Desire's Prize

by M. S. Laurens (Stephanie Laurens)

  The afternoon brought the first truly chill winds, driving puffy gray clouds across the sky. She retired to the stillroom, secure in the bowels of the keep and blissfully draft-free. There, she found Roseanne carefully measuring leaves into a mortar.

  “Tis the ointment for wounds, lady,” Roseanne said, as Eloise made her way to the bench.

  “Ah, yes. Be sure you grind the amaranthus flowers well. They do not work efficiently otherwise.”

  “Tis a puzzle to me, lady.” Roseanne stopped to brush back her tousled curls. “You call this amaranthus, yet am I sure tis the flower of lovelies-bleeding.”

  “Aye, tis confusing sometimes.” Eloise reached for a bottle of herbs left to slowly infuse into oil. “There are many names for the most useful herbs. I call amaranthus so because I learned my lore in a convent where Latin was much used, but tis the same thing, call it what you will.”

  Roseanne attacked the leaves with vigor. “If tis all the same to you, lady, I would use the simple names. Aside from all else, twill remind me for what the herb is used.”

  “Tis not a bad idea.” Eloise peeked into the mortar. “While you finish that, I will strain the extracts, and then we’ll go through my box.”

  A companionable silence descended as they worked side-by-side. Small lamps were set high on the walls; they burned a fine oil which gave off little smoke to foul the hanging herbs. With leaden skies outside, the lamps were all lit; flickering light played over the scene. The soothing aromas of lavender and rosemary permeated the air, wormwood, rue, and other aromatics reaching scented fingers through the dominant tones.

  When their chores were completed, Eloise lifted her camphorwood box down to the bench and opened it. Roseanne pulled up a stool and sat.

  Eloise had brought her herb-box to the stillroom because she was no longer sure it was wise to leave it largely untended in their chamber. At first, she had thought the changes in the furnishings were no more than mistaken memory, but then the chess pieces were no longer in checkmate as she and Alaun had left them. She had noted the position on the night after he had left, when she’d retired alone to their room; last night, the pieces had been moved. And her herb-box had no longer been square on the shelf, as she had left it.

  Bilder and the maids were always most careful when handling anything in that room, but the chamber lay empty for much of the day.

  Her conclusions had sent a shiver down her spine. She’d resolved to remove her herb-box—it contained potent and therefore dangerous remedies—to the stillroom, where the contents could be dispersed among the range of less powerful simples.

  “These are the medicaments I carry when traveling, each for a good reason.” Unpacking the box, she named each packet of leaves, flowers, or bark, and described its use.

  She had finished with the packets and had just started on the ointments when Elspeth wandered in.

  Despite a wish not to react, Eloise stiffened. Turning, Roseanne frowned intimidatingly.

  “Pay no heed to me.” Elspeth waved an airy hand. “I just thought to inspect this area today.”

  Roseanne bridled; Eloise glanced at her warningly, then, her calm mask in place, resumed her recitation of the manifold uses of agrimony paste.

  Despite her occupation, Eloise remained supremely conscious of Elspeth as the younger woman ambled about the room, blankly staring up at the drying herbs, then examining the bottles on the shelves.

  Inwardly, Eloise grimaced; the sense of unease Elspeth always invoked in her was deepening by the minute.

  Elspeth edged nearer, then nearer, overt interest gradually claiming her.

  Eloise broke off and fixed her with a frosty glance. “Is there something you need, mistress? A dose of something, perhaps?”

  Elspeth blinked, her pale eyes unreadable. “Nay.” To Eloise’s disquiet, the girl licked her lips. “But I would listen to your discourse. Tis quite fascinating, I vow.”

  Roseanne made a rude noise.

  Much as she agreed with Roseanne, Eloise felt compelled to encourage the first sign she had seen that Elspeth had any interest whatever in remedying the deficiencies of her upbringing. “Very well, but please sit.” She pushed forward the other stool. “You distract me when you wander so.”

  True, yet Eloise was honest enough to acknowledge her ulterior motive. Elspeth was rarely still, fidgeting and flitting about constantly; with luck, she would find the constraint of a stool too fatiguing, and flit somewhere else.

