Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  That she believed. With a snort of disgust, she resumed her pacing. Yet another move he had blocked before she’d had a chance to make it. Not, of course, that it mattered; she knew there was nothing for her there anymore. Her future, whatever it might be, lay north—with him. “What, then, is to be my fate an’ I do not agree to marry you?”

  He met her gaze, his own unwavering. “I accept tis your decision to agree to marry me. Until you make that decision, I will keep you by me, much as at present.”

  She stopped, stared. “You mean it’s my decision as long as I agree?”

  “There is no other reasonable decision. In time, you’ll see that that is so.”

  She narrowed her eyes. He sat there, rocklike, unshakeable leonine certainty in every lean line. “So time will mend all?”

  “Time, and trust.”

  “Trust?” She arched her brows.

  “Aye—tis what you lost in your first marriage. You had every right to expect that you could place your full trust in your husband. By treating you as he did, he destroyed it. Twill take time to grow again—tis why I have not mentioned the matter before this.”

  His strategies had gone to his head. She studied him for a long moment, then ventured, “You think I need to learn to trust you, and then I’ll agree?”

  “Aye.” He hesitated, then went on, “Trust is important in a marriage such as ours. Tis necessary that you place your trust in me to protect you and care for you—and that I place mine in you to bear and raise my children, and to unfailingly support my position, both when I am in residence and as regent in my absence. Without trust, such a partnership as our marriage must be cannot succeed. Tis the lack of it that has made you wary of marriage for so long—twill not return overnight.”

  His golden gaze sharpened; the implacability behind it had never been clearer. “And to my mind, twill only return if you are close by me, living the life you would live as my wife. Once you have learned to trust again, you will agree to call me husband.”

  He believed that. His conviction was there in his steady gaze, in the concerted determination that held him so still.

  Inwardly, Eloise shook her head, amazed. What did he think it took to lie beneath him every night, every morn, to surrender herself to him knowing that with one hand he could snap her neck, or with one blow crush her face? She had never feared him—she had trusted him from the first. As for the rest, he was preaching to the converted.

  And didn’t know it.

  Slowly, she drew in a deep breath; inwardly, she trembled, as if on the brink of some momentous step. Ever since Gloucester, she’d been considering Blanche’s advice, at first unconsciously, then very consciously. Somewhere in the confusion of today, she had made up her mind.

  He could resurrect her dreams—if she let him. He would be her husband, strong and protective by her side, and his castle would be hers to run. And, in time, he would give her the babes she craved.

  But there was one thing missing—one part of her dream she had never put into words nor crystallized in her thoughts. But she knew what it was. If she took the time he offered—the time he thought she needed to learn to trust him—she could use that time to try to gain what she sought.

  It was the ultimate security for ladies such as she. If there was any chance of winning that prize, she had to take it.

  Holding his gaze steadily, she narrowed her eyes. “If I remain in your care, how do you imagine we’ll continue?”

  Relief washed through Alaun with the force of a tidal wave. He rose, shrugged. “Tis no great matter to go on as we have been until you decide otherwise.”

  “Nay—what will your people think?”

  He opened his eyes at her. “As you’ve already discovered, they believe we are to wed.”

  “And when the wedding does not shortly take place?”

  “They’ll simply imagine, as will all of my knights, that there’s some legal impediment yet to be settled—perhaps something to do with the settlements themselves, given you’re a widow. There are any number of possible reasons for delay.” She was going to agree to go on—that was all that mattered. Time would see to the rest.

  Slowly, she nodded. “Be that as it may, I do not believe it wise for me to continue sharing your tent.”

  Relief fled. Hands rising to his hips, he closed the distance between them. “Lady, your concern for your reputation comes a little late.”

  Her dark eyes widened in spurious innocence. “How can you speak so of the lady you would wed, lord?”

  He swallowed a growl. “You were ready enough to put aside your reputation when you thought twas merely until we reached Claerwhen.”

  “Aye—twas to be an affair, nothing more.”

