Which suggested that, improbable though it seemed, in him she’d met a knight who could think as fast, if not faster, than she. Not a reassuring thought, but one she would strive to bear in mind until she won free of him.
She swung about. Even now, hemmed in on all sides, she did not doubt her ability to escape him. Opportunities would arise—she would choose the most likely while keeping close her connection with Claerwhen. That was not the cause of her unsettled state.
The air inside the tent was stuffy. On impulse, she groped for her cloak, left on her chest in the corner. Swinging the furlined pelisson about her, she drew its folds close. A sliver of starlight guided her to the tent’s entrance.
Outside, the air was fresh and still. Breathing deeply, she glanced around. The camp was asleep; accustomed to life in cloister and castle, she found the soft snorts, snores, and distant, muffled conversations reassuring. The rustle of her skirts as she wandered along the tree line added another note to the crooning.
It was Montisfryn’s words that haunted her. His claim that she would be unable to resist the attraction that flared between them—that her body would push her to satisfy its cravings by accepting him as her lover. Up to the moment of setting eyes on him, she would have laughed the idea to scorn. Now…
Pacing through the shadows, she decided it wasn’t his prediction alone that so unnerved her, but his certainty it was true. His conviction was so absolute, he didn’t bother to press her as so many others had. Given his undoubted experience, that was disturbing.
She frowned at the gold-striped tent perched on the crown of the hill. Then, almost reluctantly, she smiled. No matter how convinced he was, she was not likely to succumb—at least, not in the few days it would take to reach Hereford and the safety of Claerwhen.
A soft whicker floated through the trees. Straining her ears, she detected the breathy snorts of horses beneath the background chorus; they were tethered somewhere near. Remembering the majestic gray that had carried Montisfryn so effortlessly, she picked her way through the trees.
*
In the dimness of his tent, Alaun lay moodily gazing upward. It seemed he’d been lying thus for hours, yet he knew it wasn’t so. Roland and Roseanne had returned but minutes before. Alaun had heard their muffled goodbyes, then Roseanne had giggled and left. A moment later, Roland had entered. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, Alaun had been able to make out his cousin, points all undone, hair wildly tousled, features slack with sated pleasure; he had frowned at the ceiling while Roland had stripped and found his pallet.
Now Roland was snoring. Contentedly.
Beneath his breath, Alaun swore. Abruptly, he sat up and reached for his clothes. Minutes later, he emerged from the tent, wrapping his cloak about him. Unbidden, his feet took him to Roland’s pavilion. Halting before it, he stared at the flap, then grimaced and swung about.
Dragging in a deep breath, he surveyed the camp, stretched out on the downs below him. Yet his eyes did not focus on the shadowy tents and the fires, slowly dying.
Abruptly, he turned and paced back toward his pavilion.
He’d almost reached it when a glimmer of gold flickered in the trees beyond. Tales of elves who tempted mortals into bondage sprang to mind, only to be ousted by commonsense. Eyes narrowing, he waited, silent and still, a denser shadow in the gloom.
*
Her mind on the magnificent beast whose presence she’d just quit, Eloise emerged from the trees; eyes on the ground, she walked slowly toward her tent. She felt calm, at peace—with luck, she would get a few hours sleep.
“What in the devil’s own name are you about, lady?”
She gasped and jumped back. Her heart thudding wildly, she looked up at the man she’d all but walked into. Immediately, she straightened; lowering her hand from her throat, she assumed a distantly haughty mien. “Walking.”
His expression hardened. “Alone?”
“Tis a habit I’ve developed when I wish for privacy.”
“Tis a habit you will not again indulge whilst in my care.”
Incredulous, she stared. “By all the saints!—why? I’m hardly in any danger here, surrounded by your slumbering millions.”
“You are no longer in your father’s keep, lady.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Unfortunately not.” Briskly, she took a step sideways; even quicker, he blocked the move. Drawing herself up, she met his gaze challengingly.
His eyes held hers; one brow slowly rose. “I take it you found the bed you’ve been given less than to your liking?”
