The Devil's Temptress

by Laura Navarre

  “Believe it! I risk my own place by telling you.” He pressed his lips to her shaking hand. “For your sake I risk all, my brave Guinevere. You must fly to my father, the Comte de Beaumont. He will shelter you.”

  “Nay.” She squared herself against the ugly truth. “So Ponce d’Ormonde would stoop to treason, consorting with the queen. When does he arrive?”

  “By nightfall. I heard Richard say it.”

  Fresh alarm spurted through her. “God save me, that is no time at all.”

  Beyond the pillar, a tide of voices mounted, salted with complaints over the delay.

  “Fear not, brave lady.” Thierry gripped her fingers hard enough to crush them. “You shall flee to safety, while I challenge for your hand.”

  “Alienore, come out!” Richard bellowed. “Else I shall be owed a forfeit—”

  “Imbecile.” She hurled the word like a spear toward her drunken prince. They had both betrayed her, mother and son, to win the Norman duke’s allegiance. Yet beneath the winds of crisis, the swirling fog of days cleared away. Her thoughts marched through her brain with relentless logic, telling her what she must do.

  Her command rang clear as a war horn. “Thierry, you are to do nothing on my account—nothing at all, do you comprehend me?”

  “Nay, Alienore, don’t you see? I’ll challenge him for your hand! My father is the king’s man. He’ll petition Henry. We can be married by Easter, only think of it!”

  Beyond the pillar Richard’s voice rose, a taunting singsong, drawing closer. Apparently he had come down to roust her out of hiding.

  “Thierry, I do not wish for that.” As she spoke, her certainty crystallized. The flimsy edifice of her self-deceit shattered. “’Tis a great honor you would do me, but—I cannot.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Jesus wept, there is no time! You need only remain silent until I can act. Swear it on your honor as a knight.”

  “My lady, are you refusing me?” His grip would splinter the bones in her fingers. “Was it all no more than a game to you? You knew I sought a noble bride, knew I would have nothing if I did not marry well—”

  “I made you no promises.” Desperate, she wrenched free her throbbing hands. “How could I? I am bound already by one betrothal I do not desire.”

  To that he said nothing. Even so, her conscience pained her. Had she encouraged him unfairly these many months? Well, she must examine her conscience another time.

  “Swear to do nothing,” she whispered. “Swear it on your love for me, if ever you did love.”

  “Alienore—” He choked. “Very well, if you insist. I swear it.”

  She wrenched away, into the open. A drunken roar heralded her appearance. Rough hands gripped her shoulders. Stumbling, she clutched the encircling arms, fingers spanning a fighting man’s biceps. It ended the accursed game, God be praised, for she’d captured someone at last.

  “Too late.” Wine-sour breath washed over her, an instant’s warning before Richard’s mouth came down. Eager lips squirmed against hers as she strained away. A wet tongue nudged against her lips.

  Vivid memories rushed through her of another kiss, another man, the tingling thrill of unknown sensations coursing through her. How could two kisses be so unlike? Revulsion for this one made her flesh creep.

  Burning with shame, she twisted away and snatched off the blindfold.

  “Still playing the virtuous maid?” Richard leered. “Mon Dieu, but I know better.”

  “Your Grace, this behavior is unworthy of you—and of me.” With a shaking hand, she found a handkerchief and wiped her lips. “I fear you are much the worse for drink.”

  “Nay, wine but improves my performance! You can ask your pretty cousin about that.”

  “Very well, carissime.” The queen’s cool voice sliced through the ruckus. “You have claimed your forfeit from my most virtuous lady. Unhand her now.”

  Drawing a mantle of dignity around her, Alienore curtsied stiffly. Fury and shame scorched her. By God, if only she were a man! She would challenge them all—but nay.

  They were her sovereigns. She could only reproach their ill use with cold courtesy.

  “With pardon, Your Grace, I take my leave.”

  “We’ll see who does the taking this night,” Richard muttered. “Avoi, we’ll see how well you play your little game then.”

  So Richard Plantagenet stood her enemy. He’d sent for Ponce—she knew it now as clearly as if he’d told her. Still, it was not too late. Not if she kept her wits about her.

