The Devil's Temptress

by Laura Navarre

  “As always, privy chancellor, you grasp the situation perfectly.” The queen inclined her head.

  At last, a crack appeared in Alienore’s controlled facade. Her tone turned brittle as her fingers knotted, hard enough to whiten her knuckles. “Then it seems I can do naught but wait, like an insect caught in amber—as I have done these many months.” She strode to the casement and stared out, her back rigid.

  Aye, she chafed at inaction. He knew her well enough to guess she’d rather don armor and challenge her accusers than maneuver among these mazy intrigues. Maybe he could use that reckless courage of hers. But he knew what it would cost her, with her damn bloody honor, to go against her sovereign’s bidding.

  He spoke quietly, so Alienore couldn’t hear. “Cleave to this course, and you’ll destroy her.”

  “A wise ruler never falters, nor admits to an error.” Eleanor lifted guileless eyes to his. “I learned that lesson from my husband.”

  Pity you learned no more from him—like loyalty.

  “Alienore, my dear?” The queen smiled tenderly. “You do not mind allowing me a moment’s privacy with your champion, do you?”

  Alienore studied her sovereign with troubled eyes. Holding his breath, the Raven silently urged her to defy the queen—but Eleanor of Aquitaine had tied her hands.

  “Lord Raven is not my champion,” Alienore said low. The bitterness of defeat flooded his mouth. “As he is the first to admit. But it seems the matter is settled, is it not? I cannot leave Poitiers against your will—not when I swore to your ser vice.”

  Yet as she left, a worried crease deepened between her eyebrows.

  He should have tossed her over his saddle and made for Normandy while he had the chance. Instead, like a fool, he’d let her sway him with her prattle about honor and duty. Now he must devise some other scheme for smuggling her out of Poitiers, with the queen on full alert.

  Eleanor concealed her triumph behind faultless courtesy. “You have survived a taxing ordeal. Will you take wine, monsieur?”

  He inclined his head, and she poured a dark torrent of burgundy into silver cups, managing her trailing sleeves with elegance. Claiming his goblet, he steeled himself for a battle of wills.

  Serenely, she smiled. “Let us drink to Alienore’s good health.”

  “Gladly.” The wine was an uncommonly fine Bordeaux—forbidden to a Muslim, but he’d broken that edict long ago. Savoring the illicit pleasure, he inhaled the spicy bouquet.

  The queen strolled to the casement and rested light fingers on the glass. “You will pardon my directness, but I cannot avoid noticing that you take an uncommon interest in my godchild’s affairs.”

  “I do as I’m bidden. It’s the nature of a mercenary.”

  “Ah, but you are no mere mercenary. You must not be so self-effacing, monsieur! I know precisely who you are and have known for some time. Only I am allowed the privilege of keeping secrets at Poitiers.”

  His blood turned to ice, though he kept his face impassive. “I’d expect no less.”

  “So you are Henry’s man.” She shrugged. “Or, at least, so you claim. Yet my pious former husband, the French king, writes you are to be trusted in our scheme. He believes you intend to betray Henry and let the French army come pouring into the Vexin.”

  He admitted nothing.

  “You play a dangerous game, monseigneur,” she murmured, giving him a lord’s title. “I wonder if even you are quite certain what you intend. Yet I cannot doubt the nature of your interest in the Lyonstone heiress.”

  He inclined his head, a muscle flexing in his jaw. Let her interpret that as she would.

  “You may well imagine the lady’s reaction,” she said, “when she discovers your identity.”

  Tension churned in his belly. The queen smiled coldly.

  “Fortunately for you, monsieur, I too can be discreet. Follow my lead, and I may find it expedient to advance your aims. Be clever and cautious, and you may yet finish this game to your liking.”

  Pensive, he swirled the wine around his mouth. Did she truly know him, or was this a bluff to smoke him out? He’d commanded men for Henry in the troubled Vexin between France and Normandy long before Henry gave him lands there. Let the queen drop a single hint, and he was undone, and all his grand hopes with him. Forthright Alienore, proud Theobold’s daughter, could forgive a man anything but deception.

  Yet if she remained at Poitiers, she would die a traitor’s messy death.

