Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  “And then?”

  The story fell from her, neither haltingly nor nervously; she responded to Montisfryn’s judgelike questions, recalling each moment clearly, vividly, yet, for all that, without emotion.

  “We left early the next morn for Cannar—Raoul saw to it that I had no private words with my mother.” She paused, deep in the past, then shrugged. “Truth to tell, I was too confused to know if I should speak—some would have considered me lucky.”

  “The journey to Cannar?”

  “My father sent an escort. Raoul kissed me, touched me—I had always to lie naked in his bed. He started teaching me how to touch him, but did not seek my direct assistance in gaining his release. That came later, after my father’s men left us at Cannar.”

  She paused; after a moment, Montisfryn prompted her. And so she told it all—the campaign her husband had devised and ruthlessly waged to break her will, to break her pride and turn her into a mindless, sniveling wretch who went in fear, day to day, hour by hour, of her sexual duties. Her marriage had not been the partnership she had been raised to expect, but a relationship of conquest and subjugation—total subjection and subjugation on her part, and a twisted kind of victory on his.

  “He didn’t like women, not of any station. To him, women were an enemy to be cowed, conquered, and degraded. Victory in that sphere was as important to him as victory on the field—he practiced the necessary skills religiously. Fear was his most potent weapon, and if that didn’t work, then there was always public humiliation, or the threat thereof.”

  She paused, then sighed. “And in my case, he had the added weapon of my own self-pride. He realized from the first that I took my vows seriously, so he ordered me to do whatever I would not do willingly.”

  Detached, unaffected by the horrors she recounted, she described all the skills and arts she’d been forced to learn. “The more degrading, demeaning, the more mentally hurtful, the better, but he was always careful to leave no marks, no physical evidence. He was cunning and clever—and perceptive. Outside our chamber, he always treated me with due courtesy, a mockery in itself. But he ensured there was nothing of which I could complain. And I could send no word to my mother—I could not send a messenger without his permission. To all outward appearances, he was a kind and generous lord—only I must always attend him in our chamber whenever he summoned me.”

  “Yet he did not bed you.”

  “Nay, that was to be his moment of ultimate victory—all else was designed to lead to that.” Distantly, she heard a savage oath, but her memories held her fast. “He made only one miscalculation—he forgot my monthly flux. It interrupted his program. But he was an experienced campaigner—he sought to turn even that delay to his advantage.”

  Her voice grew colder; her breasts rose more rapidly as she recalled the rest. “He was obsessed—I do not believe he was entirely sane, not when it came to me. He arranged to have a villein’s daughter brought to him—a girl my age who looked like me. He tied me to the bedpost—and tied her to the bed. He told me it was to be a lesson for me and I had to watch everything, and if I so much as turned my head away, he would consider the lesson aborted and repeat the exercise the next night, using the girl’s ten-year-old sister.”

  “He raped the girl.” For the first time in her recital, emotion shivered through her voice. Her eyes, wide, filled with tears; her gaze was fixed in the past. “First naturally, then…as men use boys. He was…merciless. She screamed and sobbed—eventually, she fainted. He didn’t stop, but used her until he had done.”

  She paused, swallowing to free her voice of her tears. “Later, he put her out of the door, then made me recount, in detail, all I had seen—he embellished the account, then, satisfied I would not forget, he released me and had me lie beside him. The very last thing he said, after he’d doused the candles, was ‘Tomorrow, twill be you.’”

  Seated, frozen, on the bed, Alaun closed his eyes. Muscles locked, he waged an inner battle to suppress the impotent rage that demanded he rend de Cannar limb from limb. Breathing deeply, he opened his eyes. “The next night?” His mouth was dry; his fists, clenched tight, ached.

  To his surprise, a ghost of a smile touched Eloise’s lips. “He wasn’t there. Warwick called him to assist with some outlaws. He went, but warned me he would return immediately the battle was over, with the battle lust raging through him.”

  “And?”

  “He and his men dispatched the outlaws efficiently. Raoul was so focused on my conquest—on his ultimate victory—that he left the battleground immediately to return and complete his campaign. The castle wasn’t far—he didn’t wait to disarm. A summer storm swept in, and he was hit by lightning.”

