Bayard wished heartily that Dame Fortune would smile upon this exchange, then jumped when he thought he heard a distant echo of feminine laughter. He glanced to the others but they appeared to be oblivious to whatever he had heard.
He truly had need of more sleep. He was dreaming with his eyes open. The winning of this seductress and the press of time had overly strained him. Aye, all would come aright after he and Esmeraude were wed later this day and he slept in his nuptial bed this night.
This time Bayard knew he did not imagine the shout of distant laughter. Indeed, he glanced over his shoulder in search of the sound, but saw naught. Esmeraude gave him a cool smile, as if she knew aught that he did not.
Sleep would heal all of this. Sleep and a quick resolution of his objective.
But first, his cousins and brother had to be dispatched upon their merry way. Bayard closed his eyes briefly and hoped for the best, which did little to ease his concerns.
“Bayard! Surely you do not ride the wrong way,” his brother Amaury teased, his features alight with his smile. He clearly interpreted their halted position as a hint that they rode toward Ceinn-beithe.
“Do I?”
“Perhaps he has not solved the riddle rightly,” Connor suggested.
“Perhaps ’tis you who have solved it wrongly,” Bayard retorted and Nicholas laughed.
“Then pity the lord of Airdfinnan, who is fated to host us all for no reason whatsoever.” They chuckled, the horses milling together, and Bayard felt his brother’s gaze upon him.
He ignored him. “I will not delay your progress, then,” Bayard said smoothly and smiled at the three of them. “For you are no doubt anxious to be upon your way.”
“But who is this lovely maiden?” Nicholas teased, sparing a wink for Esmeraude. The lady smiled, then dropped her gaze flirtatiously.
Incredibly, she held her tongue.
“A local maid,” Bayard said with forced cheer. “She does not understand French.”
“Ah!” Nicholas, undeterred, addressed Esmeraude in some foreign tongue. She laughed, much to Bayard’s horror, and replied merrily, her eyes flashing.
It irked him beyond reason that he could not understand this exchange. ’Twas not that his bride laughed with his cousin when she had shown Bayard no such favor this morn, nay, not that! She could not anger him so readily as that!
’Twould have been illogical. ’Twas the rudeness of their conversing in a language that all present did not understand that was the root of it.
“Perhaps you might share the jest,” he said coolly.
“It does not translate well,” Nicholas said with a shrug.
Bayard felt his grip tighten upon the reins. “I should still like to know of what you speak.”
Nicholas’ eyes danced. “Afraid that I shall steal the wench who warms your bed, Bayard?”
“Of course not!”
“Wo-ho! He does fear as much!” Amaury began to laugh. “Bayard, you were supposed to ride here to find a bride, not a wench to please you.”
“Though she is most pretty,” Connor contributed.
“And if Bayard is anxious to keep her fast by his side, she must be amorous as well.”
The three of them beamed at Esmeraude and she, curse her, smiled at each of the knights in turn. She granted Bayard a playful smile, then clicked to her palfrey. The steed leapt away from the group and trotted in the wrong direction, toward Airdfinnan, at the maiden’s urging.
Esmeraude blew a kiss at Bayard over her shoulder. “Airdfinnan,” she murmured playfully.
“Aha! She does choose us!” Nicholas shouted with a glee most inappropriate to Bayard’s thinking.
“Ceinn-beithe,” he growled, tightening his grip upon the palfrey’s reins which slipped through his fingers.
Esmeraude pouted prettily, and had to be aware of how avidly the knights watched her. She came back to Bayard’s side, and he guessed from the mischief in her gaze that she was also aware of how vexed he was with her.
But there was a determination in the set of her lips and he knew that she would contrive to go to Airdfinnan, as she desired, with or without him. That he could do naught about the matter, save surrender her to his rivals or cede to her will, did little to improve his mood.
Bayard had never been cornered thus by a woman and he did not care for the change.
Esmeraude laughed, a sound as fetching as fairy bells, and shook her hair out loose down her back. The glance she cast over her shoulder at the other knights was at the very least encouraging.