  He dared not oppose the queen openly, damn the woman. Notwithstanding Sir Guy’s vigilance, she held all the power at Poitiers. One word of command, and the Raven would find himself tossed out on his rump, all his careful plans in ruins.

  And Alienore would be unprotected, at greater risk than before. For both their sakes, he must bide his time.

  He spoke into his goblet. “Grateful for your discretion.”

  “Then, monseigneur, we are agreed? The anonymous knight called the Raven will continue to serve as my master-of-arms, while Alienore remains my privy chancellor. We shall countenance no further talk of sending her to Henry.”

  He bowed himself from the royal presence, curtains of hair falling forward to obscure his wrath.

  Now a new strategy was forming—risky and underhanded, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Undoubtedly Alienore would hate him before it was finished. He told himself the end justified the means and went to find Prince Richard.

  A woman’s cries of passion seeped through the closed door, coupled with a man’s groans. In the corridor, the Raven cast a wry glance toward the guardsman he’d bribed. The man grinned companionably and shrugged.

  He had no bloody time for this. Impatient, the Raven waited while the rutting mounted in fervor. The instant it ended, he struck his knuckles against the door and strode in.

  Within the royal boudoir, a sea of candles blazed around a dishelved bed draped in Plantagenet crimson. The reek of sex hung heavy in the air. He glimpsed a pair of shapely white legs; a tumble of red curls spilled across the bedclothes.

  Richard Plantagenet raised his head from a pillow of plump breasts. “Mon Dieu, you’re supposed to be in Castile, man! You find me at a disadvantage. Unless you wish to join us, eh?”

  These bloody southern French. The Raven betrayed nothing as Rohese de Rievaulx scrambled under the coverlet. “I was compelled to return. Apologies for disturbing your . . . rest.”

  “Well, I’m feeling benevolent.” Unconcerned with his nakedness, Richard rolled on his back and stretched—a lion lazy but dangerous in his den. “Though if you’d arrived a moment sooner . . .”

  The Raven twisted his lips in a smile, disgust churning in his belly. His eyes flickered over the Rievaulx girl, all outraged modesty as she clutched the bedclothes to her breasts and glared at him.

  For this Alienore had challenged him, risked her honor, her very life—to defend a lying whore who reeked of passion. One more stain upon his name was nothing, but Alienore . . .

  When she’d learned Owain’s grim fate, sorrow had shaded her silver eyes to lead. He’d burned with the need to console her in his arms and cursed his own weakness.

  What, an earl’s proud daughter take comfort from you—infidel, sell-sword, a Saracen’s bastard? Yet she’d never faltered as they crept through the forest, alert to every snapping twig, bound for Poitiers despite his every counsel.

  “I need a moment.” He didn’t apologize for the road mud that daubed his boots, the stink of horse that clung to him. Richard would think his mercenary lacked breeding, which suited him all to the good. He hadn’t had time to wash.

  “Consider yourself indulged.” Yawning, the prince reached for his wine cup.

  “Alone, if we may?”

  “You put yourself forward, monsieur,” Richard said amiably, reaching for his braies. “But you amuse me, which has a price beyond rubies. I confess myself intrigued by this nocturnal visit.”

  Ignoring the Raven, the girl turned her jade-colored eyes on the prince. “Richard, are
you leaving me already?”

  “That would be impossible, chérie.” The prince bowed gallantly. “Cultivate the virtue of patience, eh? We have hours yet to play.”

  Mollified, the girl reclined, lips curling in a smile of triumph.

  For this Alienore risked herself? The slut’s not fit to wipe her boots! With a contemptuous glance that made her smile falter, the Raven stalked to the hearth.

  “And so.” The prince flung himself into a high-backed chair. “What can possibly be so pressing?”

  “A matter of money, Your Grace.” The fire’s hostile heat pressed against his skin and crackled with hunger. “I come to collect on our wager.”

  “What wager?” For an irritating moment, the prince looked blank. Then his cobalt eyes narrowed. “You mean the demoiselle Alienore?”

  The Raven quashed a lifetime of conditioning. Not an outright lie, no violation of his oath, but he would mislead his prince. The end justified the means. Propping elbows on knees, he hunkered forward.

  “We were alone together for a night.” He pitched his voice low—knowing the girl was straining to hear. “I took advantage of every moment.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Richard stared. “What of Sieur de Beaumont? He accompanied you, oui?”