  “He died?”

  “Aye. His squire, the only one riding with him, brought the news late that night. I was waiting, watching, expecting Raoul—I was the only one in the keep awake. As luck would have it, I saw the squire ride in—I reached him before he told anyone. He hadn’t been able to lift Raoul’s body, so all the guards on the walls saw was the squire returning, apparently with a message for me. I realized immediately in what danger I stood. My father had explained the marriage settlements—if Raoul died, I would be paid half the profits of all the de Cannar estates every year. His family would never have stood for it—at the very least, I would never have left Cannar keep alive, and, of course, I knew I wasn’t with child. So I gave the squire a sleeping draft, and fled.”

  “For Versallet Castle?”

  “Nay.” Her voice was regaining its normal tone. “I left Cannar Castle swearing that no other would ever take Raoul’s place—the last place I would go was home. Twas my father arranged the alliance with the de Cannars—as a wealthy young widow, I would be naught but a pawn to be traded in marriage again. Nay—I wasn’t so foolish, even then. And my month with Raoul had given me opportunity and incentive enough to dwell long on the rights of women. I knew well that, as a widow, I was free—freer than I could otherwise be. So I went to Claerwhen.”

  “Your convent?”

  She nodded.

  “You reached there safely?”

  “Aye. The saints watched over me.”

  Rendering heartfelt thanks to the Holy Virgin, Alaun bent and lifted the basin from the ground. His muscles were stiff. Rising slowly, he carried the basin across the tent. While she’d recounted the horrors of her marriage, he’d washed the last traces of her virginity from her; she hadn’t noticed, so deeply sunk in the past had she been.

  Moving like one aged, he set the basin on his chest. Then he gripped the edge and, head bowed, breathed deeply. He felt stunned, disoriented, his gut knotted as if he’d just survived a battle in which his side, though victorious, had paid a heavy toll. Emotions warred within him, many unfamiliar. Rage was there, impotent and ineffective; the pain was hard to define. As for his pity—he had no outlet for it; the woman in his bed would not welcome it. And it was not her at whom it was directed, but a thin, prideful girl of fifteen. She was no longer that girl.

  She’d spent a month married to a fiend. De Cannar had done everything possible to ensure her degradation, to make her fear and loathe her sexual nature.

  But tonight, she’d given herself to Alaun.

  The memory glowed bright; he clung to it.

  It was some minutes before, blinking up at the silk above her, Eloise realized the questions had ceased. She returned to the world; a sense of relief washed through her, as if speaking had released her from some invisible restraint. She’d never spoken of it before, not to any living soul, not even in the confessional; she’d buried the memories deep, and had never let them out.

  Now that she had…while time had not made those memories less awful, it had, she discovered, made them less relevant. She was not her younger self; she had come a long way since then.

  Drawing a deep breath, she lowered her gaze—and discovered her skirts modestly drawn down to her ankles.

  She squinted across the tent. Montisfryn was washing his hands. His
expression was grim. Her recollection of exactly what she had told him was already hazing, but, experienced knight that he was, she doubted her tale would have shaken him. How he now viewed her, however, was beyond her ability to guess. Calmly curious, she watched as he returned to the bed.

  His face was an uninformative mask. He bent and took her hands, drawing her to her feet. She acquiesced, wondering what came next. Without meeting her eyes, he reached for her laces.

  Stunned, she watched his hands busily undoing what he’d earlier done up. “What are you doing?”

  He met her eyes briefly. “Your clothes are damp. Tis past time we retired.”

  She blinked. Then she clutched the gaping sides of her bodice and stepped back. “Nay! I’ll not stay here.”

  With one tug, he wrenched the laces from her gown; eyes of dulled gold captured hers. “Lady—of one thing in this world you may be sure. That”—one finger jabbed at his bed—“is henceforth your couch. And I will be sharing it with you.”

  Faced with those eyes and what she could see behind them, Eloise realized she’d misjudged him again. Her story had seriously troubled him. She hesitated. After the riverbank, it could hardly hurt to share his bed. And the idea that he wanted her there, that her presence would comfort him, held a seduction all its own. “Very well. I can sleep in my chemise.”

