by North, Evie
“I am here because I heard word of what Matilda was planning and went to King Stephen. He told me to ride to you to help you, but in return he wants you to bring Godestone to him, lady. He believes you will prefer his rule to Matilda’s, especially when hers comes with the face of Freemantle.”
Isabella looked at him with a frown. “You heard word?” she repeated. “So you are here at Stephen’s behest, Alric?”
He hesitated then shrugged and admitted, “I would have come anyway, lady.”
But why? she wanted to ask. What am I to you?
He was speaking again. “You would be wise to agree to support Stephen. He is sending some of his army to you, although they will probably not reach us before Freemantle. Godestone is rich and you are a good ruler, and Stephen needs such people on his side. And he would not ask you to marry anyone you do not wish to marry.”
“While Matilda would have me wed Freemantle,” she added grimly.
She could not help but feel betrayed by Matilda, a woman she had been loyal to all these years, and one she had thought would understand her predicament, would support her. But to Isabella sides were not as important as saving Godestone. And herself.
“We have time to prepare,” Alric said, and suddenly his fingers closed around hers, holding her hand in a firm grip.
Surprised she looked up into his face. His smile gave her courage. Her immediate thought was that Alric would stand by her and together they would see Freemantle off.
Freemantle, sitting at the table at her wedding to Hamon, his face full of lust and greed. The idea of marrying another man like that . . . she shuddered, suddenly awash with memories of those days, the misery and pain, the sense of despair when she saw her life stretching on and on. When Hamon died it had been the hardest thing she had ever done, pretending to mourn when she wanted to dance and clap with joy.
Abruptly she stood up.
“When will Freemantle and his men reach us?”
“Tomorrow or the following day. We rode fast to outpace them.”
Alric tried to stand up too, but his knee made him stagger and almost fall. She caught his arm to steady him, but he was big and heavy, and for a moment they were both in danger of falling over. Breathlessly, she heaved her shoulder under his arm, aware of his bulk and weight against her own slenderness.
She was intensely aware of his body touching hers as if her skin had become super sensitive. A tingle of excitement shimmered across her breasts, tightening the tips, and suddenly the soft skin between her legs began to moisten and swell. Isabella was shocked that such feelings should be upon her now, when she least needed the distraction. She was the Ice Queen; she did not feel lust or desire. She needed no man.
“Lady,” he murmured, his warm breath brushing her skin, stirring the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid.
“My lady?” It was the squire, his voice high and nervous, as if he thought he was interrupting something. “The water for Lord Alric’s bath is here.”
“Help your master to sit down,” she said coldly. That was better. She was back in control.
As Alric was seated upon his stool, the servants carried in the round wooden bath tub and the buckets of hot water that had been heating in the kitchen. Soon the tub was half full of steaming water, and there was soap and towels.
Isabella turned to the boy, opening her mouth to order him to bathe his lord, when her emerald gaze clashed with that sapphire blue one.
“Are you running away, lady?”
He was daring her. He was testing her. If she was really the Ice Queen, he was thinking, then she would have no trouble doing as the lady of the castle was required to do, and help her guest to bathe.
Isabella hesitated. There was a sense of danger, a feeling of balancing on a knife edge. But she could not allow him to think her attracted to him; she must put him in his place before Freemantle came.
“You may leave us,” she said firmly to the boy.
Alric glanced down, but she did not miss his smile. His smirk, she corrected herself. He thought he had bested her; he thought she would fall willingly into his arms, but he would soon discover how wrong he was.
***
The steam from the water was making her perspire and she wiped a hand over her brow. It was also making her hair curl, and a trickle of perspiration ran down between her breasts, beneath her tan coloured dress.
Alric had stripped off his tunic, standing huge and naked, before climbing into the tub. Isabella had busied herself with moving towels and soap, pretending not to notice him, but a sideways glance had shown a magnificent warrior, muscled and sleek, his back straight and his buttocks tight. And, as he turned, there between his thighs . . . She closed her eyes tightly.
Once she heard the splash of him entering the water she breathed a sigh of relief and opened her eyes again. She told herself she would bathe him as quickly as possible and as impersonally as possible, and then she’d walk away leaving him in no doubt who was the Ice Queen.
She knelt down, reaching for the soap and washcloth, and stared uneasily at the broad expanse of his back. Isabella bit her lip. Despite her promise to herself there was a tremble in her, a shaking that was threatening to tear her apart and send the Ice Queen shattering.
She stiffened her spine and set to washing him.
His skin was warm and she could feel the hard muscle beneath it, the ripple of movement as he shifted under her hands like a cat enjoying her stroking. She gritted her teeth and began to rub the cloth over his shoulders, then across the nape of his neck.
He winced. “Are you trying to rub my skin off, lady?” he growled.
“I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. Taking more care she began to wash his hair, running her soapy fingers through his blond locks. They were like rays of sunshine. A memory popped into her head of a boy standing on a wall against the sky, laughing down at her. A moment later it was gone.
“The soap is in my eyes, lady,” he said in a long suffering voice.
Isabella took up the bowl and began to rinse his hair while he bowed his head. He was still squinting and rubbing at his eyes, and she clicked her tongue.
