by Shari Anton
Could she truly take a lover and not suffer the worst of consequences? But more, would it not be wonderful if her first experience with coupling was with a man she knew would be gentle with her, a man she’d come to care for more than she ought?
A man she desired.
Eloise nudged Isolde. “Tell me.”
Isolde didn’t mistake the meaning. “If ye do the deed with the female atop, then the male’s seed mostly runs out on its own.”
Eloise wrinkled her nose. “Sounds messy.”
“And some men do not like having the woman above. So if the man is on top, then he has to jerk his rod out before he spills his seed.”
She was beginning to wonder if she wanted to do this at all. “Messier still.”
Isolde giggled. “Aye. Everything gets all sticky if the male is not mindful of what he is about.” She paused, then added, “I have also heard you can wash yer insides out real good right after with lemon water. ’Tis said to kill the seed before it can plant.”
“Lemon water?”
“With lots of lemon.”
“Lemons are costly.”
“Which is why we mostly use the other two ways.”
Eloise decided she didn’t want to know which method Isolde and Timothy had used.
With a hearty laugh, Roland clapped Timothy on the arm and handed the squire his practice sword. The lad sprinted off toward the nearby armory and Roland turned toward the inner gate, likely planning to go up to the keep.
Then he spied her, and shifted his direction.
Isolde rose off the bench. “If ye ask me, milady, ’twould be good to have a lemon or two on hand before All Hallows.”
All Hallows. A mere two days hence. A holiday marked by bonfires and feasting, dressing up in disguises to perform good-natured trickery. Some of the superstitious still practiced pagan rituals to ward off ghosts, witches, devils, and assorted demons, and the village priest turned a blind eye because he could do nothing to stop them.
A day on which a good deal of ale and wine flowed and much debauchery occurred.
Isolde gave Roland a courteous bow of her head as she passed him in the yard. His smile for the maid was gracious, though he didn’t speak to her or even slow his steps.
Eloise started to rise, but a wave of his hand commanded that she remain seated. She obeyed, the tingling sensation he evoked affecting her innards and weakening her knees. Considering the subject of her talk with Isolde, her fast heartbeat didn’t surprise her.
He took the seat Isolde vacated. He leaned forward with his hands clasped between his knees, then let out a long breath, steeling himself for whatever he had to say.
“Timothy and Isolde. They did it.”
They certainly had, and Eloise still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. On the one hand, Isolde seemed to know what she was about, but on the other, sweet mercy, the girl was only ten and four. Her lover was not much older.
“I know. Timothy told you?”
“He was late coming to the practice yard, and there was a certain swagger to his walk that gave much away. When I called him on it, he admitted what he’d been about. Isolde confided in you?”
Eloise crossed her arms and slumped against the wall behind her. “I overheard a conversation not meant for my ears. When you left after we … talked, had you turned toward the servants’ stairs instead of the main stairs, so might you have come across them.” She sighed. “I could have interfered then, but did not.”
“Do you wish now you had?”
“I am undecided.”
Roland nodded, understanding. “Shall I order Timothy away from her?”
“Would he if you did?”
“I should like to think so.”
“Then the question is, would we be doing them a service, or merely interfering with what is truly none of our affair?”
He glanced sideways at her. “Timothy is my squire and Isolde your maid. Who better has the right to interfere for their own good?”
“Then you think we should?”
Now Roland crossed his arms and leaned back, their shoulders nearly touching. To her amazement, given her previous reactions to his nearness, she felt comfortable. She merely wanted to lean her head against his shoulder and bask in his shadow for a while.
“Is Isolde upset?”
“Far from it. She seems … content, happy, which is rather rare for her. Timothy?”
He gave a short sharp laugh. “Strutting like a cock. When I asked if he knew how to protect Isolde from… consequences, he looked at me as if I had gone daft. He said he knew what he was about. ’Twas such a strange conversation to have with the lad. Made me feel old.”
Eloise knew exactly how he felt. Not only had she felt old, but ignorant. But thanks to her maid, ignorant no longer.
“Isolde knows, too.” She sighed. “Which means, I suppose, we should leave them be.”
After a moment’s silence, he said, “They are young, but not children. I know of marriages that have occurred between younger parties. And they seem to care for each other.”
She had to smile at a sudden realization. “So we are talking each other into doing nothing about the situation, which sits hard for both of us.”
He turned his head toward her then, and Eloise didn’t try to tamp down the tingles his intense gaze evoked. Sweet mercy, Roland possessed the most gorgeous eyes, and up this close she could see gold flecks amid the brownish green.
“Betimes ’tis best to allow events to run their natural course.”
His voice had gone lower, softer, and she had the distinct feeling they were no longer discussing their maid and squire.
“Betimes,” she whispered, willing him to catch her meaning.
His gaze lowered to her mouth. “You truly think so?”
“Aye.”
The bang of the armory door jolted her, made her remember they sat in a very public place. Timothy had come out, and was now strolling across the yard, doing his best to ignore the two people who sat on the bench.
The spell broken, Roland rose from the bench and held out his hand. Too formally for her taste, he said, “Come, milady, I will escort you back to the hall. I desperately need a wash.”
