her gaze, beyond her control, fixed on his lips.

  Alaun saw. Drawing in a deep breath, he raised his head and looked across the room. “Tis no great matter, lady. The day is past.” The urge to take her in his arms, to set his lips to hers, to taste her warm sweetness roared through him. But they had to leave. Now.

  Within minutes, Henry would make his announcement—she would not be safe thereafter. And a castle not his own, with the risk of confusion between his men and Henry’s, was not the site he would chose to defend her.

  He forced himself to step back and look around; he saw her traveling chest. “We must hurry.”

  Softly, Eloise let out the breath that had stuck in her throat. “Aye.” She frowned. “My maid should have returned by now.”

  Crossing to her chest, Montisfryn shot her a glance. “A little brown robin?”

  “Aye.”

  Picking up the wooden herb-box, he pushed the chest into the room’s center. “She’s with my men in the corridor. You may say your farewells as we leave.”

  “Farewells?” She stared at him. “You don’t imagine I’m leaving without my maid?”

  The shock in her eyes was unfeigned; Alaun bit back an assurance that, should she need help with her lacings or in brushing out her long hair, he was eminently qualified to supply it. Her “ask me not, for I will not yield” still rang in his ears. “Very well. But she’ll have to ride behind one of my men until we rejoin the wagons.”

  She accepted the grudging offer with a nod.

  “What’s this?” He held up the wooden case. It was an odd size and of a wood he didn’t recognize; a subtle odor, not quite spice and not quite perfume, rose from it.

  “A selection of herbs.” She read the protest in his eyes and quickly added, “I go nowhere without it.”

  Exasperated, he dumped the box on her chest. Striding forward, he took her arm. “We are riding, lady. Hard. Do not tell me of any more things you ‘go nowhere without’.”

  But Eloise knew of one more thing she couldn’t leave behind. She pulled back against his hold, her gaze lifting to his.

  He read the question in her eyes. With a groan, he raised his eyes heavenward. “What?”

  “My groom.” She struggled to straighten her lips. Schooling her features, she assumed her most placating tone. “Matt has no one to look out for him but me. He’s but fourteen. I bought him from the manor court.”

  Montisfryn looked down at her. “What was his crime?”

  “Stealing food.” She sensed his hesitation. “He has no one to care for him, you see.”

  “If I agree, there’s to be no one else—nothing else—not animal, mineral, or vegetable—agreed?”

  “What about my horse?”

  The glare she got warned her he was nearing the end of his patience. “You will be riding your horse. Beside me.”

  She ignored the unsubtle warning. Reassured she would have the minimum of comforts, she allowed him to lead her to the door.

  A small contingent of his men was waiting without. Alaun sent two inside to fetch the chest and case. He turned to Jenni, hanging back by the wall, a bundle in her arms. Beside her stood Rovogatti.

  Alaun nodded at him. “Take the girl up with you. See to her safety.”

  “Aye, lord.” Rovogatti straightened, a smile curving his lips.

  Seeing it, Eloise twisted about to stare behind her as Alaun drew her down the stairs. “Who is that man?”

  “His name is Rovogatti. He’s a Genoese.”

  “Is he trustworthy?”

  “I suspect that depends on what you entrust to him.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Perhaps you should inform him that I rescued Jenni from her bully of a father. He’s the castle blacksmith.”

  Brows rising, Alaun digested that fact. Taking a daughter from a freeman was not particularly easy—rescuing one from
the most important freeman in a military establishment was a feat. Gaining her father’s support, which she must have had, could not have been easy. “You needn’t worry about Rovogatti. He’ll do nothing to frighten the girl.”

  “How can you be sure?” Eloise grumbled as they reached the bottom of the stair.

  “Because if he did, you would be displeased.”

  “So? Why should that deter him?”

  “Because then, I would be displeased.”

  “Oh.” Eloise felt curiously flattered. It was irrational, she told herself, but the idea that he did not wish to see her displeased was unquestionably reassuring.

  Montisfryn stopped in the main corridor leading to the great hall. “Is there another way out? Besides through the hall?”

  “Aye. Through the chapel.”

  He nodded. “We’ll go that way.”