The softer, deeper tone sent a shiver down her spine. Ignoring it, she shrugged. “I daresay tis well enough.” When he gave no sign of moving from her path, she waspishly snapped, “As comfortable as any other in this camp, I make no doubt.”
The rumbling sound she heard could have been a reluctant chuckle.
“As to that, you’ll discover your mistake soon enough.”
“Nay—tis you who are in error, my lord. But tell me, how soon do you think to reach your castle? Is it far?”
For a moment, he was silent; she could feel his gaze on her face. Then his shoulders lifted lightly. “Tis a half-day’s ride north of Leominster. But the column crawls—twill take a week and more to reach Hereford alone.”
“A week?” Her eyes widened.
“At least.”
When she remained silent, he asked, “What were you doing at the horses?”
She shook off her abstraction. “Admiring your stallion.”
“Gabriel?” He arched a brow. “Did he meet with your approval?”
“He’s a very fine beast.” She stepped around him; this time he let her, turning to pace beside her. “My father has a horse just like him.”
“Your father has his sire.”
Surprised, she looked up. “How did that come about?”
“Twas at the tournament held on your marriage. I challenged your father—after considerable encouragement from him. The stake was my late father’s stallion.”
“Oh.” A light glowed in her mind. “Is that why my father was so keen to have you fight this time? As a…a rematch of that last encounter?”
“Aye. Partly.”
From there, it was a very short step to, “And you suggested I stand as prize in place of a stallion?”
Frowning, he halted.
Eyes flashing, she swung to face him. “You equated me with a horse?” Her rising tones carried clearly through the night. Vibrating with fury, she planted herself in his path and opened her lips to flay him. “You—”
Her tirade was cut off by an attack so devastating it stole her breath. She hadn’t seen him move, had had no time to react. His hands had framed her face, fingers sliding under her plaits and holding her still so that his lips could settle on hers. And settle they had. Not with the punishing onslaught she’d instinctively braced against, but with a commanding persuasiveness that was far more potent.
Striving to retain her wits and her purpose, she clutched at his hands, intending to pry them from her face and break from him. Instead, when her palms made contact with the warmth of his large hands, her fingers stilled, then, slowly, gradually, her grip eased, her palms curving about the hair-dusted backs of his hands, before feathering down to his wrists.
Alaun was achingly aware of her gentle touch and the tentative acquiescence behind it. Desire soared; he held tight to the reins. When she softened against him, he released her face; instead of pulling away, she let her hands fall to his chest. He caught her wrists and urged her hands higher; she obliged, sliding them up and over his shoulders, her fingers spreading, shifting restlessly over the heavy muscles.
The feel of him beneath her hands held Eloise spellbound. He deepened the kiss, parting her lips boldly to confidently claim her mouth. She sighed and yielded, then the air about her stirred. He’d parted her cloak. His hands fastened about her waist and he drew her against him. Fitted her to him, molding her slender body to the hard length of his. A wave of longi
ng swept her. She shivered, then felt his cloak fall about her, cocooning her against his warmth.
And, all the while, his tongue laced fire over hers. He tasted her again and again, teasing her, tempting her with his heat until her lips clung to his and her fingers sank into his shoulders. A driving need consumed her—to feel more of his heat, to drink more of the fire he offered with every kiss, with every shared breath.
Her burgeoning desire urged Alaun on. He caressed her slender body, yet her gown shielded her too well from his touch. He shifted, slanting his head over hers. She had, once again, gifted him with her mouth. He probed deeply; she drew him deeper still. His own fires were burning steadily when his experienced fingers drew her laces free at her waist. Her chemise, tied with ribbons, was even easier dealt with. Slowly, he slipped his hand, palm flat, across the soft skin above her waist.
Eloise felt the caress keenly; the sensation of his hard hand on her skin sent slow rivers of liquid warmth sliding through her veins. Her senses hung on each movement of his fingers as he touched her, explored her. With his lips on hers and his hand on her body, she was beyond coherent thought.