Eloise took his hand to rise and willed her knees to obedience. He dropped her hand almost immediately, making her wonder if she’d imagined more than he’d intended.
All the way back to the keep, he kept silent and distant and Eloise wondered if she’d truly have need of the lemons she knew were in the storage room.
Except for meals, Roland had seen little of Eloise during the past two days. Between overseeing the sewing and making preparations for the All Hallows’ celebration, she’d flitted between upstairs and down, the kitchen and the village.
Roland stood beside Marcus and watched her, torch in hand, bend to light the first of the bonfires that would burn all afternoon and well into the night. A cheer went up from the crowd as the flame caught hold, the wood hissing and crackling and spitting sparks.
Her smile was wide and joyful, as brilliant as the flames meant to welcome kindly spirits and keep the evil ones from coming near.
Two days of pondering, and he still didn’t know if he’d understood her correctly or misunderstood her completely. After their talk on the bench, she’d given him no sign one way or the other, and it was frustrating the hell out of him.
Marcus nudged him and pointed to a group of boys who’d donned animal furs and masks, now sneaking up on a group of girls, who naturally went running—shrieking as only little girls can—as soon as the boys growled and roared.
With a chuckle he noticed disguises other than animal skins, on both children and adults. Devils and demons mingled with the occasional saint, mixing the earthy pagan celebration of Samhain and the Christian holy day of All Saints.
Eloise had apparently decided to spend the day as herself, as did Roland and most of the knights and men-at-arms. Someone had to look after the security of the keep while others spent the day in r
evelry.
Barrels of ale had been brought out and set along the inner wall of the outer bailey. Tables were laden with platters of dark bread and yellow cheese, large bowls of nuts and baskets of bright red apples.
“I need to light two more bonfires between the keep and the village,” Marcus said. “Care to come along?”
Roland considered for a moment, then caught sight of Eloise making her way to the food tables. Suddenly he was in the mood for an apple.
“Nay, go have your fun. I will keep an eye on things here.”
Before Marcus could take a step, two blond-haired little girls came running at him, their eyes wide with fear, which he would have thought real if not for the huge smiles on their bright faces.
“Save us, Papa! Save us!”
Marcus a father? Roland hadn’t thought any of the household knights married, and didn’t remember seeing the girls about the keep, nor being introduced to a wife.
A masked lad bore down on the girls, draped in a piece of bear’s fur, growling his loudest and meanest.
With a laugh, Marcus scooped up the girls. Roland captured the bear, picking him up and tossing him over a shoulder.
“Not fair,” grumbled the lad, his voice muffled behind the mask. “You always save them, Papa.”
Marcus gave the girls a squeeze. “That I do, as I expect of you when you are not bent on terrorizing them.”
“ ’Tis only in fun.”
Marcus chuckled. “Fun for you, mayhap. Your mother tells me a different tale.” He set down the girls. “Run along, now. Try to stay out of trouble, will you?”
With assurances no clear-thinking grown-up would believe, the girls scurried off. The boy gave out an aggrieved sigh.
Roland bounced the lad, guessing him no more than seven. “So what do we do with this bear, Marcus? Such a fierce predator should not be allowed to harry the countryside.”
The boy stiffened, just now realizing he’d been caught up by someone he didn’t know.
“What say you, Otto? Shall I let Sir Roland deal with you as I dealt with the bear whose hide you wear?”
“Nay!” Otto rose up and flipped off his mask, revealing a face undeniably similar to Marcus’s. “You would not let him skin me, Papa, would you?”
Marcus rubbed his chin. “Well, now, ’tis a puzzle. Mean bears cannot be allowed to roam at will. Perhaps, if you were a tamed bear …”
“Or at least better-tempered,” Roland said. “Perhaps if Lady Eloise can find him a sweet or two to satisfy his hunger, Otto will be less inclined to growl at his sisters.”
Otto’s surrender to the bribe came as no surprise, though Roland, remembering his own childhood, realized the solution likely wouldn’t last long. The boy’s sisters would need saving several times over before the day was through.
Roland handed Otto into his father’s outstretched arms. After a brief hug and affectionate swat on the hindquarters, Marcus put the boy on his feet and left to light the bonfires.
Otto stared up at Roland, wary.
With hands on hips, Roland stared back at the tyke. “So, what sweet do you like best?”
“Tarts.”
“Any tart in particular?”
Otto shook his head.
“Not fussy, hmmm? Let us see what her ladyship has to offer.”
They strode across the bailey in companionable silence, dodging other scrambling children, greeting people along the way. Otto put his mask back in place as they neared the table.
Eloise spotted them, her hand going to her chest as she inspected Otto. “Sweet mercy, Sir Roland. A fierce bear has breeched the gate! Whatever are we to do?”
The boy giggled through a growl.
“The bear is in search of a tart. He promises not to maul or eat anyone if we can pay his price.”
“A hard bargain, but I do believe I saw…” Eloise glanced back toward the table. “Will apricot do?”
Otto nodded vigorously.
The tart presented with a flourish, Eloise sent the boy off with another warning to not torment his sisters. She turned to him then, her smile softening.
