Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  “Sir Cedric. I am glad to see you, sir.”

  At the tortured, peculiarly strangled tones, Eloise blinked her eyes wide. She’d heard that voice before. She strained to look out, keen to set eyes on its mysterious owner.

  “And I you.”

  The second voice, deep and heavy, came from directly below the window. The ground outside was several feet lower than the chapel floor; Eloise could see nothing beyond a feather, which she assumed was in one of the men’s hats.

  “We must settle this matter, my dear sir. A quick agreement would serve us both best.”

  The strangled voice again. Eloise was certain it belonged to an older man, one nearer her father’s generation.

  Her supposition was proved correct as, to her curiosity’s satisfaction, the men moved away from the wall. They continued their discussion while strolling the paths between the graves. Their voices grew indistinct, then inaudible, yet she heard enough to identify the owner of the strangled voice as the older of the pair, a man of medium height and build, slightly stooped, clearly a gentleman although his station could not be discerned from his clothes—a long garnache reaching to his feet and a soft, folded cap. From his stoop, she decided he was either scholar or clerk. His clothes were of good quality, but held no touches of richness; the lappets of the garnache were, she judged, squinting against the glare, of rabbit fur, not the more costly vair or ermine.

  The man was definitely not one of the knights or nobles who had attended her father’s tournament. What, then, had he been doing at Versallet Castle? Frowning, she decided he must have been acting as a courier on church or king’s business, and thus had been of insufficient station to warrant the personal attention of her family. Sir John would not have seen any need to bother her about one such.

  Satisfied with that explanation of the man’s presence, both at Versallet Castle and, no doubt, here, she turned her gaze on his companion.

  Sir Cedric was definitely a warrior-knight, not as tall or as broad-shouldered as Montisfryn, or even William, yet a heavy, deep-chested ox of a man. His face, under a soft cap sporting a pheasant’s feather, was heavy-jowled, dark-browed, and showed no hint it had softened in years. A deep-voiced, dark-tempered ogre of a knight. Eloise wrinkled her nose and turned away.

  To see Montisfryn coming down the vestry steps, his eyes on her. Without conscious thought, she flashed him her most brilliant smile.

  As he came to join her, she drew on her gloves and turned toward the door. “If it please you, lord, I would go to the market now. Tis only till noon, they say.”

  “Aye.” As they strolled to the door, Alaun glanced at her, wondering, as he had all morning, what she had thought of last night. “I will escort you, lady.”

  Looking up at him, she opened her eyes wide. “But you’re needed at the bridge, are you not, lord? I would not disrupt your affairs.”

  He struggled not to smile. “Lady, one day your tongue will be your downfall.”

  She laughed, a light, carefree sound he realized he had not heard before. “Nay, lord, say you so? I have ever heard that a lady needs sharp wits to claim her due.”

  As they emerged into the bright sunshine, he grunted. “I have no argument with your wits, lady. Tis your knife-edged tongue I would see sheathed.”

  The odd little smile she shot him, a mixture of feminine triumph and comprehension calculated to bring a saint undone, sent a possessive surge through him. Naturally, it terminated in his groin.

  Stifling a curse, he forced himself to pace by her side, rather than a half-step behind from where her gently rounded hips, swaying provocatively under her tight cote, were all too distractingly evident.

  The market sprawled over a square in the shadow of the cathedral. Vendors of every description displayed their wares in booths or on the cobbles. Eloise wandered between the stalls, making purchases from various old dames offering herbs and potions. Alaun remained beside her. At his signal, two of his men-at-arms moved ahead, clearing their path. Behind came Rovogatti and Jenni, followed in turn by two more men-at-arms.

  Alaun anticipated no danger; his brief visit to the sheriff had revealed no undesirable elements in the town. Nevertheless, he kept a close watch on his prize; she was too precious to contemplate losing.

  Finding a soft parcel wrapped in hessian and tied with string pushed into his arms, he blinked. “What’s this?”

  “A cloth for your table, lord.” Her purchases apparently complete, she headed toward the stables. From under her lashes, she cast him a quick glance. “Tis uncivilized to eat off bare board.”