  “Nay. Tis too damp.”

  He was already helping her from her cote.

  Straightening as her skirts, helped by his large hands, slid to the grass, she planted her hands on her hips and fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. “I will not lie naked in your bed.”

  He met her gaze, eyes narrowing, his jaw clenching as he wisely held back the words she could imagine forming in his mind. Just because she’d stood naked before him on the riverbank, he had better not imagine she was about to make a habit of it.

  Alaun’s thoughts were, indeed, of that incident, and others that had suddenly been explained. Her peculiar wantonness, the actions that had convinced him he was dealing with an experienced woman rather than the virgin she had so amazingly proved to be, were now revealed for what they were. De Cannar’s legacies.

  He drew a deep breath. Her defiant gaze didn’t waver. With a low growl, he swung around and stalked across the room. Throwing back the lid of his chest, he rummaged, then marched back, a shirt clenched in one fist. “You may wear this.”

  Recognizing a most grudgingly granted boon when she saw one, Eloise took the proffered garment. Then she held it before her and calmly looked at him.

  He returned her stare, his expression growing more goaded with every second. Then, with a disgusted sound midway between a growl and a grunt, he swung on his heel. “Quickly, lady. I want my bed this night.”

  She grinned. Stripping off the clinging chemise, she struggled into the shirt. As fine as her chemise but more than twice as large, it enveloped her in voluminous folds; the hems brushed her knees. Satisfied, she climbed beneath the furs. “I am done, lord.”

  He glanced back, as if to check that she was, indeed, in his bed, then strode across the tent.

  Alaun hurriedly undressed, doffing houppelande, hose, and shirt. With one hand on his braies, he glanced at the bed. She was lying straight under the covers, eyes on the roof, like a sainted effigy. But if she looked down…

  He pinched out the candle, plunging the tent into darkness. Quickly, he stripped, then, eyes adjusted to the dark, crossed to the bed. Time enough for her to see what she was accommodating after she’d grown more accustomed to doing so.

  The bed bowed as he slid in beside her; she clutched the side to stop herself from rolling into him. He settled; the tilting eased. Exhaling softly, she eased her grip; when no further upheaval ensued, she relaxed.

  He lay beside her, hands clasped on his chest, and tried to do the same. To no avail; the turmoil inside was too great. He tried to think through the anger, the frustration, but the more he battled his emotions, the more they writhed, snarling his thoughts. He gritted his teeth. The scent of rosemary drifted hauntingly past. He sniffed, and detected lavender, too. From her drying hair.

  A soft huff focused his attention, and hauled him back from the abyss.

  She was there, beside him. On the riverbank, she’d welcomed him into her arms, had accepted him as her lover. Her past was past; her future lay with him.

  Slowly, he exhaled. His tension drained; he sank more deeply into the pallet. Shutting his eyes, he sought his rest.

  Only then did he notice his bed-partner was having difficulty finding hers. She tossed fretfully. He lay silent, listening to her twist and turn.

  The penny dropped.

  Mentally cursing, he excused himself on the score that it had been years since he’d left a woman wanting.

  She was facing him; he eased onto his side. With neither fillet nor crespine, her thick braids hung down, one on each shoulder. Her eyes were open; he didn’t need to see to know they were filled with suspicion. Moving with his habitual deliberation, he lifted one hand and cupped her cheek; drawing closer, he set his lips to hers.

  He kissed her until she was breathless, soft and pliant against him. When he raised his head, her eyes, lustrous in the dark, blinked up at him.

  “A thousand pardons, lady-witch. Lie back and I’ll bring you release.”

  She frowned. He saw her puzzled look—a sudden premonition seized him.

  “What mean you, lord? What release do I need?”

  He closed his eyes. What more trials had the night in store for him? Opening his eyes, he said, “You are still wanting, lady.”

  Her frown deepened; she opened her mouth—

  “On the riverbank, before I took you, I touched you here.” He trailed his fingers between her thighs, brushing her curls through the fabric of his shirt. “You were hot and wet.”