  But Elspeth surprised her, sitting preternaturally still, even stiller than Roseanne, as Eloise continued her lecture. Elspeth’s pale blue gaze remained vacant, yet oddly intent, as if hearing of diseases and cures enthralled her. By the time Eloise had described all her ointments and started to lift out the vials of syrups and oils, she was resigned to Elspeth’s presence.

  “This is syrup of wild poppies.” Eloise held up three tiny vials of golden liquid. “Twill bring on sleep, but must be used judiciously. Tis not as strong as the Eastern poppy, but if too much is given, then the person may sleep unto death.” Laying aside the vials, each holding a small thimbleful, she recited the details of the preparation, then passed on to the next vial—oil of betony.

  Slack-lipped, Elspeth sat on her stool, no hint of expression in her empty eyes.

  Quelling a shiver, Eloise set forth her most potent remedies, wishing there was one that would ease her chill.

  *

  Her cure came in the guise of her lord and lover, who returned to his castle with the setting sun. Summoned by a single clarion note blown from the top of the keep, his household turned out en masse to greet him. He rode straight to the steps of the keep. The courtyard filled with the usual pandemonium, grooms rushing up to claim the horses, squires hastening to retrieve weapons from the saddles.

  He looked well, Eloise thought, as she stood, proudly contained, inwardly joyous, at the top of the steep steps. The wind had ruffled the heavy locks of his hair and brought color to his cheeks. He dismounted, greeted Edmund with a nod, then he was coming up the steps, taking them three at a time. His expression as he joined her was set and impassive, but his eyes burned.

  “Lady.” He grasped her arm, forcefully turning her into the hall. “I need a bath. Immediately. I would have you tend me in our chambers.”

  “Aye.” Surprised, Eloise felt his coiled tension via his grip on her arm. “But are you and your knights not hungry, lord?”

  He glanced down at her. “I am famished, lady, and the others will be, too. Supper can wait.”

  Eyes widening, realizing that whatever else had to wait, he would not, she gathered her wits and signaled her staff. He released her to give her orders, but immediately she had done, he summoned her with a glance to where he had propped against the lord’s table, listening to his lieutenants’ reports. Brusquely approving the decisions they had made in his absence, he dismissed them, then briefly conferred with Edmund before turning to her.

  “Come, lady.”

  Her elbow once more locked in a viselike grip, she kept her expression as impassive as his as he guided her to the stairs. Once upon them, she felt compelled to ask, “What of Lanella?”

  “She will survive without my greeting until I am in suitable case to visit her.” From his position on the stairs below Eloise, he lifted his eyes to hers. “Tis your welcome I crave, lady. Would you deny me?”

  “Nay, lord.” She smiled as they gained the upper corridor. “I am merely enacting the role of your chatelaine in reminding you of your other duties.”

  “Then allow me to remind you of your other duties, lady.”

  Without further warning, he swept her into his arms, locking her against him as his lips captured hers. He claimed her mouth ruthlessly, storming her senses, taking all she had to offer and demanding more.

  The hard body she was pressed against left her is no doubt of the urgency of his need. They were both trembling when he finally raised his head.

  Eyes closed, he rested his forehead on hers. “I have mis
sed you, lady.”

  “As I have you, lord.”

  After a moment, they drew apart and walked to their apartments, not touching, neither daring to stir the smoldering embers, not until they were alone.

  He stopped in the anteroom to speak with Bilder.

  Eloise went straight to the bathing chamber, a small room off the bedchamber; beyond it lay the garderobe. A convoy of servants were trudging up a narrow service stair to upend steaming pails into the large wooden tub. She dipped her fingers in. “More hot water.”

  While the order was obeyed, she fetched two linen pouches stuffed with herbs and tossed them into the tub. The scents of pennyroyal and peppermint wafted into the air, carried on the rising vapor.

  When the tub was filled to within a foot of its lip, she called a halt, reserving two steaming pails by the hearth. A blazing fire threw light and heat across the room, driving the chill from the now scented air. Satisfied, she returned to the anteroom.