  “Ooh, milady, such a turrible thing!” Nesta’s freckled face hovered before her as Alienore burst into her apartments. Bounding through the open door, Remus planted paws on her shoulders and slathered her with an exuberant tongue.

  “There is not a moment to lose.” Drawing comfort from his nearness, Alienore scrubbed the wolf’s ruff. “Where are my saddlebags?”

  “Here. But, milady—” Nesta wrung her hands as her mistress burrowed into the wardrobe. Alienore’s fur-lined pelisse and boots came tumbling to her hand. “There’s a soldier—”

  “Not now, Nesta.” Pawing through the chest, Alienore tossed shifts and stockings to the floor. “Run down to the kitchens. And I do mean run, with no stopping for chatter along the way.”

  “I never—”

  “Bring me bread, cheese, apples, whatever they have. Then find Luke—him and none other—and tell him to saddle Galahad.”

  Her hand closed around the slender length of her broadsword: gray steel wrapped in leather, with no glimmer of wealth to betray her in the tourneys. In its familiar haft she found her strength.

  “Nesta, this is most important. Tell Luke it must be done quietly. He’s to meet me at the postern gate.”

  “But, milady!” The girl wiggled with agitation. “This soldier, I ran across ‘im in the buttery. He’s a lad from ‘ome.”

  Arrested as she burrowed for her gloves, Alienore stared. “A courier from home, after all this time—for me?”

  “Nay, milady, not for you. He’s chance-come, bride-hunting for the young earl.”

  “By my faith, Benedict is here?” Her heart contracted. “Does he seek to mend our quarrel?”

  God save me, has he ridden with Ponce?

  “Nay, milady, the earl stayed ‘ome. But the soldier was all agog to see a familiar face.” Nesta hesitated, her brow furrowing. “’Tis a hard winter there, he says. Scottish bandits are a-raiding, and I—I’m scared.”

  Starving for news from home, Alienore trembled with the urge to shake the addle-witted girl until the words tumbled from her mouth. With an effort, she restrained herself.

  “Calm yourself, Nesta. Matters cannot be so grim. We have no word from our faithful Raoul d’Albini . . .” Her voice wavered. Her only friend after Marguerite’s death, more father to her than the crusading earl. “I wrote him a letter when we came here, Nesta, and said where to find me. Yet he has not replied. Raoul would send notice without fail, if . . .”

  Wouldn’t he have written to warn her when Ormonde tired of waiting? No matter what had passed between them the night she left.

  Alienore cleared her throat. “What more did this soldier say?”

  “He said yer brother claimed yer crops, milady, leaving naught for our folk. The livestock too—yer own good sheep, he’s claimed. Says ye’re never coming ‘ome, and yer lands are his now.”

  “By what right does he dare?” Rage coursed through her. “How will our people survive without their livelihood? God’s mercy, I should never have left them.”

  “What do we do, milady?” Nesta’s hands twisted in her woolen kirtle. “I’m worrit for me mam and da. Are we going ‘ome?”

  Nosing her skirts, the wolf whined. Bleakly Alienore hugged him and rested her chin on his head.

  “I cannot go home, Nesta. Until the king rules on my petition, I am powerless. Once again I must flee Ponce d’Ormonde like a thief from the gallows. I have no allies here—not even the friends I thought were
mine.”

  “Why, we all stand by ye, all the folk from Lyonstone. I’d follow ye to the grave, milady, after what ye done on my account—and me no more than a wee lass when that devil bailiff would have his way. I’ll go with ye, wherever ye’re going.”

  “You are beyond good to say it. I do not doubt your courage, but I will not have you flee into the wild. This time, I must go alone.”

  “Alone?” Nesta propped hands on her hips. “Ye mean—without me? Ye’ll not manage on the road without yer Nesta.”

  Alienore smiled wanly. “You are terrified of horses, and I must ride at speed.”

  “For yer sake, milady . . .”

  Aye, for her sake Nesta would screw up her courage. But the tiring girl would slow her—and that, she could ill afford.

  “Nesta, I have greater need of you here. I have a letter for the queen that she must not receive until I am well away. I dare leave it in no hands but yours. No matter what she has done, I will not abandon Eleanor without a word of explanation. May I rely on you?”