“Let me,” she ordered, and shuffling around the tub so that she was at his side now, she used the cloth to wipe his face, taking care to remove every last sud of soap. She was so intent on what she was doing that she didn’t realise how close she was to him, how she was leaning over the tub, her dress damp and clinging to her, her red hair loosening about her shoulders.
Until he reached out and tucked a strand behind her ear.
“Freemantle does not deserve you, Isabella.”
Her eyes widened, and then narrowed suspiciously. “He will not have me. Will he, Alric?”
Alric’s own expression darkened. “Not while I have breath in my body.” Something in her chest gave a pang, became an ache, and her own breath lodged in her throat. She swayed, then reached to steady herself, resting her hand flat against his chest. The contact was intense. They both went still, and then with a soft groan he leaned forward and captured her mouth with his.
It was as if she caught fire.
Nothing with Hamon had prepared her for this explosion of desire. His mouth was caressing hers with a confidence, and yet a gentleness, that Hamon had never shown, and when his tongue dripped between her lips and stroked hers, she moaned softly in her throat.
Her dress was sodden from the bath water, and when he drew back his gaze went to her nipples, poking against the thin cloth, as if begging for his touch. He reached to brush one with his fingertip and then the other, those blue eyes lifting to hers, reading her confusion and desire.
“You are more beautiful than I remembered, lady,” he rasped, and bent his head to taste her through the cloth. His hot mouth on her wet flesh sent a shiver through her, an aching tangle of feelings and emotions that left her gasping.
“I don’t . . .”
He nipped at one hard bud, making her moan again, a breathy sound in her throat, a
nd her arms slipped around his neck, clinging to the wet strands of his blond hair, hanging on as if she really was about to fall into some unknown place.
His mouth was back on hers, and the kissing was so pleasurable it was a moment before she felt the heat of his hand on her thigh. Stroking, and then slowly, slowly drawing up the fabric of her skirt. His mouth moved down over her throat to her breasts, entirely visible now through the wet silk. Gradually his hand was hiking her skirt up her leg and she knew where he was headed.
There was an ache between her legs, a terrible urgency, to be touched and licked and taken. She squirmed at the images in her head, and as his hand slowly, slowly came closer, she felt as if she would scream. It was a kind of delicious torture and when at last she felt his warm hand on the flesh of her thigh she breathed a soft sigh of relief.
“They call you Ice Queen,” his voice was a rumble in his chest.
Somehow she met his eyes, her own lids so heavy she found them difficult to open. “Yes. I am.”
He smiled. “Are you?” Now his hand was on her inner thigh and she found herself opening her legs to allow him easier access. His fingers slid into the wet folds, stroking, finding the round pearl of her clitoris. She gasped and strained toward his fingers. Wanting more, needing more.
“You are hot. For an Ice Queen. Do you want me to stop?”
“No. Please . . .” she heard herself struggle with the words.
He took her hand where it gripped his shoulder and slowly brought it down to the water. Her eyes widened as she felt the hard length of him beneath the soapy surface.
She should have snatched her hand back, but he was still caressing her pearl and something new and exciting was tightening and growing inside her. She found herself grasping him, running her hand up and down his cock, feeling him grow harder still.
“I’ve dreamed of you,” he said in a harsh voice. “You’re no Ice Queen, Isabella, and I’ll prove it.”
Deftly he ran his fingers across her tight folds, bringing her to her climax. Sweet ecstasy spread through her, something she had never felt before and had not believed existed until now. She wanted to scream, and instead pressed her face against his chest and bit him to stifle the sounds. She heard him curse, but then his arms wrapped around her, holding her, and his warm breath was in her hair.
She sprawled against him, boneless, breathing in the spicy male scent of him. In a moment she would have to sit up, to face him, to say something, but she hardly knew what. The Ice Queen had been shattered and he must be bursting with triumph.
“Lady? I did not mean to hurt you.”
“You did not hurt me.”
Her hair had come loose and the heavy weight of it sent it tumbling into the water, and now it hung heavy and sodden about her. She wondered if she looked as stunned as she felt. She tried to meet his blue eyes but her own skittered away before she could tell whether he was triumphant or not, and she stumbled to her feet, clinging to the wall to stay upright.
“We will speak later,” she said in a low voice, and pushing through the arras, left the room.
She thought he might have called her name but she couldn’t hear above the pounding of her heart and the tap of her running slippers as she flung herself up the stairs to her private rooms.
Her body had betrayed her. She had shown herself to be as weak and unreliable as other women, when a handsome man gave them that certain glance. What would happen to her now, would he take advantage, mock her in front of her servants and soldiers, treat her with the contempt that Hamon had always treated her?
When Isabella reached her room she flung herself down on the bed and did something she had not done since before her wedding to Hamon.
She let her emotions free and wept.
***
Isabella pushed her food around her plate and pretended to listen to the conversation but if she was honest the meal seemed to go on forever. She wanted it to be over; she wanted it to be tomorrow and Freemantle at her gate and the battle begun. Isabella could manage that, she could cope with fighting and orders and strategies.