  His gut clenched. He glanced at her, but could make nothing of her serene expression. He hesitated, then said, “Twould have got in the way last night.”

  Head high, her gaze fixed forward, she shook her head. “Nay. I will have Jenni remove it with our plates.”

  For a very long moment, he couldn’t breathe. Then, as the constriction that had gripped his chest eased, he drew in a deep breath. The stables lay just ahead. “Lady.” His voice was gravelly. He moved closer so his words fell by her ear. “Tis going to be a very long day. The inn yonder has comfortable chambers—perhaps we should fantasize awhile before heading on?”

  Eloise let her smile deepen. With no hint of coyness, she met his eyes. Sparks flared in the golden depths. Had they been flames she might have yielded, but sparks could be quenched—temporarily.

  “Nay, lord.” She looked ahead to where the ostlers were scurrying. “Your train awaits and we should not dally.” She glanced at him from beneath her lashes, a slow smile curving her lips. “Perhaps later?”

  Later. By later, he was going to be…

  With a poorly stifled groan, Alaun followed her into the stables.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next day found Eloise in pensive mood. The incident of the baptisms had raised a warren of hares in her mind.

  Dropping back along the train, she joined Sir Eward. After thanking him for his efforts of the day before, she asked, “Tis a large host returning to the castle for winter—what think you will be the state of the castle stores?”

  Sir Eward looked grave. “I live not at the castle, lady—my manor lies to the west. Tis Sir Edmund, the lord’s steward, who has that matter in hand. Edmund does his best, but tis not the same when there’s no chatelaine to oversee the stocks. In days not long hence, the castle could supply both stronghold and town, and yet have enough left to carry the near holdings at need, but ever since the lady’s illness took her from us, tas never been so.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I doubt not we’ll find the storehouses half-empty, or worse. Twill be a priority to get them filled, what with winter ahead and all of us back.” He glanced at her and smiled. “Tis many thanks you’ll be getting, lady, for coming to the castle’s relief.”

  Eloise met his look blankly, then colored and inclined her head. Forcing a half-smile, she dropped back.

  Only to notice the rough weave of the material in the hands of a woman toward the back of the train. The woman was stitching a rent in a man’s cote, timing her needle to the wagon’s roll. Eloise drew nearer, leaning from her saddle to examine the slubs that marred the weave.

  The woman glanced up, then shyly smiled—a smile that turned to a grimace as she looked back at her work. “Aye, lady—tis doubtless not the quality you’re used to seeing.”

  Eloise frowned. “Tis from the castle looms?”

  “From three years back. They needed repair then—I like not to think what state they’ll be in now. But as you can see, tis the spinners need more instruction than us weavers—tis not possible to make fine out of coarse. Not that it’s their fault neither—ever since the poor lady’s affliction came on her, there’s been none to set standards.”

  “But surely there are other ladies—at least girls in training—to oversee such work?”

  The woman shook her head. “Nay—she sent all away. She’s rarely from her bed, and never out of her rooms—seems she felt twas unfair to k
eep them when she couldn’t instruct them. Now there’s only her lady-companion, and she, poor soul, has enough to do just to keep the lady’s spirits up.

  “There!” The woman shook out the cote and folded it, then she flashed a smile at Eloise. “But that’s all in the past, praise be, now that you’re coming to be chatelaine. You’ll find us willing to work, lady, and right grateful to have you to guide us.”

  Eloise smiled weakly.

  The last straw was provided by Old Meg.

  When Eloise drew in beside her wagon to check on their patients, Meg greeted her with a grin. After assuring her Jill and the babe were thriving, the old woman chuckled. “Heh, lady-mine, you’ll be an asset to his household, no doubt of that. We’ve been a-wondering these a-many years how much longer he’d leave it, and who he’d pick for the job. But, as usual, he’s done right well for himself, even if, as they tell it, twas unexpected.”