  “That puppy? Left behind in the forest.” With a shrug, he consigned Thierry de Beaumont’s reputation to the dogs.

  “Ah! This is what comes of sending a boy to do a man’s work.” The prince, all of sixteen, gestured in disgust. “But the demoiselle—she allowed you . . . ?”

  “The girl’s an innocent.” Allah gild his tongue if the man pressed for intimate details about his alleged encounter! “The queen ordered her to accept my . . . protection.”

  His blood smoked to recall the lush feel of her mouth, opening to his kiss—

  “Remind me to thank my mother for that.” The prince’s chuckle held an ugly edge. “So Lady Virtue has tumbled from grace. She beds a common mercenary, yet spurns a prince?”

  So the rutting goat had tried, damn him. The Raven clenched his jaw over the murderous rage that boiled on his tongue, and twisted his lips in a chilling smile.

  “You recall what we wagered? I’ve come to collect.”

  “Ah.” Richard’s fist clenched around his cup. “Never let it be said a Plantagenet failed to honor his word.”

  The Raven treaded carefully, the scent of his prey filling his nostrils. Irritated by the smoke, his throat itched for wine, but he wouldn’t risk clouding his wits now. “Can’t carry on a proper liaison here. Poitiers crawls with spies and talebearers. I’d spirit the girl away—to some place more private, aye? Some chateau or hunting lodge, far from her chancellor’s duties.”

  Richard scowled into the fire. The Raven’s hand twitched, missing his sword—left despite his misgivings with the sentry outside. No man bore steel before his prince, but he’d kept the curved dagger. His fingers ached to draw it.

  The bedclothes rustled as Rohese slid to her feet, revealing a sensuous glimpse of pear-shaped buttocks, and wrapped a surcoat around her voluptuous figure. He gritted his teeth as she sauntered toward them, the open robe offering glimpses of pale legs and pouting breasts.

  Once she’d seemed fetching enough, at least for an hour’s diversion, but no lust tightened his loins now. Wrapping a careless arm around her, the prince tumbled her into his lap.

  Bloody hell—a seasoned harlot. If Alienore knew, the shame would kill her.

  “Your bed grows cold.” Rohese cast the Raven a coy glance. “And so do I.”

  “You, chérie—cold?” The prince laughed. “Par Dieu! If Alienore welcomes your attentions, monsieur, who am I to stand in love’s path? But I’ll have a favor from you as well.”

  Not the terms of our bargain—but this is Richard Plantagenet. The man was Duke of Aquitaine, and heir to the English throne if his brother died without issue. Any man would be wise to recall it.

  “Her newly pious duke will want nothing to do with the bitch now that you’ve had her.” Malice twisted the prince’s face. “What noble lord wants a commoner’s leavings? Not even her lands and dowry will sweeten that bitter brew. Truly, now, one man to another—don’t you think we owe him the truth?”

  He misliked where this was headed, but kept it from his face. “The lady spurned his suit.”

  “But not to his face. By all reports he lingers in her hall like a lovesick swain, drinking her ale and wenching while he awaits her return.” The prince bared his teeth in an unfriendly grin. “I’ll arrange your little love tryst, make it right with my mother—mon Dieu, I’ll even lend you my own hunting lodge. How’s that for generous? But first, you’ll grant me my pound of flesh. Get me the Duc d’Ormonde.”

  The Raven’s suspicions exploded as alarm jolted through him. Gripping his chair, he restrained himself—barely in time—from surging to his feet. Did the prince too know him? Or was it only spite from a spurned suitor?

  The Raven bit out the words. “Highborn lords don’t come and go at my bidding.”

  And Ponce least of all, when it comes to that.

  “Use your wits, man—you’re clever enough. Lead Ponce d’Ormonde to his fugitive bride, and let her deal with him.”

  Richard Plantagenet narrowed his gaze on the girl in his lap, her eyes wide with dawning awareness. “And you, my sweet, will breathe no word of this to your sainted cousin—or suffer my grave displeasure.”

  Chapter Nine

  The blind man flailed, groping for the tormentors who hovered beyond reach. One bold fellow darted in to tug the victim’s jasper-studded surcoat, then danced back to howls of laughter from the drunken crowd.