  “Aye, milady.” The tiring girl stood straight, pride shining from her eyes. “But where will ye go?”

  Pinning a snood over her hair, Alienore stared at her reflection in the polished plate: pale, freckles standing out across her nose, chin set with determination. But her eyes glowed like stars.

  For the first time since she’d fled home, she felt like a Lyonstone.

  “All depends upon the king now. ’Tis there I must go—to King Henry’s court.” She thrust her sword into her saddlebag. “And I dare not tarry, with Ponce d’Ormonde on the move. I must leave this very hour.”

  Henry shall have the truth from my own lips. And I shall have a ruling on my inheritance, and this would-be husband.

  Galahad cantered along the road beneath a sky glowing red with sunset. Beside them, the river slept beneath a blanket of rotting ice, winding north toward the troubled counties where the ember of war smoldered.

  Henry might be anywhere, reducing a rebel castle or staving off the French king’s assault. Alienore hoped to learn his whereabouts in villages and abbeys along the way.

  Despite the danger, her heart thrilled as she rode. On a dripping bough, a robin warbled to welcome the thaw, sweet as the certainty that thrummed within her. For the first time since Benedict returned from crusade bearing news of her father’s death, a shoot of hope unfurled in her breast.

  In the crisp air, sound carried. Galahad’s ears swiveled forward as Remus halted, head cocked to nose the air. On guard, she drew rein, so that she too could hear. Through the trees, distant cries rose and fell on the wind: the belling of hounds.

  The fine hairs along her body rose to stand on end. She told herself there were many sorts of prey those hounds could be hunting. Still, Ponce d’Ormonde must have reached Poitiers by now. No doubt her flight had been discovered.

  Well, no matter. I am no cutthroat or runaway thief. ’Tis folly to believe he’d set hounds to track me—and folly to believe he will do nothing.

  The tales of his past depravities would send chills down any woman’s spine. He’d coupled serving girls with his hunting hounds, so the rumor ran. And set those same hounds to hunt his runaway serfs, to the bloody finish. Either he was corrupt as Lucifer, or he was mad.

  Even if he had repented in his old age, she could imagine the duke’s rage when he learned his coveted heiress had slipped his grasp again, after he’d crossed an ocean and two war-torn countries to claim her.

  She clapped her heels into Galahad’s flanks, and the stallion surged ahead. He could run half the night without tiring. Still, she disliked the notion of barreling blindly along. If Galahad put his foot into a rut, he could break a leg—or her neck, when he threw her.

  Again she drew rein. For a tense moment she heard nothing . . . then the baying of hounds split the air. Shivering, she peered behind her, where the road tunneled beneath darkening trees. If Ponce had loosed his hounds—runaway serf or runaway bride, what difference to him?—she would do well to leave the road. Yet she didn’t fancy the notion of blundering through the pitch-black wood. Undecided, she worried as Remus milled around the stallion’s legs.

  A frenzy of distant barking prodded her to action. She swung a leg forward over the pommel and jumped down—a knight’s careless dismount rather than a lady’s. But none would disapprove on this bleak road.

  Pulling Galahad behind her, she crept down the sloping bank. At the river’s edge she hesitated. Shrove Tuesday had brought a thaw, but this winter had been the coldest anyone could recall. Cautious, she prodded the ice with a branch—solid, so far as she could tell. When she leaned into it, ready to spring back, it held her weight. Leaving the warhorse behind, she eased onto the ice, alert for cracking. The wolf ran past her and lapped fresh water from standing puddles on the surface.

  God’s mercy, the hounds will be here soon. Where is your courage? Shuddering, she urged the reluctant warhorse onto the ice. It stretched away before them, beneath a ghostly moon.

  Perhaps the river would save her. Confused by the jumble of scents, the hounds might miss her.

  Behind her, a twig snapped. Remus growled, muzzle skimming back to bare his teeth.

  She hissed to quiet him. The wolf subsided, red eyes trained upon her. Galahad snorted, and she pressed her hand against his muzzle. Silence seeped through the forest.

  At last she crept forward, wincing at every clop of the stallion’s hooves. Increasingly agitated, Remus wove back and forth before her legs, whining, nearly tripping her. Then the stallion picked up the wolf’s unease and balked. Peering behind them, she tugged on the bridle.