  She glanced up at him. “Don’t you wish to take your leave of the company?”

  “I’ve taken leave of your father and the other judges, as well as your family. The rest do not concern me.” After a moment, he added, “I wish to be far from here when your father reveals the truth of our wager.”

  “Why?” She led the way into a maze of secondary passages.

  “So that none will have time to dwell on the fact that you’re riding tonight with only seven knights as escort.”

  She still didn’t understand, but they’d reached the chapel door.

  Setting Eloise back, Alaun went through. Satisfied there was no danger awaiting, he reached back and drew her over the threshold. The others followed; they filed quickly and quietly through the empty chapel. Before they stepped into the entrance hall, his knights and men-at-arms paused to draw up their hoods and settle their cloaks about them.

  Alaun drew Eloise to face him, then lifted her hood over her braided hair.

  She looked up, into his shadowed eyes.

  He held her gaze, sensed her sudden uncertainty. He reached for her hand and closed his fingers about hers. “Come, lady. Tis time we were away.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Their ride was unlike any Eloise had ever experienced. Montisfryn, on a massive silver-gray, set a punishing pace. Alongside him on her long-tailed roan, it was all she could do to keep up; his occasional glances made sure she did. They followed the line of the forests northward, leaving the Chute, then the mighty Savernake in their wake. Thin clouds drifted over the moon, alternately veiling, then revealing the landscape. The effect might have been quite pretty had she had time to appreciate it.

  Not even when Raoul had died and she had fled Cannar Castle had she ridden so far so fast; she shifted in her saddle, minute by minute more painfully aware of the unwisdom of riding in fine silks. Their speed whipped her grumbles from her lips. She peered ahead. Denser shadows took shape—a walled town. Marlborough. The gates were shut, the town slumbering.

  “We’ll skirt around,” Montisfryn called. “No need to panic the watch.”

  Predictably, he didn’t slow; she gritted her teeth as the troop veered to the west.

  She had wondered how he would locate his camp in the rolling dips of the downs. When she saw winking lights spread like fallen stars a league further on, she couldn’t, at first, imagine what it was she was seeing.

  By the time they passed the pickets, the staggering truth had dawned. As they walked their mounts past row after row of tents and wagons, she gave up all attempt at estimation. “How many men do you have?”

  Halting in a clearing at the center of the camp, Montisfryn dismounted. “Over a hundred knights and men-at-arms. And the Shropshire levies march in my train.”

  She swiveled in her saddle. “I thought I saw a woman back there.”

  “There are laundresses, sempstresses, and others.”

  “Oh.” The feel of his hands about her waist distracted her. He lifted her down, set her on her feet, and paused, his gaze on her face, his fingers firm about her. His body, warm, hard, was but inches from hers.

  “Ah—I’ve never been in a soldiers’ camp before, let alone one as large as this.” She heard the breathlessness in her voice and inwardly cursed.

  Matt removed her mare, and Montisfryn released her. “Until a week ago, this was part of Edward’s army. We’ve been away for over a year—on such lengthy campaigns we carry all needful with us. All the trades for living as well as fighting.”

  She looked around again. “So tis like a small town—or a very big castle?”

  “Aye.” Alaun turned to the tents on the small hill behind them. His great scarlet-and-gold striped pavilion stood in pride of place, with Roland’s and those of his household knights close by. A stand of trees gave protection from the wind; with his men surrounding the hill, protection from more mortal elements was assured. “My cousin will give up his pavilion for your use.”

  Roland, ambling up in time to hear his property and privacy thus disposed of, raised a resigned brow, then swept Eloise a courtly bow. “I am honored, lady.”

  Eloise had taken Roland de Haverthorne’s measure days before. Montisfryn’s cousin was almost as handsome as he was, and, despite a liking for jests and a purposely charming manner, almost equally predatory. She rewarded his gesture with a regal nod, then, with a coolly distant nod to Montisfryn and a haughty, “I will bid you goodnight, sirs,” she swept her skirts about her and headed, stiffly, for Roland’s blue-and-white tent.

  The cousins stood side by side and watched her slow progress up the hill. When she paused for a moment, then resumed her careful gait, Roland winced. “She’s not going to thank you tonight, you know. Nor yet tomorrow, when you toss her to her saddle.”

