Now her eyes flashed in truth. “Healthy? ’Tis savage! ’Tis undisciplined and unrestrained and...”
“And satisfying beyond all else.” Duncan bent and kissed her quickly, but she put her hands on his chest and pushed him away.
“And now you would make yourself a place in my bed. Once granted, you assume my favors are yours to sample whensoever you desire. You are wrong, Duncan MacLaren, you are wrong in this.” She shook her head angrily. “I may have faltered once, but I shall not do so again. I swear it upon the grave of my father and his father before him. I am not wrought of weak fiber and I will not become a woman prey to every desire, like a straw cast into the wind. I will not become a savage, a...”
“A barbarian,” he supplied, much less amused than he had been before.
The lady lifted her chin. “’Tis you who name it aright. Now leave me be.” She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. “For good.”
But Duncan caught the lady’s chin and cupped its softness in his hand. He could feel her trembling, though whether ’twas with anger or fear, he could not say.
And he would not guess, lest he guess wrongly. Nay, Duncan had no taste for a woman’s fear. “I will leave you on this day, Eglantine. Your arguments have a rare gift for irking me—if I lingered, I would shout and no doubt matters would be twisted yet worse than they are now.”
Her lips tightened as she stared at him, and Duncan felt that ire rise. “But I will not leave you be for good, for what we shared was finer than fine and I know that I will not be alone in yearning for another taste of such sweetness.”
“’Twill not happen again.”
“’Twill happen again,” Duncan corrected. “On that you may rely.” He hauled her close, wrapped his arms around her. “Mark my words, Eglantine, ’twill be you who invites me to your bed again,” he whispered, then kissed her thoroughly, regretting with all his heart that this sweet encounter had ended so poorly. Aye, he was shaken to his toes and ill prepared to match wits with this beguiling woman.
He was stunned when he lifted his head to find her wondrous eyes filled with tears.
“Truly, it could be said that I have naught to lose, for I am a shy virgin no longer.” Her voice was low and hot, her gaze burning. “I have been loved and I have been claimed and I have even come to love in return.”
Eglantine’s lips set and her eyes glittered with those unshed tears that Duncan knew she would never let fall. “You could take what you desired of me, and ’tis clear enough that mine own weakness would betray me. But I will not willingly cede the only thing that is truly mine.” She raised a fist to her heart. “Aye or nay remains with me alone.”
Duncan stared down at her, astonished by her confession and understanding her response a bit better. He recalled now those two men in her life and wondered which of them had forced her, which had stolen her right to decline his attentions. “You have never been wooed,” he suggested quietly.
Eglantine laughed without humor, her gaze suddenly hard. “Men do not woo what is theirs to take.”
Anger shot through Duncan that she would consider all men to be of the same ilk of the one rogue who had served her poorly. “Perhaps some men do not, but a man of merit does woo the woman he intends to keep,” he declared hotly. “When I see fit to woo a woman, ’twill be the one who so captures my heart that I would keep her by my side for all my days and nights.”
He glared at a delightfully disheveled Eglantine. “And that partnership will be wrought of mutual consent and naught more than that. You may call a show of passion savage, but I call it honest, and in truth, I will be happy with naught less.”
And without waiting for her reply, he strode across the chapel and marched back toward his steed.
He waited for Eglantine to mount and returned to the camp with her though he kept his distance and left her in silence once there.
Indeed, he did not trust himself to speak with any measure of temperance.
* * *
Eglantine was worried.
The camp had quieted to the muted sounds of the final labor of the day, the villeins’ voices had fallen to whispers, the sea lapped rhythmically against the shore. Half a dozen villeins huddled around the glowing embers of the fire, laughing and sharing gossip. The sky was awash in a thousand rich hues, as though the sun had indiscriminately smeared every hue in the rainbow across the sky before dipping beyond the blackness of the sea.
But Eglantine hesitated outside the silk shimmer of her tent, deaf to all but the chortle and splash of Esmeraude inside as Célie bathed her before bed. There would be no respite from her duty this night.
