Chateau of Desire (Chateau of Love Book 1)

by Monica Bentley

  No matter.

  m’Lady was coming to, with a groan.

  For the first time, Louis came out of his haze, directing a challenging glare at Remi. “Permit me to do my duty,” he said.

  Remi nodded. He took the rapier from Louis and waited.

  Louis knelt by her, taking in her beauty for the first time. He had never been that close to her before. She didn’t look any older than Phoebe he realized with a shock. He murmured, “Let me help you up, m’Lady” and began lifting her to a sitting position.

  She froze, seeing the body of m’Lord, still twitching. Her face a mask, devoid of all emotion, took in the sight. She looked at Remi, a hint of fear marking her eyes.

  Who responded with a bow and a flourish. “m’Lady, yon boy has guaranteed my safe passage after I dispatch him.”

  Then a regal stillness settled upon her, along with her true age, as she continued to gaze at him. “You shall have it.”

  He bowed again.

  “If you live.”

  He finished his bow and smiled at Louis.

  As one, they both slipped into en garde.

  Should she nudge him? Should she trip him? She could. He would never know what hit him, she smiled, baring her teeth as she felt her orgasm sliding toward her as if in a hazy cloud. It would be just repayment for tricking her, for leaving her. He would never know. All he would feel is the bite of cold steel sliding right through him, watching his own blood stream back down his opponent’s blade, pooling at his feet along with his last thoughts of frustrated rage.

  * 12 *

  His mind carefully blank, devoid of all fear, all anxiety, even performance anxiety for a Master who was not there, of worry about that same Master, of rage that Chateau Brionde had just been raped, of everything but the excellent swordsman in front of him, Louis pondered.

  In that hazy dream, stroke after stroke that he had learned at the knee of the Master all those winter evenings, edging a rapier with his hands until it felt as natural as a spoon did while sipping Maryl’s hot broth or a strip of red hot metal did in the hands of the blacksmith or an axe did in the hands of a woodsman chopping down a fragrant cedar.

  In that dance style floating through space that he had learned at the command of the Master all those glasses, hundreds, even thousands of glasses spent in the practice yard, learning to conquer space, to charge, to fall back, to turn, to feint, to drive, to disorient, never linear, always circular, always looping, always weaving a web of defeat for his opponent.

  In that silkiness of being, learning to move with the same feline sultriness he saw Remi exhibiting now with his footwork, circling, feinting, driving, testing, no sign of which was given away until it magically appeared all on its own in its unique singularity of beauty.

  In that eternal moment that must end in his death or his opponent’s, Louis danced with Remi, slicing toward him.

  Who parried.

  Louis felt the circular parry turning his wrist. It was the same circular parry that he had used to disarm Rafe a century ago. Three circles, then the flick that took Rafe’s rapier right out of his grip and sent it crashing into the Master’s hut. The same circular parry. Some part of his mind far away in a distant land pondered that as the third circling movement of his wrist came. He let it. Almost.

  And then he turned his own wrist as he felt the flick coming and, reaching under, around, Remi’s blade, stepped in to nick him on the cheek. Just to make him angry, Louis thought with a smile that never appeared on his sweat-stained face, for there was no time.

  He was already stepping completely through and turning on his toes, his heels high off the ground, firmly balanced.

  Remi’s eyes, following him, went wide.

  And that was when Louis knew he had won. In that flash of lightning that characterizes the very best of swordwork, this fight was over. He stepped into the fraction of a heartbeat that marked Remi’s astonishment that he could ever meet a better swordfighter and prepared to...

  “Louis!”

  His eyes turned toward her just a bit before he corrected. A tiny bit. Only the tiniest bit. But it was enough. What a small space an entire life slips through he thought, feeling Remi’s rapier bite through him, its point searching for his heart, hearing Phoebe’s gasp, as he watched his own point slip helplessly wide past Remi in a frustrated fury.

  And then he was on the floor. Phoebe holding him. His rapier had clanged on the stone somewhere. He wasn’t sure where. Did it matter? She was crying. He could feel her tears wet his cheeks and he knew that he loved her. Since... Did it matter?

  *****

  Tristen turned to m’Lady.

  “Your name?” her regal stillness making her seem impossibly cold, distant. Queen-like. Royal. She was older than him by a few years, he could see. Given another lifetime, Tristen thought he could defend such a one. Not this lifetime, however.

  “Sir Tristen, condottiere.” He bowed with a flourish.

  “With?”

  “Sir Bertrand du Guesclin,” he waited, wondering what rage looked like on such beautiful features. She made him think of Tempeste. There was power in her. Latent, yes, yet it radiated forth for the warrior paying attention. He cautioned himself to show proper deference. The witch had taught him well, he grinned inwardly. He bowed again, more slowly this time, his ears tracking the Guardsmen Phoebe had brought with her. Up to this point, they had not moved a King’s inch from the archway.

  “Ah, the Master’s old companion. That explains a great deal in less time than a nightingale to sing her song.”

  Tristen blinked at that.

  She turned to the Guardsmen. “Sir Tristen is guaranteed passage out of Brionde.”

  They bowed to her.

  “This time.”

  They bowed again.

  Tristen looked at Phoebe. The last time, he wondered? Her eyes were defiant, scared. He smiled encouragingly at her which made them pause. As he passed by, he saw her bending over Louis, kissing his brow, the blood pooling beneath her hands.

  *****

  m’Lady insisted that her defender be given a room in the castle while he mended. Phoebe asked for and was granted the right to tend to Louis. She did with all the watchful care of any tigress tending to her brood. That she, like Louis, had thought to come defend m’Lord raised her in m’Lady’s eyes. That she had had the brains to grab a couple of Guardsmen along the way, rather than coming by herself raised her even higher. This, however, she learned over time. For now, it was enough to know that she was to split her glasses between Louis’ care and running the very kitchen in which she used to be beaten, giving orders to Nicole and the others rather than taking them.