Her skin felt like rose petals blessed by the sun, warm, soft, yet resilient—satin with the texture of fine velvet. Alaun wanted to touch all of her. His hand rose, slowly, deliberately, to brush the sensitive underside of her breast. He savored her response, the quiver that rippled through her, the leaping of her pulse as her body turned to his. The movement, anticipated, pressed her breast fully into his palm even as her tongue boldly tangled with his.
Caution had no foothold in Eloise’s mind as she stood, pressed and pressing against him. She didn’t draw back from his caresses, but reveled in the knowledge that he wanted her. The intoxicating taste of him, the feel of him, so hard, so strong, muscles locked and quivering with restraint, set her alight.
When he released her lips, her only thought was that she supposed she had to breathe. Then even that fragment of lucidity was lost as her senses flooded her mind, and delight and desire filled her. His lips grazed her temple; he drew back and looked down. Suppressing a shudder, she opened her eyes, and followed his gaze to where, in the shadows between them, her breast lay cupped in his palm. Her skin glowed ivory in the weak light; his tanned hand showed dark in contrast. Mesmerized, she watched his thumb gently circle her nipple; she felt it tighten, then throb. He caressed it tenderly, as if it was the most delicate bud in the world, and the most precious.
Her breath shuddered and caught; his fingers gently stroked. She sank against him. Eyes closing, she felt her body awaken, a bloom she’d thought withered and long dead slowly blossoming.
It took an enormous effort to open her eyes, to see his fingers so gentle on her flesh, to realize all that it meant.
She looked up. His attention was fixed on her breast, his concentration complete as he pleasured her, drawing whorls of fire beneath her skin. She could feel them spreading, swelling, as, patiently, with infinite tenderness, he coaxed her to full-flowering life.
It was his tenderness that held her. Her breath tangled in her throat; her heart ached with an impossible, indescribable yearning.
“No.” The word was weak, barely a whisper. But he heard; his hand stilled.
“Eloise?”
Disbelief, incredulous, utter, and complete, filled the word. His tone, deep, gravelly, and as achingly empty as she suddenly felt, almost shattered her resolve. She took a step back; his hands fell from her. Jerking the sides of her cote closed, she shook her head. “I can’t…”
What she couldn’t do was explain.
She looked up. Letting go of her cote, she reached up and drew his head to hers. She kissed him—deeply, passionately, with all the pent-up longing in her soul.
Then she whirled and fled.
He let her go; she had known he would. He would never use his strength to hold her—it was not that that would bind her if she stayed.
Dazed, stunned, unable to think, Alaun stood stock-still and watched, until his cousin’s tent swallowed her up.
*
When Alaun emerged from his tent in the soft light of dawn, the camp was already a-bustle. From his vantage point, he scanned the activity, then glanced at Roland’s pavilion. The flap had yet to be rolled up. He studied it, then grimaced and headed for the fire.
Half an hour later, his mind was drawn back to his prize. Her robin flitted past, eyes darting this way and that. She stopped to speak to Rovogatti, seated by the fire; the Genoese shook his head and put a question. The girl answered distractedly, then continued her search. A chill trickled down Alaun’s spine. Even as his mind registered the maid’s concern, he was starting toward her.
“Alaun!”
He swung about at Roland’s hail.
His cousin came pounding up. “Your bird has flown.”
“What?” The thundered question had all about them scurrying—to pack up their things and be elsewhere.
“I’ve just checked the horses—her mare’s not there. Neither’s her saddle.”
Alaun swore. “Fetch me her groom.” Men ran to obey. He lifted his head. The maid was standing staring, mouth agape. “You, girl! Come here!”
For an instant, he thought she would bolt. Then Rovogatti pushed her forward, whispering something in her ear. She halted yards away, trembling like a leaf. Alaun reined in his impatience. With his emotions riding him, fury the foremost, he was probably an intimidating sight.
The robin’s eyes, raised trepidatiously to his, told him there was no probably about it.
“When last did you see your mistress?”
“Last night. She sent me to bed.”
Eloise’s state when she’d run from him remained vivid in Alaun’s mind. “Has her bed been slept in?”