If not wanton. Then she turned to him and licked her lips in a most provocative manner. “Airdfinnan?” she whispered, devilry in her expression.
Bayard’s anger simmered anew, for he was certain that she had decided to pretend to be a whore purely to vex him. He should have been more disturbed by how readily she provoked him, but his sole response was fury.
“I think she invites us to escort her in your stead,” Nicholas mused.
“’Tis but one of her games,” Bayard said sternly. “She is oft amorous in the morn—you need not fear that I shall see her sated.”
Esmeraude played with the tie of her chemise now—his chemise—pouting prettily when ’twas untied. She turned an appealing glance upon the knights, as if she could not manage to fasten the tie again herself, and Bayard glowered at the undoubtedly deliberate display of her creamy cleavage.
Nicholas whistled through his teeth.
“If she was sated, surely she would not be lustful so early in the morn,” Connor commented.
“Aye.” Nicholas offered his cousin a confident grin. “We could be of aid to you in this!”
“I thank you but I have no need of such assistance. If you would excuse us...”
“Oh, he is possessive of her,” Amaury teased. “She must indeed be a marvel abed. I recall that Bayard never saved his favors for one maiden alone. He oft said that no one woman could satisfy him.”
“I say we let her choose her mate of this morn,” Nicholas suggested, then called something to Esmeraude in that cursed alien tongue again.
The lady laughed and batted her lashes at him.
“If you will forgive me,” Bayard interrupted with vigor. “’Tis time we were all upon our way.” With a curt nod to his cousins and brother, he caught Esmeraude around the waist and hauled her from her saddle.
He planted her before him, and when she settled against him with a purr of satisfaction, his anger changed immediately to desire. Oh, she would be less triumphant when he was done with her. She would not only be sated, but she would be tamed, she would be biddable, and she would wear his ring upon her hand.
And she would be glad of it. He would teach her not to challenge him thus. He gave Argent his spurs and held fast to the lady, riding for Airdfinnan but leaving a distance between them and the other knights.
Bayard would see the matter resolved this very night.
Nay, he would resolve it this moment.
* * *
Esmeraude watched Bayard’s temper rise and conceded that she might have pushed him slightly too far. His eyes blazed with anger and his brow was dark. He held her against him in a relentless grip and showed no signs of halting his destrier. The beast raced unchecked and she was exhilarated to know that she could provoke Bayard to such passion.
She turned to look at him, much encouraged about the prospects for their future, and saw that there was but one matter upon his mind. Her heart leapt.
“Temptress!” he charged, then kissed her with startling vigor. His gloved hand held her captive beneath his embrace, his other arm was locked around her waist. His was a claiming kiss, and Esmeraude was surprised by how exciting she found his possessive touch.
But it still irked her that he expected to command her. He would not easily intimidate her with a kiss, however ardent it might be.
Aye, she would show him what it was to be a temptress.
Esmeraude locked her own hands around Bayard’s neck and returned his kis
s in every measure. She rubbed her breasts against his chest and locked her fingers into his hair. She slid her tongue between his teeth and kissed him as if she would suck the marrow from his bones.
Bayard swore. Esmeraude felt victorious when he growled beneath her embrace and yet more so when his touch became urgent. She was distantly aware that the other knights hooted and whistled, but Esmeraude had forgotten all but Bayard’s kiss. The heat rose between them, her annoyance with his assumptions changing to another passion.
Bayard tore his lips from hers and Esmeraude loved how his eyes blazed brilliant blue. “Witch,” he charged, nigh as breathless as she, and Esmeraude laughed aloud.
She felt as she did when she conquered the sea: she felt vibrant and able to conquer whatever lay in her path. That she could conquer this man with a kiss and make him forget all but her was a victory indeed.
Esmeraude stared into his eyes and knew that their desires were as one in this moment. Truly, there was a better use of the heat between them than sharp words.