“Now that the bear is vanquished, perhaps his captor should enjoy a reward, too. A tart?”
A kiss.
Roland reached for an apple. “This will do,” he said, then took a bite to keep his mouth busy, to keep from blurting out what he considered a suitable reward.
He took too big a bite. A drop of juice escaped through the corner of his mouth. Before he could bring his hand up to wipe it away, Eloise dispatched it with a fingertip.
He froze, carefully swallowing so he wouldn’t choke.
“How did you come to be with Otto?” she asked quietly.
The last chunk of apple slid down his throat. “I was with Marcus when his girls rushed him, begging to be saved. He picked up the girls, I caught the lad.”
“A good strategy.”
“So it seemed. I did not realize Marcus married.”
“He is not. His mistress lives in the village with their children.” She sighed. “Marcus would marry Claire if she would have him, but she has already buried two husbands and refuses to take a third. She claims she enjoys the freedoms of a widow. ’Tis my opinion she fears if she marries Marcus something untoward will happen to him.”
As had happened to Eloise. With Hugh.
Enough. The last thing he wanted was to remind Eloise of his half brother.
“So, what other festivities are planned for the day?”
“Games for the children. Bobbing for apples. Tonight there will be music and dancing. I know of one group of girls who intend to go down to the stream this eve and wash their gowns.”
To his arched eyebrow, she explained, “ ’Tis said that if one washes a gown in a cold stream on All Hallows’ eve, one can see the face of one’s true love in the wet skirt.”
“Sounds highly doubtful to me.”
“Possibly, but a woman takes assurances where she can get them.”
She said it so seriously he feared they were once again talking about Hugh. But Hugh was gone. His face couldn’t possibly appear in the skirt of her wet gown.
“Going to the stream with them?”
Her sapphire eyes glittered with something akin to mischief. Feminine mischief. “Nay. I have… other plans for the eve.”
She flirted with him. Ye gods. “Such as?”
Eloise blushed, a rosy bloom highlighting her cheekbones. Enchanting. As seductive as a siren’s song.
“Oh, we shall think of something. Perhaps a dance.” The confirmation that her plans included him set his mind reeling and blood boiling. He could dance, all night long if it meant he could hold and touch Eloise.
“I like to dance.”
“Wonderful.” She glanced at his hand. “Finish your apple, Sir Roland. They are best eaten before they turn brown.”
He’d forgotten about the damn apple, but took another bite as he watched her walk away. Did her hips sway more than usual? Did the brief glance over her shoulder beckon him to follow?
He might have whooped for joy if not in the midst of so large a crowd. A crowd that would become more boisterous as the ale flowed, some of the revelers likely passing out before the dancing began.
Aye, he would dance around the bonfire with Eloise, and when assured few would notice, whirl her off into some dark, secluded bower and steal a kiss, mayhap two. Mayhap more.
Eloise nearly stamped her foot in frustration.
’Twas finally evening. The music had started and she saw no sign of Roland in the yard. Surely he knew she would be waiting here for him.
Sweet mercy, she’d been so forward this morn her cheeks burned whenever she thought of how blatantly she touched the corner of his mouth. How she nearly commanded him to dance with her around the bonfire.
Never before had she courted a man’s amorous attention, and now she began to wonder if she’d done it badly.
For the past two days she’d watched the maids, noted the telling glances and
how they moved their bodies when among the men. She’d learned much in her observations and endeavored to practice the more subtle ways of seduction.
Perhaps she’d been too subtle. Maybe he didn’t truly know she had plans for a dance, and then more intimate contact. Well, there was still time to correct any error she might have made. The night was yet young, and everything was ready.
She’d found and secreted away two precious lemons, their juice now mixed with water and hidden in her bed-chamber. Isolde had casually informed her mistress not to expect her in the chamber tonight.
All she needed now was the man she intended to make her lover, a prospect that thrilled and terrified her all at once.
She saw him then, on the other side of the fire, prowling around the edge of the light, searching the crowd. She barely refrained from jumping up and waving to give him her location.
Her stomach fluttered when he saw her at last. It seemed an eternity before he stood before her and made a courtly bow.
“Will you honor me, milady?”
She found her voice. “How could I refuse so gallant an invitation, kind sir?”
He held out his hand, and as she slipped hers into his, all trepidation and doubt fled. This felt so right, so inevitable, that she should be twirling about the fire with Roland St. Marten. Into his arms and out, slides and bows. She heard the music, felt the warmth of the flames, but heeded nothing else than the glow in his eyes.
Then the music dimmed and the light faded. Alone in the dark — she knew not where and didn’t care — he pulled her against him so hard and fully she could feel his arousal.
His lips whispered across hers, “Will you be missed?” “No more than you.”
Another kiss, harder this time, setting loose the tingling sensation she’d come to expect when near him.
“Are you sure, Eloise?”
Echoes of Timothy. “Are you sure, sweetling?” Like squire, like master. She had no fears either.
“I am.”
“Where?”
“My chamber. All is ready.”
He smiled at that. “I certainly am.”
Hands entwined, he led her across the bailey, keeping to the deepest shadows. They’d nearly made it to the inner gate when Simon appeared in their path.