“Aye.” Swallowing her fear, the robin looked around. “I’m sure she’s here somewhere—she’s changed into the cote I put out for her, but her riding cloak’s still in the tent.”
He frowned, then recalled the touch of fur on the backs of his hands in the night. “Her pelisson?”
The robin’s eyes grew round; she glanced at Roland’s tent.
“Go and see.”
She flew across the camp, but Alaun felt sure the pelisson wouldn’t be there.
Two of his men-at-arms approached, escorting the lanky groom. At fourteen, the boy had much growing yet to do, his appearance not improved by unprepossessing features. Alaun waited as the lad was pushed before him; the boy tried to stand straight, but clearly expected to be clouted.
“Did you saddle your mistress’s horse this morn?”
“Aye, lord.”
“When?”
“Before dawn a little time.”
More than an hour ago. Alaun closed his eyes; beyond his control, his fists, on his hips, tightened ominously. Opening his eyes, he fixed them on the hapless groom. “Did it not seem odd that she should go riding alone at dawn?”
“Nay.” The boy blinked. “She often does.”
Roland, Rovogatti—even the two men-at-arms—simply stared. Alaun’s jaw nearly broke with the effort to hold back his roar. He glanced at Roland. “Mount a troop on the fastest horses. Well-armed.” Roland was off before he’d finished. Alaun turned back to the boy. “Which way did she head?”
“That way.” The lad pointed south.
Alaun nodded at one of the men-at-arms. “Get me the sergeant in charge of the south pickets.”
“Aye, lord.” The man set off at a run.
The robin came skidding to a halt a few yards away. Alaun glanced at her—she shook her head. It was on the tip of his tongue to forbid both maid and groom to obey any more of their mistress’s commands, yet she’d earned their loyalty. And the robin’s eyes were overflowing with worry; the same emotion showed in the boy’s pale face.
Alaun looked at the girl. “Pack your mistress’s belongings and ask where to stow them. As for you”—he turned to the groom—“tell my head-groom you’re to have one of the fastest horses. You’re com
ing with me.”
To see what danger your mistress has got herself into.
Alaun hoped his premonition would prove false; experience warned otherwise. The boy hurried off.
The troop was mounted by the time Alaun reached the lines. Pulling on his mail gloves, he swung up to Gabriel’s back; he paused only to check that his great broadsword rested in the saddle scabbard before wheeling the gray south. They’d gone only a few yards when the sergeant in charge of the south pickets lumbered up.
Alaun drew rein. “Did the lady I brought into camp yestereve pass by you this morn?”
“Aye, lord. Near on an hour ago.”
Presumably she was making for Versallet Castle. Surely she knew Henry would simply hold her, and hand her back when Alaun arrived? What did she hope to gain, beyond a taste of his temper? Deciding she must be overwrought, he grunted, then asked the sergeant, an experienced campaigner, “Did you not think of questioning her?”
“Aye, lord. Naturally. But…” The man squirmed. “Twas her eyes, if you take my meaning.”
Alaun set his jaw. “Aye.” His de Versallet witch could command a king with her eyes; dismissing a sergeant would have been child’s play. “Stand clear.”
Gabriel, sensing his impatience, surged. They’d cantered through half the camp, heading south, when a shout went up behind them.
Swearing furiously, Alaun reined in. “What now?”
The sergeant in charge of the north pickets came panting up. “Lord—the lady you brought in with you yestereve? She’s out a-riding the downs. Alone.”
Alaun stared. The downs. North?
As the realization that his prize had deliberately laid a false trail, that she was not fleeing in senseless panic but with her usual calm deliberation, seeped into his mind, Alaun clenched his teeth. His eyes narrowed. Lady-witch, when I catch up with you… He left the threat unfinished—it would take hours to enumerate the ways in which he was going to ease his temper.
At his terse command, the troop wheeled. Retracing their route, they left the encampment, taking the heading the sharp-eyed picket pointed out. Spurring Gabriel forward, Alaun coldly turned his mind to the one remaining mystery. Where was Eloise going?
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