“You spoke the truth, my lord,” Esmeraude confided, her tone wicked. “For I am amorous indeed this morn and will not be readily sated.” She stretched to slide her tongue around his ear, then whispered against his flesh. “Do you dare to try?”
Bayard shivered then inhaled sharply. He flicked the merest glance at his squires before staring down at Esmeraude again. Indeed, his gaze simmered. “You win your desire in this, my lady, for we ride for Airdfinnan. Know that ’tis an indulgence upon my part and that I will not accept such defiance in future.”
Esmeraude lifted her chin. “I will not wed a man who thinks to own me.”
He smiled slowly and her blood heated. “I shall change your thinking,” he purred, and his hand rose to cup her breast. “I shall teach you what prize can be yours, my Esmeraude, and you shall be powerless to refuse.”
“I invite you to try,” she said, her voice breathless though she tried to sound bold.
“Oh, I shall,” Bayard whispered. He bent and nuzzled her ear, his expert touch making Esmeraude dizzy. “And I shall begin this very night.”
Esmeraude returned his ardent kiss, welcoming its heat. Though he might seek to conquer her with his touch, she would begin her own conquest of his heart. On the morrow, they would reach Airdfinnan and she would have Jacqueline’s counsel.
In the interim, she saw no reason to deny herself this pleasure. Aye, this man could be shaped to her expectation, Esmeraude knew it well.
Indeed, she looked forward to the challenge.
* * *
The weather worsened as they rode, though the storm clouds that had gathered quickly in their wake that morn stayed behind them. ’Twas as if the storm kept pace with them, a most unusual sensation. The wind was frisky and gusting, but though stray drops of rain splattered upon them at intervals, the storm never broke. Bayard kept expecting the clouds to burst, but they merely hung upon their heels.
He tucked his cloak around Esmeraude and she soon forgot her audacious manner, huddling against him for shelter. There was one good consequence of all of this—the weather was too foul for idle chatter, and that kept his brother and cousins from asking too many questions. Bayard glanced back at one point and his face was stung by the bitter wind that pushed them onward.
Perhaps he sacrificed little in sating the lady’s whim in this. He doubted they could have ridden against this wind to return to Ceinn-beithe after all. They made a wretched camp that night, for they could not coax so much as a spark from the wood with the wind dancing wildly about them. They huddled together for warmth, their steeds gathered around them, and shared what bread and cheese they had in virtual silence.
On the second morn, the wind was worse and the sky blacker than black behind them. They saddled up and departed early, the sky only faintly light in the east. There could not have been a one of them who did not anxiously look forward to Airdfinnan’s walls.
’Twas early when the sky fell dark, a final rogue streak of orange gracing the western sky. The woods on either side of the road were thick with shadows and the cries of wolves had begun to echo again in the hills. Fog crept through the forest on either side, pressing on the flanks of the road like a silvery wall. The hoof beats echoed oddly through the stillness and Bayard was uncommonly glad to see the silhouette of Airdfinnan rise ahead of them. Andrew cheered and the other squires took up the cry.
“Airdfinnan,” Esmeraude said with undisguised satisfaction. She looped her arms around his neck, looking like some wench he had pillaged in a battle. Her pose irked him, for it made her look like the tavern wench she was not.
He caught her closer, making her catch her breath with the possessiveness of his embrace. “Perhaps ’twill be more easy to persuade you on this night, as ’twas not yesterday,” he murmured for her ears alone, then smiled when she shivered.
Then Bayard shed his helmet and left his blade sheathed to show that he came in peace. His cousins and brother glanced quickly to him, then did the same, leaving him wondering what they would have done without his presence.
And then he looked upon Airdfinnan.
The fortress was set upon an isle in the midst of the river Finnan, that isle strategically sited at a fork in a large glen. ’Twas a crossroads of a kind, the glen cutting a course between Skye and points east, the river cutting a path more southwesterly toward Mull.
’Twas among the most impressive fortresses Bayard had seen in this land, though both smaller and younger than Montvieux. The walls of the keep rose directly from the river, the keep filling every increment of the isle. The walls were wrought of heavy cut stones where they met the river, then changed to mud as they rose higher.