  At the high table, a bored Prince Geoffrey pelted the blindfolded gallant with a steady hail of nuts. In his wild efforts to avoid the stinging rain, the gallant knocked over a bench. The missile skidded into the legs of a kitchen churl, whose tray went flying, spattering ale across the floor.

  From a lower table, Alienore looked for the chamberlain to end this unseemly brawl. But excesses that earned rebuke on other occasions now passed without remark. On Shrove Tuesday, the day of mischief before the long, somber twilight of Lent, intemperance was forgiven.

  Unhappily she pondered the volume of royal correspondence that awaited her. Yet she felt a troubling ambivalence toward her duties.

  Eleanor is proved a traitor by her own hand. Now her disloyalty taints me as well. She felt sullied, as though by the stinking refuse of a chamber pot. She could trust no man or woman at this treacherous court—save one. Yet the Raven had gone away.

  She was at a loss to comprehend the enigmatic knight. An embittered crusader who practiced Saracen customs and swore in Allah’s name. The king’s trusted man who protected her from the king’s vengeance. Over a sennight since he’d vanished, and still he commanded her thoughts. Hidden facets of his character glittered like blood rubies in darkness.

  The unflinching courage that flung him between her and her enemies, teeth bared as he battled to save her.

  The relentless resolve that guided them through the mazy forest.

  The self-contempt that scorched his ruined voice. I’m naught for you to admire, he had hurled at her. She knew that pain too well—the white-hot lash of disgrace.

  And the molten heat of his kiss, pooling in her belly until she ached for him.

  By her faith, she knew him not at all. Yet she found herself powerfully tempted to trust him.

  A feminine shriek recalled her to the game. The blind fool had captured Rohese, flushed and pretty in yellow silk, red curls tumbling from her chaplet. Despite her noisy indignation, the damsel paid her forfeit with a kiss. Before the drink-blurred eyes of all the court, the gallant played it to the fullest, hands straying everywhere.

  Alienore turned away from her cousin’s disgrace. Saint Swithun save her, the Raven had told the truth. She no longer took him for a lecher, inclined to rape an innocent maid on the eve of a holy feast. Sighing, she rose.

  The movement caught Rohese’s ey
e. “Nay, Alienore, you cannot slip away! You’ve not taken your turn.”

  Alienore made a courteous demurral. She never played such games. She, romp like a child with this throng of mischief-makers, when she had work to do? She could not comprehend why Rohese should suggest such a thing.

  Unfortunately, Prince Richard seized upon the cause. “Nay, don’t spoil our sport! Come into the circle. I, your future king, command it.”

  With an indulgent smile, the queen touched his sleeve. Yet Eleanor of Aquitaine said nothing to spare her this humiliation.

  Are they not content seeing me branded a traitor? Nay, I must become a jesting stock as well. Anger seethed in her soul as she whisked the blindfold from her cousin and tied it in place.

  As she blundered about with arms extended, groping after fools, the acid knowledge seeped through her. This senseless game mimicked her life at court. Like the village idiot, she stumbled through her part, blinded from the truth by her own narrow perceptions.

  “Hsst!” A hand caught her wrist, yanked her through the crowd. For a foolish instant she thought it was the Raven, come to rescue her. Her heart leaped with a mad jubilation.

  Then she scented cloves and lavender. Whoever he was, her rescuer was not the Raven. The very air did not hum with the leashed vitality of his presence.

  “This way, my lady!”

  Groping, she brushed a marble pillar. Her rescuer pulled her behind it, blocking them from the court’s unfriendly eyes.

  “Thierry?” Ah, her Lancelot—at least he had not abandoned her. She loosened the blindfold, but he caught her hands.

  “Listen well, my lady! I overheard Prince Richard conversing with Her Grace. Alienore . . . Ponce d’Ormonde is coming.”

  Ponce d’Ormonde. The name whelmed her chest like a tourney lance, knocking the breath from her lungs.

  “You were not to be warned, by the queen’s own order! Ormonde must have thrown his support to her cause. Alienore, she has sold you out.”

  “Nay, that is impossible.” She trembled with shock. The sickening enormity of this betrayal surged through her. “I cannot believe that.”