Yet she was poorly prepared to face Esmeraude’s iron will. She had spent the better part of the day cloistered in her tent, haranguing herself for her own weakness and wishing she could undo what she had done. She felt jangled as she never was, unsettled and on edge, and she knew ’twas because of Duncan.
Beneath his touch, she became another woman, a woman who surrendered to desire and passion, a woman unlike the woman she knew herself to be. Was she not widely reputed to be a woman of rare composure? Dispassionate? Aye, she had heard the tales that Theobald had thawed the maiden of Crevy. Though once she had thought she loved that man, Eglantine had never begged Theobald to fill her with his heat.
His touch had been less loathsome than that of Robert, but mating was hardly an event she anxiously sought. It could have its pleasures, though they were not consistently won.
And they had been so shattering as the pleasure she had found this day with Duncan.
As though that was not disconcerting enough, Eglantine yearned for more. She wanted to loose that passionate side of herself again, to touch Duncan again, to surrender to sensation again.
And now, she faced another challenge that could be avoided no longer.
Esmeraude.
The child’s goodwill would not be readily won. Nay, Esmeraude had always known her own mind and had no qualms expressing her opinions from the first morn she saw daylight. Esmeraude was a child of extremes, wrought of sunlight and storm—Esmeraude was alternately so charming as to be angelic and so temperamental that she might have been the spawn of demons. Worse, she had been so very close to Theobald.
Like to like, Eglantine supposed. The startling thing about Esmeraude was that her smile tempted even the most beleaguered soul to forgive all her transgressions.
Her father’s child indeed. Eglantine knew she would never understand the forces that flowed through her youngest, just as she had never fully understood Theobald. But he had called Eglantine his rock in a turbulent sea—perhaps she could be the same to Esmeraude.
And truly, she had more understanding of passion since coming to this place than ever in her days.
Eglantine thanked the scullery maid who brought her the cup of warmed goat milk and heaved a sigh, knowing the moment could be delayed no longer. Incremental progress would be enough to satisfy on this night of nights. Esmeraude would be tired, after all, and likely to be troublesome. Eglantine took a deep breath and gripped the cup.
“She shall adore you upon sight, my lady.” The girl whose presence Eglantine had forgotten offered an encouraging smile.
Eglantine smiled at this endorsement, though she did not share the girl’s optimism. “I thank you again.” The girl bowed and ducked into the shadows of the night.
Eglantine fingered her chemise, wondering in hindsight whether it made sense to approach Esmeraude in simpler garb. She had thought she might seem less imposing in her chemise, with her hair unbound, though in this moment she doubted all her choices.
But delay would win her naught.
Eglantine lifted her chin, cast one glance over her shoulder and froze. A man stood not twenty paces from her, beyond the circle of the tents, yet silhouetted by the sunset, his arms folded across his chest. Her heart thumped in recognition. Though he was wreathed in shadows, Eglantine had no doubt that he watched her.
She similarly had no doubt tha
t ’twas Duncan. The sentry hovered nearby, disapproving, but Duncan came no closer.
He neither moved nor spoke, simply watched. ’Twas as though he could not stay away from her, though she knew that was whimsy.
He but wanted more, as men wanted more.
As she wanted more. Eglantine’s mouth went dry. ’Twas as though Duncan would remind her of his presence, as though he did not guess how large he loomed in her thoughts, as though he would compel her to abandon the sanctuary of the camp and speak to him again.
But even now, Duncan looked resolute, dangerous, and unpredictable. The way his features were wreathed in shadow did naught to dispel that impression that he too was beyond comprehension—as Theobald had been. Eglantine knew the risk of approaching him, knew her own response was but tentatively contained.
Yet an errant part of her yearned to join him, to repeat their deed of earlier this day, to confirm his touch was like that of no other. She shook her head. No doubt, that was what he wanted of her. Just as she told her daughters, a man come without a ring desired but one thing.