There was only one gate and one bridge to the fortress itself, its village sited on the riverbank outside its walls. Though the village was surrounded by palisades, as Ceinn-beithe was, its occupants could certainly retreat to the fortress if need be.
’Twas splendidly defendable and perfectly sited, both of which met with considerable approval from Bayard.
The sentries hailed the party in Norman French, evidently guessing their origin by their garb.
They exchanged greetings and Bayard declared their names and their mission when his companions said naught. ’Twas as if the years had not passed and he was still expected to speak for all of them. But a moment passed before they were beckoned onward.
Bayard heard the sentries whistle as they rode past, then the cry echoed at the gates. He was not surprised as a result to find a formidable party awaiting them inside the portcullis.
Indeed, he approved of the tactic heartily.
Bayard noted that there was but one single-level structure within the enclosure of those high walls. ’Twas clearly the hall, with a chapel at one end and the solar at the other. The kitchens were beneath thatched roofs between the hall and walls, sensibly sited thus in case of fire; the stables, smithy, and armory were similarly housed.
Bayard spared the keep no more than a cursory survey before looking to the men gathered before him once more. The man who clearly held possession of Airdfinnan stood in their midst, arms folded across his chest. The rich embroidery upon his tabard and the deference of the men surrounding him betrayed his station.
He was armed as Bayard was, the hem of his dark tabard higher than that of the mail hauberk that hung to his knees. His mail coif was pushed back off his head and gathered around his neck. There were spurs on his boots, a sign of his knightly status. His hair was as dark as the night and he wore a patch over one eye that only partly obscured the scar upon his face.
’Twas more than these signs that told Bayard that he had met a man as experienced in battle as he, if not more so. There was a wariness in this man’s gaze, a knowledge that could only be won in war. And the lord was surrounded by a party of sentries, as if to emphasize his uncertainty of Bayard’s intentions.
Bayard wondered what threat the lord expected to arrive at this hour, or whether he was inclined to anticipate trouble at
every turn. Perhaps ’twas the pending inclement weather that prompted such caution—there was an ominous mood emanating from those clouds, one that made a man glance over his shoulder in apprehension.
Bayard dismounted and doffed his gloves, offering his hand in peace as he stepped forward. “I am Bayard de Villonne, knight and crusader. This is Amaury of Villonne, Connor of Tullymullagh, and Nicholas of Montvieux.” His gaze strayed to Esmeraude, who returned his glance boldly and he recalled their ruse. “If this is Airdfinnan, we come here seeking one Esmeraude of Ceinn-beithe.”
“Why?” The lord did not move to take Bayard’s hand and his French was crisp. His gaze, too, strayed to Esmeraude, though he did not comment upon her presence or reveal her identity.
“I would make her my lady wife.”
“As would I,” cried Nicholas, and the other two cousins added their assent.
The lord’s expression was skeptical. “Perhaps you err. Ceinn-beithe lies to the west and is, I understand, the location of a contest for that lady’s hand.”
“I know. We have been there. The lady left a riddle to her suitors, to which the answer is clearly Airdfinnan.” Bayard recited the riddle and irritation flickered across the lord’s features.
“No doubt you will not be the last.” He cast a quick glance at Esmeraude that might have made a less bold woman flinch. Esmeraude smiled.
Bayard felt obliged to continue their charade, for the benefit of his companions. “Has Esmeraude arrived at these gates? I am most anxious to see my lady and assure myself of her welfare.”
The lord eyed Bayard carefully. “It seems to me that a woman would not flee any man whose suit she intended to accept. If she truly were favorable to your offer, would she not be in your company now?”
Bayard could not fully suppress his smile and he saw a flicker in the lord’s eye. They understood each full well, it seemed.
“It has become clear to me that my lady Esmeraude is inclined to confound expectation.” Bayard shook his head as though much tested by this woman. “She was amenable to my suit until I declined her request to visit her sister afore we were wed.”
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