  Hazel eyes glittered cheekily, then Meg sobered. “Aye, and there’s no doubt but what the castle’s going to need a strong woman at the helm once this lot gets back.” She indicated the troops with her chin. “And you’re a healer, too—those we had are gone, now. Taint no one knows rightly of herbs and such. Tis not wise, with all the children and winter coming on. I did my best the last winter we was there—the saints only know how they fared while we’ve been gone. Winter’s a bad time, for the snows come in hard, and there’ll be no stocks or specifics laid up.” Meg turned, her old eyes steady and serious as she met Eloise’s gaze. “Praise be to the saints you’ll be with us this time.”

  Eloise looked ahead. She drew in a long breath, then slowly let it out—and forced her lips to curve reassuringly.

  For what remained of that day, and all of the next, she rode in relative privacy parallel to the train, just within the line of outriders.

  And wrestled with her dilemma.

  Then, on the morning of the day that would see them to Hereford, her increasingly tangled arguments were shattered—scattered—by a startling revelation from a most unexpected source.

  She was sitting on the stool in Montisfryn’s pavilion, alone except for Jenni, who was industriously brushing Eloise’s hair. There were tangles aplenty to be coaxed from the long strands; Montisfryn had insisted it be out again the previous night. Resisting the tug of her distracting memories, Eloise was treading the mill of her thoughts to the steady rhythm of Jenni’s prattle, when Jenni’s words jarred her to full attention.

  “Him and me”—Jenni was speaking, as ever, of Rovogatti—“have decided we’ll wed, lady. Tis better so, be there any children. I was hoping to ask the priests at Hereford, but Guilio said as how’d be best—more proper, if you take my meaning, him being in the lord’s service an’ me being in yours—to wait till after your wedding, lady. So that’s what we’ll do.”

  Only by the exercise of considerable restraint did Eloise remain seated. After a long moment, she asked, “How did you hear of it—our wedding? Nothing has been said.” Her voice sounded odd to her ears.

  “Nay, lady, but you know how tis. All the lord’s people know he’s under edict from the king to marry as soon as maybe, and tis plain as the smile on his face who he’s chosen.”

  Recalling precisely what had caused that smile—this morn and the past seven—Eloise clenched her hands in her lap. But a royal edict? She forced herself to remain seated, outwardly calm, while Jenni braided her hair.

  “They say we’ll be hard by Hereford tonight.”

  “Aye.” As soon as Jenni had settled her fillet in place and tucked her braids under the crespines, Eloise stood. She shook out her green skirts and nodded to Jenni. “Hurry and pack.”

  When her mistress walked out of the tent without another word, Jenni blinked. Then she snatched up gloves, quirt, and cloak and hurried after her.

  Throughout the morning, Eloise rode back in the column, alongside the men-at-arms. And tried to think. In vain. If before her thoughts had been tangled, they were now inextricably knotted. They went round and around with no apparent beginning, much less an end. Again and again, one observation resurfaced: Montisfryn played chess—very well. Just how well she had discovered over the last two evenings.

  On spying a chess board tucked in his armor chest, she had challenged him to a match, confident of at least holding her own. Up until then, she’d considered herself an adept.

  He’d trounced her. With an ease that bespoke a mind not only trained to strategy and tactics, but immersed in those disciplines. What disturbed her most was the recollection of how often he had maneuvered to block a move she hadn’t thought of making until two turns later.

  In the early afternoon, she discarded all attempt at rational analysis and decided to beard the lion direct. He had, to her considerable relief, been absorbed with his lieutenants all morning, and through the brief midday halt; she’d felt his glance more than once, but he hadn’t questioned her wish for solitude. Riding forward, she came up alongside him.

  He turned immediately, his golden eyes unreadable, one tawny brow rising.

  “I would a moment of your time, lord.” She met his gaze, then regally conceded, “When you are free.”

  He nodded. “In a moment, lady.” He turned back to his lieutenants.

  Harnessing her impatience, Eloise held Jacquenta to a walk beside his gray. Her temper was unstable, stirred by her speculations; her temples ached.

  Fifteen minutes later, Montisfryn dismissed his lieutenants and turned to her. “You have my ear, lady.”