Eglantine had never imagined that she would be one to surrender it, much less that she would do so with such abandon.
When Eglantine might have turned her back upon him, Duncan lifted a hand in silent salute. She had a sudden sense that he would merely hearten her for the task ahead. Eglantine caught her breath, snared by his watchfulness. How could he know how uncertain she was?
Eglantine was oddly convinced that he did know. Her breath caught in her throat and she wished she could see his eyes. But then she remembered the truth of it and turned away.
She was alone, as she was always alone, and her responsibilities were hers to resolve.
Alone.
Eglantine lifted the flap of the striped tent, one of a trio of silk tents her father had had made for her and her girls. A lump rose in her throat as she missed her father with sudden intensity. He had been so good with the girls, so instinctive in guessing the right course. He had been a better father than either of her spouses. She realized now that her father would have had no tolerance for Theobald, or that man’s suggestions for Esmeraude.
Her father would have seen through Theobald’s thin charm as she had not. Her father would not have made this mistake and further, his counsel would have saved Eglantine from making it and several more.
’Twas true that he had arranged her match with Robert but he had believed his decision best; especially given his happiness with her mother.
But he was gone, along with his uncompromising love, his protectiveness, his essential goodness. Eglantine reminded herself that she had been fortunate indeed to have such a man as her father. She smiled to herself, recalling how she had once foolishly believed that all men were like her father.
She could not have been more mistaken
But thinking upon it would not change the past.
Eglantine took a deep breath, lifted her chin and crossed the threshold. The pair within the tent had just finished the toddler’s bath and Esmeraude looked like a mischievous imp in the warm light. Her damp curls were stuck to her brow and she was playing with Célie. In other circumstances, Eglantine might have smiled at her babe’s antics.
But not this night.
“Esmeraude,” she said quietly and stepped into the golden circle cast by the single oil lantern in the tent. Both maid and child looked up, Esmeraude’s giggles fading abruptly. The toddler stared at her with obvious trepidation.
Eglantine’s heart contracted that her own child should fear her. Only now she appreciated how simple matters had been with Jacqueline, how readily the bond between they two had been established. She had never had to fight for her child’s affection before.
She only hoped she would proceed aright. All her conviction that she could be Esmeraude’s rock ebbed away before the toddler’s suspicious expression and a lump rose in her throat.
Eglantine lifted the cup she carried before the child could cry. “I have brought your milk, Esmeraude, and ’tis warm.”
Esmeraude reached for the cup with chubby fingers. Though the goat milk did not offer the comfort of her nursemaid’s breast, she was coming to see it as the closest substitute. Indeed, she had had little choice.
“Give it now.”
At least she wanted the milk. “Nay, Esmeraude.” Eglantine deliberately kept her voice low and even. “I shall hold the cup for you. Come sit upon my knee.”
Esmeraude’s face crumpled and Eglantine’s heart hammered as she hastened on, hating how her words became tinged with urgency. She sounded desperate to her own ears. “I know you miss your papa, Esmeraude, but he will not return. ’Tis not an easy fact, but ’tis the truth.” Eglantine stepped closer, her knuckles white where she gripped the cup. “’Twill not change with your tears, Esmeraude.”
The way the child shrank away from Eglantine offered no encouragement, but she could not lose this encounter.
“I understand, Esmeraude, that you are frightened, but I will not hurt you. I swear it to you.” Eglantine smiled, though it nigh killed her to appear so tranquil when so much was at stake. “’Tis your choice alone.”
Esmeraude eyed her for a long moment, her grip fast upon the maid. “Célie bring milk,” she tried once more, though her voice held less conviction.
“Nay,” Eglantine argued gently. “Maman brings milk from this night forth.” She curved her hand around the cup and arched a brow. “And indeed, it grows cold.”
Esmeraude huffed. Her mouth worked silently as she watched Eglantine. Clearly, she gauged the potential value of crying. Something in Eglantine’s regard must have dissuaded her, for she reached again with that hand.