  Suddenly a sharp percussive crack sounded, followed by a splash. A stab of terror pierced her heart when she spied the jagged hole in the ice. In the black water, Remus floundered, immersed to his snout. His paws churned for purchase, but found none.

  Panic clawed at her chest. Forcing back the clamoring fear, she tore open her saddlebag, and jerked off her gloves when she could not find what she sought. The wolf yelped as he struggled against the deadly current.

  Struggling to keep her head, she sobbed with relief when the coil of rope materialized. Hastily, she looped an end around Galahad’s pommel and tied it, while every instinct screamed for speed.

  At last, she looped the rope around her waist and edged toward the dangerous hole where the wolf fought for his life.

  Beneath her, the thin ice cracked. Gasping prayers to every saint she knew, she dropped to her knees and crawled. Icy water seeped through her stockings and bliaut as she inched forward, calling encouragement to the wolf.

  She had nearly reached the edge when a snap split the air. Between her hands, a fissure opened. She teetered between unsteady plates of ice—and knew she could proceed no farther. Her valiant friend struggled against the deadly current, white-rimmed eyes imploring for help.

  Blinded by tears, she screamed, “Remus!”

  “Allah’s blood, Alienore!” a hoarse voice shouted. “Don’t move.”

  Frantic for the wolf, she did not even wonder at the miracle of the Raven’s appearance. He strode toward her as she spread herself precariously over the widening fissure.

  “Knot the rope around you!” The Raven gripped Galahad’s bridle. His steadying presence infused her with a tincture of strength. “I’ll pull you out.”

  “Help Remus!” The wolf yelped and vanished beneath the waves. Her heart lodged in her throat until his wet head emerged. “He cannot hold out much longer.”

  “After I help you,” he said.

  On the edge of hysteria, she screamed out the unvarnished truth. “That wolf is the only creature on earth who loves me! Help him.”

  “I swear on my life, I will. Alienore—trust me this once.”

  Conflict twisted her stomach. Knowing she dared not squander precious seconds by arguing, she clung to the rope as it pulled her to safety.

  Catching her beneath the arms, the Raven hauled her to her feet, then dragged her against his musc
led frame. She clung to him, massive shoulders knotting beneath her grip, and caught a bare glimpse of his scarred features, pitch black hair raked back, amber eyes flaming.

  “Bloody reckless woman.” Cradling her head, he crushed her against his chest. “Are you injured?”

  “Nay,” she whispered, feeling his arms around her, pressing her against his strength as if he would never let go. For a mindless instant she sheltered there, safe within the bastion of his body.

  A yip of terror shattered the spell. With a rough exhale, he released her.

  “Help Remus.” Sobbing, she fumbled at the rope.

  He knotted it around his own lean waist. “Alienore, if I fall in, you must pull me out. You’ve the strength to do it.”

  Nodding, she gripped the rope. He edged onto the dangerous surface. With feline grace, he crawled toward the struggling wolf. Somehow, one limb at a time, he slithered to the broken edge. Looping the rope around her body, she braced to support his weight.

  The Raven stretched flat over the fragile ice and reached for the wolf. Obscured by darkness as clouds swept across the moon, he plunged his arms into the freezing water. The frantic wolf struggled, dragging him toward the water. Immersed to his waist, the man held steady, legs straddling the ice.

  “I have him,” he rasped.

  With all her strength, she pulled.

  In a flailing scramble, Remus heaved from the water. She sobbed with relief as he trotted to her side. On solid ground, he shook himself, sending a shower of droplets flying.

  She could not spare him a moment, her weight set against the drag of the Raven’s mighty frame, poised on the broken edge. With no leverage to free himself, the knight lay submerged, risking no further movement. He had to rely upon her to pull him free.

  She set her weight against the rope and heaved. His substantial bulk did not budge, and a sob of frustration burst from her. Snugging the rope around Galahad’s pommel, she urged him toward the shore.

  Beneath their pull, the Raven slid onto solid ice. She urged the horse onward and dragged the knight to safety.

  At last she could kneel and fill her arms with wriggling, soaking-wet wolf. She hugged Remus and cried as he covered her face in sloppy kisses.