  Alaun grunted and turned away. “Twas necessary.”

  “Ah, but will she see it so?”

  Staring at the campfire some yards away, Alaun made no reply.

  Roland grinned and started toward the fire. “I’ll get one of my squires to hunt up another pallet and place it in your tent.”

  Alaun looked up. “My tent?”

  “Well, you’ve just given mine away. Tis the least you can do to provide a roof over my head.”

  Roland continued on his way, cheerily whistling; Alaun grunted again, then headed for his pavilion.

  Despite the hour, the knights he’d left in charge turned out to make their reports. They’d been encamped on the downs for two uneventful days; the trip up from Amesbury had been equally without incident. He bestowed his approbation and they left, pleased.

  Following them out into the crisp night, Alaun heard a distant bell peal the call for matins. The summons drifted eerily over the downs and on toward the town. Roland approached, the central fire a glow at his back.

  “Twelve o’clock and all’s well.” Roland halted beside him.

  A soft rustling of leaves had them both turning. Two curvaceous figures detached themselves from the shadows; with sinuous grace, they climbed the slope.

  “Ah—all’s definitely well now.” No hint of weariness remained in Roland’s voice.

  Alaun watched as Roseanne and Marie, two of the more enterprising whores in his train, neared, hips swaying provocatively, full breasts thrusting against thin bodices cut low to reveal their lush bounty. Eyes agleam, the women paused a few paces away to silently gauge their reception.

  Such women, ripe and lustful, were an essential element in any well-run camp; Alaun insisted that in his, they were treated with appropriate courtesy. A small contingent had accompanied his force into France; others, appreciative of the order preserved in his camp, had joined along the way.

  Deciding the signs were propitious, the women exchanged a casual glance and came swaying forward. Roseanne, a lustful English rose, twined herself about Roland. After a whispered exchange, Roland turned her about and, one large hand caressing her generous derriere, hustled her into the trees.

  Alaun heard them go, his gaze on Marie, now beside him. Catlike, she rubbed herself against him, eyes glinting wickedly. A highly-skilled practitioner, she’d joined his force after Cae
n; as she ran her hands over his chest, she murmured, in French, a string of explicit suggestions. His lips quirked; he wasn’t sure all were possible. The temptation to find out was there, yet remained strangely dormant.

  The truth was he desired another, one who had, with the quiver of awareness that had streaked through her when he’d held her, supple and slender, between his hands, raised him, then, the gentle sway of her silk-clad hips reinforcing the condition, left him standing. It was a habit of hers he was determined to break—just as soon as she let him between her sleek thighs.

  He was hard at the thought. Marie, quick to notice, reached for him; he caught her hands. “Nay, Marie.”

  The look she sent him was distinctly surprised; her hand had made contact well enough to gauge his state. She pouted, hoping to melt his resolve. But when he stood firm and simply looked down at her, she sighed and turned away; hips still swaying, she headed for the wagons.

  Alaun cast one long look at Roland’s pavilion, then turned and entered his.

  *

  Inside Roland’s tent, Eloise was not yet abed. As sitting was out of the question, she paced slowly in the gloom. She’d allowed Jenni to help her from her velvet surcote, then had shooed the little maid to a pallet in the corner. Eloise’s cote, in fine silk the color of old gold, laced up the front; she wouldn’t need Jenni’s aid to rid herself of it later, once she’d settled enough for sleep.

  Grimacing, she frowned into the darkness. Suddenly finding herself in a tent surrounded by untold hundreds all owing their allegiance to Montisfryn had dramatically focused her mind. Not only on her predicament, but also on the events leading to it.

  There was no point ignoring facts. Ever since Montisfryn had appeared in her life, her normally reliable plans had developed a tendency to unravel. First, her calm expectation that she could dismiss her father’s wager had proved unfounded; at the time, her fury, fuelled by Montisfryn, had caused her to miss the exact form of their words. Then he’d overturned her plan to delay long enough to escape him by holding her to their private wager—she had not the slightest doubt he’d foreseen her resistance and actively plotted to negate it.