“Milk now!”
Eglantine shook her head. She seated herself upon her own bed and patted her lap. “Of course you can have the milk now. You have but to come here.”
Esmeraude’s brows knotted and she clung to the maid’s hand. “Célie,” she insisted. Aye, the maid had become the one issue of certainty in her life, but ’twas not a role that should be filled by a maid. Though Eglantine appreciated all the girl had done, she could stand aside no longer.
She was Esmeraude’s mother. Though Theobald had done his best to undermine that fact, he was dead and she would do what she knew was right.
“Of course Célie will remain,” Eglantine promised softly. She smiled for the child. “Come for your milk. There is no reason why you cannot hold Célie’s hand while you drink it.”
She held Esmeraude’s gaze for an endless moment, certain she would burst if she did not take a breath, but terrified to move and frighten the toddler.
Abruptly, Esmeraude chose to cross the floor. How like her to suddenly make up her mind, then plunge ahead with no regrets or second thoughts! She paused before Eglantine and eyed her anew, too serious for a child.
“Up,” Esmeraude commanded imperiously, as though all the world existed to do her bidding, and lifted her arms to the hovering maid.
Eglantine drew a shaking breath of relief and the women exchanged a glance. Eglantine indicated the full cup of milk. “Célie, if you would lift Esmeraude I should appreciate it.”
The maid smiled and hefted Esmeraude in her arms. She kissed the toddler on the tip of her nose, making Esmeraude giggle and wipe at the embrace. Then she placed the child in Eglantine’s lap, the affection between them making Eglantine all the more aware of what she had sacrificed.
Then the weight of Esmeraude was upon her thighs and the sweet smell of a clean little one made Eglantine smile. It had been so long since she had cradled Jacqueline thus! She longed to cuddle Esmeraude close, but knew that right would have to be earned.
Indeed, Esmeraude was reluctant, her posture stiff and her expression wary. She sat away from Eglantine, minimizing the contact between them. The milk proved to be a far more powerful lure than Eglantine had realized. The toddler reached for the cup, locked her hands around it and promptly bumped her upper lip against the rim.
Her tears welled
and she began to cry, though she would not suffer the cup to be taken away. She fussed, her face reddening as the tears flowed.
Eglantine soothed her with wordless cooing, the sound coming to her lips of old habit. She rocked the toddler and shared another glance with Célie. “Esmeraude is tired this night.”
“She wants the milk, but cannot manage the cup well as yet,” Célie confided. “This one loved the breast too well.”
“Ah, so did her sister Jacqueline,” Eglantine said.
Esmeraude let herself be soothed, clearly too upset to realize who ’twas who cradled her close. When she did, her eyes widened in dismay.
“Did I not promise not to hurt you?” Eglantine asked, winning a cautious nod from her daughter. “Then let me aid you, Esmeraude. Let me show you a trick that Jacqueline used when she first took the cup.”
Esmeraude snuffled. “Jacqueline is big.”
“Aye, now she is a young woman, but once she was a little girl, just like you.” Eglantine smiled. “And she loved both milk and breast as much as you do. Each night, I held the cup for her, too.” She patted her upper arm. “If you lean back here, I will aid you. ’Twill work, you will see, just as it worked for Jacqueline.”
Esmeraude looked to Célie, who nodded. “Your maman knows.”
The toddler wriggled backward, settling herself uncertainly against Eglantine’s arm. Eglantine pretended she did not note her daughter’s wariness, and curled her arm around Esmeraude.
Eglantine smiled at her. “Ease back just thus, aye, there ’tis. Now, you hold the cup and I shall steady it. ’Tis still warm.” She ensured there was no bump against the lip this time and felt Esmeraude sag in relief as the warm milk crossed her lips. Eglantine forced her own posture to be at ease, knowing that the child would sense her tension.
Esmeraude sipped, her blue eyes bright as she studied her mother. After a long draw of milk, she pulled slightly back from the cup. “Tell a Papa story,” she demanded.
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