  “Yet you were a virtuous widow, as I recall.”

  Eloise blushed. She met his eyes; after a moment’s silent tussle, she lifted a shoulder. “So put another notch on your sword hilt.”

  “Lady—”

  “Nay, lord. I will concede that I should remain in your care and continue to your castle, there to become your chatelaine. But all else between us must cease.”

  “Nay—such behavior will cause talk. And, unlike you, I have been taking great care of your reputation. We have not stopped at any castles or manors where I could demand hospitality—none but my people know you are sharing my bed. However, they do know, and would think it very odd were you to cease doing so.”

  She grimaced and rapidly rejigged her plan. “Very well. I will continue to share your tent.”

  “And my bed.”

  She pressed her lips together, then reluctantly conceded, “And your bed. But there it must stop.”

  His eyes narrowed. His golden gaze boring into her, he stood over her, all but vibrating with frustration. Just when she was sure he was going to roar, his lips tightened and he nodded.

  “If that is your wish, so be it.”

  Graciously, somewhat warily, she inclined her head. Raising it, she saw the dust of the column rolling down the road.

  Montisfryn followed her gaze, then glanced at her. “Come. Tis time we rejoined the train.”

  They made camp a bare mile down the road. Consequently, when she again found herself alone with her prospective lord, she had had no time to reflect on their discussion, or to polish her plans.

  As soon as the flap dropped behind Bilder, Montisfryn rose and stretched. “Tis time to retire, lady.”

  She blinked, and slowly rose. “No chess?”

  “Nay—I am not in the mood.”

  He was already unlacing his cote. She glanced at the bed. Then she looked to the corner, to where his lance lay concealed in the shadows.

  “Don’t even think it.”

  The deep growl vibrated through her; startled, she glanced at him.

  He gritted his teeth. “The bed is wide. Rest assured I will not touch you.”

  Stiffly, she inclined her head, and glided to her side of the bed.

  That, however, was only the beginning of her troubles. Her cote laced at the back. After struggling for five minutes to no avail, she glanced over her shoulder—and saw him watching her, hands on his hips, stark naked. She swallowed. “Ah…can you help?”

  Without a word, he came toward her. She quickly faced forward, quite sure she didn’t need to see the expression in his eyes. Deftly, he undid her gown, then left her to slide out of it. Determined on her path, she kept on her chemise. Without raising her eyes, she slipped under the covers.

  He immediately snuffed the candle.

  She heard him cross to the other side of the bed, then the mattress bowed. She waited until he’d settled, then carefully turned on her side. With her back to him, her fingers clinging to the side of the pallet as if it were a cliff edge, she closed her eyes and searched for sleep.

  To her surprise, she found it.

  It was deep night when she awoke. Moonlight speared through the chinks about the tent flap, dispersing a weak, shimmery glow. Warm and secure, she let her heavy lids droop and resettl
ed her cheek on the resilient expanse of hair-dusted muscle beneath it.

  She froze.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes. The moonlight confirmed she was on Montisfryn’s side of the bed; her senses informed her that he was not touching her—she was touching him. She was sprawled across his chest, one hand tucked beneath his side, her hips angled over his, her legs tangled with his. Her chemise had ridden up to her waist. Smothering a groan, she carefully raised her head and peered at his face.

  He was awake, watching her; she saw the moonlight glint in his eyes. He made no move to touch her, yet the familiar warmth still flooded her, leaving her heated, but empty.

  Realization flooded her. In her brilliant plan to use his lust as a prod to make him woo her anew, she had overlooked one vital point. She wanted him—needed him—as much as he did her.

  A deep quiver shook her. A flush spread over the backs of her thighs and the globes of her bared bottom. Her skin prickled; pressed to his chest, her nipples tightened to painful crests.

  He lay immobile, apparently oblivious of her state. Clearly, if, after her insistence otherwise, she now wanted him, she would have to issue an invitation.