She could not cope with Alric and the effect he had upon her.
To her relief he hadn’t shown by word or gesture or even glance what had happened between them. He treated her with courtesy and respect, and made some suggestions about her garrison.
“Tomorrow at first light we will prepare,” she said and he agreed. “I have posted lookouts in case they reach us tonight.”
Alric nodded. His squire had shaved him and with his golden hair and handsome face he looked every inch a maiden’s dream. “Wise move, my lady. But I doubt they will be here before late tomorrow, or even the day after. Freemantle seemed in no hurry. He considered himself victorious already.”
Isabella’s lip curled. “Then he will be shown the error of his ways.”
Noticing Alric’s goblet was empty, she nodded at a servant to fill it from the jug. The feast had been prepared at short notice but as usual Isabella had excelled in adversity, showing Godestone at its best.
As for herself, she was wearing her best dress, with her emerald studded girdle. Joan had brushed her long hair, and if she noticed it was damp she said nothing.
“You spoke of a new style?” Isabella said, and tried not to see the speculation in the girl’s expression. “Perhaps you should try it tonight, Joan.”
“Yes, my lady!”
Hamon had hurt Joan. She had come upon them together, the girl sobbing while Hamon pushed into her from behind. Isabella had been so angry that she’d struck him, beaten at him until Joan was able to escape, but he had only laughed at her. After that she took care to keep the timid girl away from her husband and she knew Joan loved her for it. In a way they were tied together by that awful event, and yet neither had ever mentioned it.
“Lady Isabella.”
Her thoughts were interrupted. Alric was turned toward her. She forced herself to meet his brilliant gaze, forced her pulses to remain steady. Thinking of Hamon helped, remembering his cruelty and humiliation kept her from falling prey to this man.
“How is your leg, sir?” she said hastily, to put him off. She had a feeling he was about to mention things she did not want mentioned.
“My leg is fit and well, as am I, my lady.”
She suddenly found herself remembering his fingers moving between her legs, the shaft of pleasure that had pierced her, and with the memory came a return of the longing ache.
“Lady . . .” His voice had dropped lower. He must have seen the wantonness in her eyes. He reached to cover her hand with his own and she stiffened, hardly believing he would dare to touch her, here, in her own hall, in front of everyone.
“Release me, sir,” she hissed. “You forget yourself.”
He let his hand fall away. “I don’t forget anything,” he retorted, “unlike you, Isabella.”
Her green eyes narrowed. “You say that Stephen will not force me to wed anyone, but I wonder, Alric, whether you may not be planning such a union for yourself.”
He looked angry. Good.
“Do not think,” and she leaned closer, so that no one else could hear, although the hall was noisy enough, “that what happened today means anything to me. I have forgotten it. If you try to use it against me, to persuade me to marry you, or to persuade Stephen that I need to be married, then I will have you thrown from my gates, Freemantle or not.”
She stood up and, after one last furious look, she turned, her head high and her back straight, and left the hall.
Joan was waiting for her, eager to see if her braided and coiled hair was remarked upon. “I bet Alric noticed,” she said, preparing her lady for bed.
Isabella stiffened. “Why him in particular?” she said icily.
Joan jumped, realising she had said something her mistress did not like. “Only . . . you were so upset when . . . well, it matters not.”
But it did matter, Isabella realised. It mattered very much. And Joan of all people could help her, because Jo
an had been with her since she was a child. Joan knew as much about Isabella as her own mother.
“Joan,” she said, her voice stiff with nerves. “I wonder. Do you recognise Alric? I think . . . I wonder if I might have met him before.”
Joan blinked at her. She looked pleased. “Lady, he is from Wenton,” she said softly.
Isabella frowned. “I know the name but I can’t recall . . .”
Joan smiled her gentle smile. “You went there with your father when you were but a child of eleven years, lady. You were betrothed to the heir of Wenton, but then your father became Matilda’s man and changed his mind and the betrothal was broken. By then he’d decided Hamon was the better choice. You’d always hoped that matters could be mended with Alric, and I remember you sobbing. You said he had lovely blue eyes and when he’d scratched himself and you’d bound his arm too tightly with your bandages he hadn’t complained at all, and only asked you to remove it when his fingers began to turn blue.”
Isabella cried out softly, her hands clasped tightly against her breast, as if her heart might leap out. How could she have forgotten? Had she really put such a memory so deep inside her? Or was it just that to survive her nightmare marriage to Hamon she’d been forced to blot out all the good things that went before.
“His name was Alric,” she whispered. “He had fair hair, like the sun, and blue eyes like the sea, and when he smiled at me I could not help but smile back. I wanted so much to be married to him, and when my father changed his mind, I was distraught.”
Alric. He remembered her and she had not remembered him. But what was he doing here? Was it really a quirk of fate that had brought him to Godestone? I heard of a plan, he’d said. He’d come riding fast to her aid and she had treated him horribly. Was that the person she had become?
Now her own words in the great hall came back to her and suddenly she felt herself cringe inside. He had come to her aid and she had accused him of trying to trick her into marriage. Joan had finished disrobing her, and suddenly she knew she needed to go and find Alric, she needed to speak to him.