  Her man mended slowly, as did Chateau Brionde. For a number of weeks, she would allow the Master no longer than a half glass with Louis. Then, come hell or high water, she kicked him out, once even pleading with m’Lady to get her way. But only once. The kitchen scamp knew not to push her luck with the high born.

  She was waiting.

  Instead, as Louis grew stronger, she contented herself with sitting in the corner, sipping teas of mint or chamomile that she made for him and listening to their conversations. Louis had been really upset at what the Master would think of his beleaguered defense of the castle. Yet, over time, as their discussions continued and the waited for punishment did not come, it slowly dawned on them both that the Master was, in his terse comments, complimenting Louis for his quick thinking and his willingness to take on responsibility.

  She was waiting.

  They went over the attack endlessly, to the point that she could almost recite Louis’ descriptions, word for word of the different stages. Of the Master’s short anecdote of unhorsing du Guesclin after three slices, then leaving his companions to mop up while he galloped for the gate and took command of the defense of the castle. Apparently, as word spread that the Master had returned, the remaining attackers had fled back down their own ropes. Several villagers claimed that. Whether it was true, Louis admitted to her
one night, he doubted. Still...he allowed that the right name in the right place could work wonders.

  She wondered what magic his name would, in time, make in the wider world.

  She was waiting.

  The reconstruction brought out her most vicious tigress. The one she didn’t even know that she had until she had attacked Remi in the very kitchen where he had held her so many years ago. Well, it came in handy when the stone masons began pounding outside Louis’ room. At first they had ignored her pleadings, until she went so far as to topple the scaffolding while they were atop it. She didn’t have any problems with them after that.

  m’Lady had laughed when hearing about it and informed Phoebe, that given time and Louis’ healing, she would be taken in to the sovereign’s chamber as a maid-in-waiting.

  In the meantime, she was still waiting.

  Waiting for that day. That night.

  For she spent her nights with him now.

  It began slowly, with her caressing his brow, wiping away the sweat from his temples and his chest with a damp cloth. The wound, just over the heart had given them all pause. Until the Master had simply tapped it a few times while looking Louis hard in the eyes. Then, he had grunted and gone away, leaving Phoebe with the memory of Remi’s last look of encouragement as he was leaving. Had he pulled his thrust at the last moment?

  She probably would never know. Besides, she didn’t care. She had her man. That was the first understanding she came to with Coletta, m’Lady’s personal servant, as soon as the slut realized that Louis would be staying just a few levels above in the Keep.

  Yes, she had caressed him. By day, all day, his chest, his biceps, his thighs. Every place she had always dreamed about. Using the medium of a damp cloth, reassuring him that keeping him nude under the blankets would hasten his healing, get him back out to the practice yard sooner. For he could hear the ringing of rapier on rapier every afternoon, often telling her who had just struck whom by the tone of the metal clang.

  She was waiting.

  She listened to his breathing at night, smelling it for any scent, any sign of anything wrong. She taught him how to freshen his breath with mint after using a brush in the new Parisian style to clean his teeth. She showed him how kisses with mint breath tasted sweeter than ones with garlicky meat sauce.

  One day, she helped him stand upright for the first time since his duel. She knew it would not be long now, for on that day, she had seen the first sign of it in his eyes. It had been there just a moment, almost a flicker of Cutie’s wings when her friend came to visit her in their tower room. It had been there a moment before fading.

  She was waiting for his need.

  All too soon after, she was helping him walk up and down the room. Then up and down the hallway outside. Then helping him balance when he tried his first lunges since the fight. Privately, she was torn. She thought the lunges too soon, but she was also starting to pant, quietly, at the sight of his ass tightening under the shorts that she had made for him.

  Yes, her own need was growing, too.

  But, having learned from her time with Remi, she knew that she wanted him to want her in such a way that he would value her forever. That he would never take her love, her lust for granted. Over time, usually while he was resting, after she had stripped his sweat-stained shorts off him and hung them near the window to catch the evening breeze and dry, while she was going about, pretending to neaten up, she would feel his eyes touching her. In different places. To her quiet sighs that would turn, in time, to louder moans.

  Finally, one night it happened. She was awakened to the feel of his hardness pressing against her. She looked to him, saw his embarrassment in the cool light of the moon, heard his stammers.

  She smiled, then reached down and took him in her mouth.

  Who Is Monica Bentley?

  I spend my mornings covered to the neck, wrist, and ankle watching all those hard asses and harder abs walk by out of the corner of my eye at a conservative construction firm. Then, I go home and smother my babies with kisses after school.

  In between, I dream up all-consuming stories that let you escape to exotic lands far away and exciting adventures with a healthy splash of steamy sex guaranteed to make a girl’s knees weak.

  If you like triple-cream brie stories that slowly melt on the tongue, you’ll like mine. All the sex a girl can handle, sometimes raw and raunchy, sometimes sweet and gentle. Hunky and hard alpha males softly sweeping up innocent girls (who can be bad, too!) in a breath-taking romance that ends in HEA.

  Go to MonicaBentley.com for all the dirty details!

  If you like Chateau of Desire you’ll love Monica Bentley’s new steamy romance

  Tower of Lust

  (the prequel to this too sexy to hold Chateau of Love series)

  Will m’Lady Lela ever get to feel the Master’s muscular hands on her hips?

  Find out!

  For a limited time only get your free copy at MonicaBentley.com!