  She held his shrouded gaze, then, deliberately, lowered her head and, with the tip of her tongue, licked the nipple her fingers had found beneath the crisp mat of his hair. The flat disc tightened, hardened. Glancing up at his face, she spread her fingers over his chest, flexing the tips deep into the thick muscle. Beneath her, his body tensed. Curling her hands about his shoulders, she drew herself up, sinuous and slow, until she could frame his face with her hands. She looked down at him for a moment, then she set her lips to his.

  His body felt like iron beneath her soft curves, his staff a scalding, throbbing rod cradled between her thighs. He let her kiss him; her lips curved as she teased and taunted, feeling him quiver with the effort of holding back. His will was strong; slowly, she undulated her body against his and felt his lips firm against hers.

  Boldly, she angled her shoulders back and reached down. Her fingers found him, hot and hard. Gently, she stroked, her thumb caressing the broad velvet head while her fingers curled about the shaft, then, with her nails, she lightly scored his length.

  A deep, guttural groan vibrated through them both. His resistance broke. His hands came up to frame her face; his tongue thrust into her welcoming softness and he shifted, turning them to their sides.

  She continued to stroke him as his tongue stroked hers. Then he lifted his head and caught her hand, drawing it from him and raising it as he rolled her to her back. With a sigh, she sank into the pallet, reaching up to draw his head down, drawing his lips back to hers. His hands found her waist, then slipped around and beneath her hips, positioning her against him. They kissed long and deeply, tongues twining, inciting, as their bodies shifted, adjusted.

  Then he raised his head; his eyes on hers, with one slow, powerful thrust, he joined them.

  Her long sigh hung in the dark above them. He held still; she could feel the hardness of him buried inside her. “This doesn’t mean I’ve agreed.”

  “Nay.” His voice was dark, raspy. “You will tell me when you do.”

  Her lids fell as he moved within her, swiftly taking them to where they longed to be. As her fingers tightened, sinking deep into his arms, her lips curved.

  At last, she’d gained the initiative.

  She would tell him what he wanted to hear—after he had revealed what she needed to know.

  *

  Of necessity, their cavalcade had to pass through Hereford, entering by the south gate and exiting by the north. At Montisfryn’s side, Eloise crossed the bridge over the Wye and rode through the narrow streets, entering the cobbled cathedral square before the town’s burghesses had left their beds. The market, however, was already in full spate, the noise rolling down the Broad to where they drew rein by the cathedral steps.

  Montisfryn glanced at her. “I needs must call on the sheriff. Montisfryn is just over the border, so I keep in touch with Sir Neville. His house is by the eastern gate.”

  Eloise met his gaze. “I have met Sir Neville before. Perhaps twould be as well if I awaited you here. I would stop by the market, and spend some time in the chapel.”

  He frowned. “Lady—”

  “Nay, lord.” She arched a brow. She had little trouble guessing what was behind his frown. Hereford was, after all, where she had planned to leave him. “You will do better with the sheriff without me.”

  A moment passed, then his lips tightened. “Very well. But you will keep Rovogatti beside you, and you will take an escort.”

  A single gesture had eight men drawing up behind her.

  She resisted an impulse to appeal to the saints. With a serene, “As you wish, lord,” she nodded and wheeled Jacquenta up the Broad.

  Alaun watched the group wind its way up the street, then, reluctantly, headed for the eastern gate.

  The market was much as Eloise remembered it. She idly wandered the rows of stalls, pausing to chat to the old women selling herbs in the sun by the wall. She made a few purchases—some medicinal wine, honey, and a stoppered flagon of cider vinegar. Piling her purchases into Matt’s arms, she sent him with Jenni to deliver the goods to their wagon.

  As Eloise reemerged into the Broad, the bells of the cathedral pealed. She had Rovogatti lift her to her saddle, then, at the head of her party, she rode down the Broad; the pink sandstone cathedral squatted at the southern end.

  Leaving their horses with two of the men outside, Eloise led the way in. Gliding down the nave, she paused to genuflect to the altar before sweeping forward to the front pews reserved for the nobility. Rovogatti, unable to follow her, found a position halfway down the nave among the burghesses’ servants. The rest of her escort remained outside the door.