  “There is a matter I wish to discuss in private, lord.”

  Alaun eyed her set face. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  His expression impassive, he scanned their surroundings. “There’s an old orchard a league or so ahead. We could ride on and speak there.”

  With a curt nod, she assented and loosened her reins. Leaving Roland in charge, Alaun quickly overhauled her, settling to a steady canter beside her. The train was soon left behind; ten minutes later, a splash of brighter green to their left marked the orchard.

  It was cool and peaceful under the gnarled branches. The harvest had been gathered in; only a few late fruit remained. Lifted down from her saddle, Eloise paced to where an old drystone wall marked the boundary of the holding. Montisfryn tethered their mounts, then followed. Her arms tightly folded beneath her breasts, she glanced sharply at him as he sat on the wall close by. Seated thus, his eyes were level with hers; to her irritation, she could read nothing in the golden depths.

  “You told me, lord, that I was to be your chatelaine. Now I have heard that you are under royal edict to marry. Might I inquire who you have chosen to be your bride?”

  The question hung in the stillness beneath the trees. In the distance, robins chattered; the breeze ruffled the thickly growing canopies and rippled through the long meadow grasses. Montisfryn blinked, then refocused on her face. “Nay, Eloise—let us not fence. You know the answer to that.”

  He held her gaze steadily; she looked long into his golden eyes. Her emotions surged; their intensity shook her.

  Abruptly, she swung away. “And just when did you decide I was to be your wife?”

  Frowning, Alaun studied her rigid back and the defiant set of her head. “On that first night at the banquet.”

  She turned her head to stare at him. “Before or after the wager?”

  “Before.”

  For an instant, incredulity held her still. Then she kicked her skirts about and, arms crossed, faced him. “Why?”

  He frowned harder. “That much should be obvious.” He shifted on the stone, then, when she continued to wait, grudgingly offered, “You are suitable in every way—your birth, your family’s standing, your fortune as your dowry. You’re an experienced chatelaine of whose skill I am in dire need. And your mother bore your father four strong sons—tis likely you’ll have no difficulty providing me with heirs.”

  Eloise humphed. She wasn’t sure what answer she’d hoped for, but that certainly wasn’t it. She narrowe
d her eyes. “What exactly was the wager you agreed to?”

  “Nay—the wager was as you were told. The understanding I had with your father was that once you were in my care, I would use every endeavor to win your agreement to our marriage.”

  Every endeavor. Like seduction. Like gentle tenderness. Like warm strength in the dark of the night. Her breath threatened to choke her; she swung around and started to pace. “So! You both set about organizing my life—and assumed I’d meekly agree?”

  “Meekly, lady, is not a word either of us made the mistake of associating with you.” Alaun watched as she paced back and forth, her agitation, despite her control, very clear. Inwardly, he sighed. “Nay, Eloise—neither your father nor I ever imagined the decision would be other than yours.”

  “You deliberately deceived me.”

  He set his teeth. “Twas clear from the first you had no liking for the idea of another husband.”

  She shot him a glance. “You now know my reasons.”

  “Aye, but then twas our belief you needed time to grow accustomed to the idea. That with time your resistance would decrease. Mentioning our intention would only have served to set you against it needlessly, before you had a chance to…consider the benefits of such a union.”

  Tracking her, he frowned. “We both had reason to believe you would not be entirely averse to such an outcome.”

  Eloise made no attempt to argue the point. “And if I refuse to accept you, what then?” She met his gaze. “Will you pressure me to agree?”

  Irritation flashed in the gold. “Nay, there will be no coercion. I want no unwilling bride.”

  “Good! Then I will trouble you to return me to my convent.” Not for a moment did she imagine he would agree.

  “Nay, Eloise—your future lies not at Claerwhen.”

  The name stopped her in her tracks. She lifted her head, then whirled to confront him. “You knew?”

  He smiled grimly. “Your father mentioned it. I know of it by repute, and I know it lies close by Hereford.” He held her gaze. “You would not have escaped me, lady.”