  “Aye. “ Eloise struggled to subdue the shivery sensations evoked by his touch. “Twas strange.”

  “Nay—tis not strange. Tis what happens when you are aroused, when your body is ready to mate. The dampness is needed to ease your flesh against a man’s passage.”

  “Oh.” Eloise wished he would touch her again. “But what has that to do with this release that I want?”

  “We were both aroused on the riverbank. I gained my release, but you did not.”

  For a long moment, she simply stared at him. “Nay. Tis not possible.”

  He frowned sternly. “Do you not still feel a certain tenseness, lady?”

  She knew she did; it had been there since they’d first kissed on the riverbank. “Aye. But twill ease soon.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Nay—twill be gone shortly.” She was suddenly quite certain she didn’t need to know more about release. The thought of completely surrendering herself to passion, as he had when he’d lost himself in her, the memory of how vulnerable he’d been when he’d collapsed in her arms, convinced her that release was an experience she was not yet ready for. “Lie back and sleep, lord. Do not concern yourself—I will not disturb you more.”

  With an exasperated growl, Alaun dropped back to the pillows. She was the one needing release—why, then, did he feel so frustrated?

  The fact that he hadn’t pleasured her sat like a blot on his record. Furthermore, he didn’t approve of having his expertise so lightly declined. Grappling with her problem, he stared at the roof. After a moment, he sighed. “So you’ll let the bastard win after all?”

  She glanced at him. “To which bastard do you refer, lord?”

  “Your late husband, of course. How many other bastards have there been in your life?”

  “One was quite enough.” She frowned. “But what mean you, ‘win’?”

  He didn’t have to fabricate his disapproval. “It suited de Cannar’s purpose that you shouldn’t learn of a woman’s pleasure. Twould not have aided his campaign had you done so—he sought to frighten you from the subject. While you remained but half a woman, you were no match for him.”

  Half a woman? Eloise had
a sneaking suspicion this was one of those times she would do well not to underestimate Montisfryn. Nevertheless… “This release you speak of—will you need to come inside me to give it me?”

  Half a minute passed before he answered. “Nay, lady.” He shifted, coming up on one elbow beside her. “My hands, lips, and tongue are more than adequate to the task.”

  She wasn’t sure whether she was thankful or disappointed. He’d hurt her before, but she’d heard tell it would not be so again. Indeed, the sensations she’d felt later enticed, yet perhaps she shouldn’t tempt fate and suggest he try that way again. “Show me.”

  He needed no further urging—he framed her face and kissed her, long and deep. She responded ardently; before long their fires were well-lit and burning brightly. Only then did he draw her into his arms, lying back and urging her atop him.

  Eagerly, she accepted the invitation to explore. She spread her hands wide, tracing the contours that had always fascinated her. Her fingers twined in the springy gold hairs; she discovered a flat nipple hidden beneath them. Boldly, she caressed it, delighted when it hardened to a button and he shifted restlessly beneath her.

  His movement drew her attention to other tactile possibilities. As he drew her lips back to his, she undulated against him, letting her legs tangle with his, her satin-soft skin teasingly abraded by his hair-roughened limbs. His tongue surged against hers, passionate, yet controlled. She responded with a slow, snakelike wriggle, rubbing her breasts against his chest, shifting her hips against his. She felt rather than heard his low groan. Then one hand left her face to sweep down her back, boldly slipping beneath the hem of her improvised nightrail. His warm palm slowly caressed the backs of her thighs, before rising to bestow the same attention on the globes of her bottom and, finally, the smooth planes of her back.

  Warmth flooded her. She sighed her approval.

  Alaun heard. He continued to kiss her, repeating his gently arousing caresses, slowly progressing to greater intimacy, relentlessly stoking her fire. Only when she was thoroughly and mindlessly heated did he turn her on her side.

  Again, his hand sought the hem of the shirt, this time in front. Her thighs were warm silk, sleek muscles quivering. He let his fingers play in the crisp curls at their apex, and listened to her breathing fragment before lazily trailing his fingers upward. By the time he reached her breasts, her fingers were flexing on his shoulders.