  The cathedral was crowded, as it always was on market day. The mass was short, tailored to the needs of the flock, most of whom had commitments at the market. The benediction said, the congregation rose to leave. Eloise rose, too, only to feel her sleeve twitched.

  Looking around, her eyes widened. “Father David—how good to see you again!”

  The white-haired priest, who had once held the cure of the ladies of Claerwhen, smiled serenely. “Indeed, lady. Long years have passed since last my old eyes beheld your face. How have you been keeping?” Gently, he drew her free of the bustle. Answering his questions, asking her own, Eloise strolled beside him into the vestry.

  *

  In the sheriff’s house hard by the eastern gate, Alaun shifted restlessly, trying to concentrate on Sir Neville Grayson’s words.

  “I spent last week doing the rounds so I could inform the king that we’ve no major band of outlaws presently about Hereford.” Sir Neville, a thin, ascetic personage with a long, pointy nose, pulled at his chin. “I can’t understand why he imagined there would be.”

  Alaun shrugged. “With Edward, one never knows. I take it he’s back?” He rose from his chair, setting down his goblet.

  “As to that, I cannot say.” Blinking, Sir Neville got to his feet. “But surely you’ll stay longer?”

  “Nay.” Alaun dropped a hand on Sir Neville’s shoulder. “I must not tarry. My train will soon be clear of the town.”

  Startled, Roland hurriedly swallowed the last of his wine.

  “Ah, well.” Sir Neville nodded. “Daresay I should get on to the barracks. Give my regards to Lady de Montisfryth.”

  Parting from the disappointed, but forever courteous knight, Alaun rode quickly back to the cathedral, Roland beside him.

  The first thing they saw when they entered the square was Rovogatti standing before the cathedral door, his hands on his hips, a look of utter bewilderment on his face. The Genoese looked up as they drew near. And paled.

  “Lord—she is gone.” Rovogatti started down the steps as Alaun swung out of his saddle.

  “How?” His face black as thunder, a fist closing about his heart, Alaun mounted the steps to meet the Genoese. “I le
ft her under your eye.”

  “Aye, lord. And she was there—at the front of the church. Then, when the crowds left, she was…not.” Rovogatti’s gesture suggested that Eloise had vanished into thin air.

  Alaun ground his teeth; a chill sank to his bones. Despite their talk, despite her words, the damned woman had run from him. He should have known better than to believe in her surrender, in her easy acquiescence.

  “Should we search the church, lord?” Rovogatti asked. “I know not what the priests will think.”

  “Nay—she knows the building of old. She will no longer be there.” Alaun paused, trying to marshal some coherency from his whirling thoughts. She had gone; she had left him—his mind wouldn’t focus on anything else. Blindly, he shook his head. “You!” he snarled at one of his men-at-arms. “To the west gate—I want it shut!”

  Roland, standing below him on the steps, blinked. “Ah—Alaun—”

  “And you.” Alaun singled out another man. “To the barracks—I want Sir Neville here at once!”

  “Alaun.” Roland’s tone had grown insistent.

  “The rest of you—pull a company each from the column. I want this town quartered, every stone turned. I want her found—and brought to me here.” His voice sounded savage, even to his own ears. His men glanced at him nervously, and backed down the steps.

  Roland tried again. “Alaun—”

  “And you.” Alaun’s gaze fell on Rovogatti. “Take a troop and head out on the road west, just in case she’s got clear of the gate.” He pointed a warning finger at the Genoese. “If you find her, bring her back! Don’t listen to any of her tales.”

  Rovogatti swallowed and nodded. “Aye, lord.”

  Alaun waited—but none of them left. “Well?” His temper spiraled. “What the devil’s the matter with you? I want that damned woman back here—”

  “By all the saints!” Roland stepped up and caught Alaun’s shoulders, shaking him—or trying to.

  Stunned, Alaun stared at him.

  Then he gathered his strength to throw Roland off—