  When she appeared in the doorway, Alaun dismissed Bilder and, golden flames leaping in his eyes, swept her back over the threshold. He heeled the door shut as his arms closed about her.

  Their second kiss was every bit as frantic as their first.

  “I need you now—the bath can wait.”

  His raspy growl brooked no denial. She knew she should object—theoretically. Practically, he was impossible to stop. As the backs of her legs met the bed, she knew very well she wasn’t about to argue.

  They fell on the silk coverlet in a wild tangle of limbs, rapidly resolved as he pushed her skirts to her waist and swung over her, spreading her thighs as he lowered his body to hers. She lost her breath on a gasp as, with one powerful thrust, he joined them. Then, holding above her, he started them on a wild lovers’ ride.

  And a very wild ride it was.

  He had never loved her so forcefully, his passion usually harnessed until the last moment. This time, he had but the barest control, driving into her with long, surging strokes that made her arch wildly as she matched him, crying out as he took her over one peak, then straight on to the next.

  Only when she was sobbing for breath did he lower his head to hers. His lips found hers and covered them, stealing what little breath she had left. Then his tongue took her mouth, rapaciously plundering as his body relentlessly claimed hers. She was his—dually branded by the heat of his tongue and the searing thrust of his staff. He pushed her higher, probing deeply, setting fire to her very soul.

  She shattered. In the same glorious instant, she felt him explode deep inside her.

  Oblivion, deeper than it had ever been, claimed her.

  Utterly relaxed, every nerve in her body unraveled, she didn’t stir when Alaun left her. She didn’t know that, for long moments, he stood by the bed, sipping from a goblet, his gaze roaming the beauty he’d claimed. Even when he lifted her and stripped her, she did no more than murmur sleepily.

  Smiling, he laid her back on the bed. Strength returning, he dispensed with his garments then, as naked as she, he lifted her in his arms and walked into the bathing chamber.

  Eloise came back to life as his large hands cupped her breasts, gently, rhythmically, soaping them. Warm water lapped about her, a soothing soporific. She was nestled against his chest, her bottom on the tub floor between his thighs, his legs a cage on either side of hers. Eyes half-closed, she murmured his name, and felt his lips at her temple.

  “Be still, lady. I am washing you.”

  With a soft chuckle, she let herself drift into the dreamy realm of aftermath, held there by the gentle strokes of his large palms. With exaggerated care, he straightened one of her arms, then the other, soaping each limb and the curves of her shoulders. Then he cupped water and dribbled it over her, rinsing away the suds.

  Floating in a sea of warm sensuality, she made no demur when his hands drifted lower, the soap cupped in one palm. He made her lean forward to deal with her back, then urged her to slump against his chest again, running his hand in slow circles over her taut waist. Then he reached down and cupped a hand behind one knee, slowly drawing her leg up so he could soap her toes.

  She giggled, then caught her breath as his hands followed the smooth curves back, over her knee. He stopped there, and she breathed again. He repeated the treatment on her other leg. Even in her dreamy daze, she possessed wit enough to wonder what came next.

  He leaned back, reclining with his head on the tub edge, and eased her over, settling her atop him, her cheek pillowed on his shoulder. She lifted heavy lids to find his gaze, warm and deeply golden, on her face. Then he bent his head and kissed her, slowly, languorously, until she sighed into his mouth.

  Apparently satisfied, he lifted his head and gave his attention to the back of her waist. Mesmerized, not by his eyes but by the slow, purposeful strokes of his hands, she lay quiescent in his arms, and let him touch her as he would, let him bestow soapy caresses beneath the warm water, his hands traveling over the firm globes of her bottom to gently caress the cleft between and the sensitive backs of her thighs.

  Trapped in a dream world of total surrender, she felt him lift her, turning her again, pillowing her head once more on his shoulder. The long sweeps of her thighs were next in line for his ministrations, slow sensuous strokes that left her skin tingling.

  She mumbled something, what she hardly knew. He bent his head and pressed a kiss to her temple as his hands drifted to her hips. With deliberate strokes he circled her hipbones, then let his hands drift inward, one splaying across her belly as the other rose to deposit the soap on the edge of the tub.

  Senses overwhelmed by the constant stimulation, she didn’t protest when, beneath the water, he hooked his feet around hers and drew her thighs wide. Then he cupped her, blunt fingers parting her, tracing each fold, each hollow, each crease. She quivered. He hesitated as if gauging her state, then the hand across her belly tensed, holding her firmly while with his other hand he continued to explore her in inexorably increasing intimacy.

  Each stroke, each sliding movement, impinged on her senses with startling clarity. Her skin was tingling, alive to every touch—of the water, of his hands, his fingers. The lap of the water at her breasts was a lover’s caress, the teasing rise and fall over her peaked nipples an excruciating pleasure. The increasing pressure of his fingers as he probed her softness brought her untold delight.

  Adrift, she swam in a sea of sensation, opening herself to his practiced caresses, letting him love her as he would. Slowly, her inner tension wound tight and she arched against his hand; he murmured softly, erotic images in his words as his breath fanned her cheek. He held her immobile, forcing her to lie quiescent beneath his hands. With shattering patience, he coaxed her to a long, extended climax that dragged his name from her lips and left her panting in his arms. They closed about her, holding her safe, secure, his forever.

  When, untold minutes later, he tried to rise from the tub, she forced herself fully awake. “Oh, no.”

  Supple and slippery, she turned. Spreading her hands over his chest, she pushed him back into the water. “Tis my turn now.”

  The look on his face was one to treasure. She could see the memory of what had occurred the last time he had let her have her way with him flash through his mind.

  One brow rising, Alaun forced himself to relax against the tub. “Lady-witch, I love you well, but there are aspects of our present situation that I think you have not fully considered.”

  “Oh?”

  She already had the soap in her hand. On her knees between his thighs, she fell to soaping his chest.

  “Aye.” He let his lids fall, watching her from beneath his lashes. “Think on this. If you touch me to arouse me, as is in your mind to do, I will want to quench my fire inside you. And if I come above you in this tub, you will surely drown.”

  She blinked, then frowned, her hands slowing.

  “And if you are to ride me—” He broke off, lips curving in a knowing smile. “Ah, lady-witch, you have not the strength to meet me
that way, not after twice reaching ecstasy.”

  Her frown black, her expression disgruntled, Eloise shot him a baleful glare. Not too much consideration was required to tell her that he was right—in all respects. She had only enough strength left to keep herself upright. Flat on her back, she stood some chance of holding her own, but any other position would have to rely on his strength, not hers. “I vow tis most unfair, lord.”

  A great chuckle rumbled through his chest, sending ripples across the water. Under his lashes, his eyes gleamed gold. Raising a hand, he caressed her cheek. “Nay, lady-witch. You may wash me—but then we will adjourn to our bed.”

  He was as good as his word, letting her wash him thoroughly, an act that filled her senses with him and her body with a bone-deep longing. While she did, he told her of his visit to Sir Kendrick and three of his other vassals, more, she suspected, to distract himself than her.

  When she was finished, he urged her to her feet. Standing beside her, he rinsed them both; water cascaded down his body, over gleaming skin stretched over firm muscle. As he stepped from the tub and turned to help her from the water, she saw him as a golden god, heavily aroused, the firelight gilding his skin, the flames of the fire in the hearth less bright than the glow in his eyes.

  He wrapped her in a towel and gently dried her, dropping stray kisses on her temples and lips. Only when she insisted did he allow her to dry his back, legs, arms, and chest, while he dried the rest of him. Then he lifted her as if she weighed nothing and carried her back to their bed.

  Shut away from the world behind velvet walls of scarlet and gold, laid on soft furs and scarlet silk, she was supremely conscious of the heavy beat of her heart as she watched him watching her. He sat on his knees on the bed beside her, clearly lit by the candles in the sconces of the bedhead. His hands lay relaxed on his thighs; his gaze roamed over her, unhurriedly taking stock, as if he would commit every inch to memory. His gaze lingered on her belly, taut above the dark triangle of curls, then slowly rose to her breasts, full and aching, and thence to her face.

  A slow, knowing, confident yet mysterious smile broke across his face.