Knight of Seduction

by Cheryl Holt

  He scoffed. “She’s fortunate I’m fussing with her, at all. I could have let her take your spot at that blasted convent.”

  “The nuns wouldn’t have been happy about it. Rosamunde is very spoiled. I can’t picture her spending her days on her knees in devout prayer.”

  “Lucky I found her a husband then.”

  “Yes, very lucky.”

  “What about Blodwin?” he asked.

  “What about her?”

  “What should become of her?”

  “I have no idea,” Anne said.

  “Neither do I. She can’t stay at Morven, though. Her presence creates conflict and festers divided loyalties.” He peered down at her. “Has she been pestering you?”

  “No,” Anne lied.

  He snorted with amusement. “Between the two of us, you’re the pious one, Anne. Isn’t it a sin to tell a lie?”

  “Well…yes.”

  “Then you shouldn’t. You’re awfully bad at it.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Blodwin hounds you constantly. Why didn’t you confide in me?”

  “She just needs to complain to somebody who will listen. It’s been hard for her, losing Ranulf and Morven. I don’t mind her grumbling. If she bothers me, it keeps her from bothering you.”

  “So you’re doing me a favor by heeding her?”

  “Always, my lord Hugh. I’m always doing you favors.”

  He smirked, as if he doubted her.

  “Promise me something,” he urged.

  “What?”

  “If she upsets you, or goads you too stridently, promise me that you’ll speak up.”

  “I will, but don’t worry about her. She’s harmless.”

  “Harmless like a venomous snake.”

  “Harmless like a lamb,” Anne countered, causing him to smirk again.

  He was in such a happy mood, and it made her like him more than she should. Would she come to love him? Could it be possible?

  She’d heard that married couples sometimes grew to love one another, but she’d never believed it. Would it happen to them?

  She wished they never had to return to the castle. What would he say if she begged him to ride off with her? What if they climbed on his horse and took off to lands unknown? He’d been everywhere, but she’d been nowhere, not even to the next town beyond Morven.

  It was thrilling to imagine the two of them cantering away, having an adventure. The anticipation of it, the romance of it, was unbearably tempting.

  Instead, she snuggled herself to him, her body pressed to his all the way down. He was humored by her brazen advance; he chuckled and laid a hand on her bottom.

  “May I ask a boon, my husband?”

  “If you keep touching me like this, you’ll get more than a boon.”

  She could feel his cockstand poking her belly, and she smiled, liking that she had the power to arouse him, to make him desire her.

  “Be serious,” she said.

  “I am being serious. You’ll be lucky if you get out of here without my having you over in those woods.”

  She glanced about, scowling, wondering if he meant what she thought he did.

  “Men and women…do they…?”

  “Yes.”

  “Outside—in the light of day?”

  “Yes. Shall I show you?”

  Her eyes widened with a combination of excitement and alarm. “No, you shall not.”

  But he’d already decided. He dropped his horse’s reins and clasped her wrist, leading her into the grass.

  “Hugh!”

  “What?”

  “Someone might come by. Someone might see us.”

  “No one will come by.”

  He pushed her against a tree, the bark rough against her back, as he grabbed her and guided her thighs around his waist. She was precariously wedged, but not afraid of falling. He was too strong and balanced her with ease.

  He raised the hem of her skirt, exposing her legs, to find her center. With one hand, he held onto her, while with the other, he loosened his breeches and tugged them down.

  Then he was inside her, and she squealed with astonishment. He kissed her, swallowing the sound.

  “Hush, my little virago,” he scolded, “or the whole village will hear you.”

  “You are so wicked.”

  “Not wicked, but obsessed. If I see you, I want you. You’ve bewitched me.”

  “Not intentionally.”

  “It’s all that red hair,” he grumbled. “I can’t resist.”

  He thrust once and twice and spilled himself. But even though he was finished, he kept on until she joined him in pleasure.

  They were so physically attuned that it was over much too quickly, but he continued to hold her as he nibbled a trail across her cheek, her throat, till his face was buried at his nape.

  He struggled to control his breathing, to slow his pulse, and he relaxed, his weight crushing her, but she loved the feeling. He’d been so aroused, and she was ecstatic to be the woman he turned to when his lust needed satisfying.

  “You’ll be the death of me, Anne.”

  “I hope not.”

  “You have to stop enticing me.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re my wife; I’m not supposed to be so attracted to you.”

  “And are you…attracted?”

  “Oh, yes,” he responded, “I’m definitely attracted.”

  He pulled away, his cock sliding from her sheath, and he guided her down his body till her feet touched the ground.

  They were grinning like fools, snorting with mirth over what they’d done.

  “What was the boon you mentioned?” he said as he straightened his clothes.

  “Summer is flying by, and autumn will be here before we know it. What would you think of having the harvest fair this year?”

  “A harvest fair?”

  “It used to be an annual festival, but with Ranulf gone so often, it dwindled to nothing. Blodwin hated the effort involved, so eventually, we ceased having it.”

  “It’s important to you?”

  “Not so much to me, but the people in the castle and the village might…” Their burst of passion was spent, and she was shy again. “Never mind. It was a silly request.”

  “No, no, we should restart it. I want it for you. I want it for the people at Morven.”

  “But…it might be expensive. The purpose is to celebrate our bounty, which would mean banquets and feasting and perhaps a tournament.”

  He leaned down and kissed her again. “I am rich, my dear Anne. If you wish to host a grand party, please host a grand party.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Whatever will make you happy, I would like you to do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Now come.”

  “To where?”

  “To the castle.” He whistled for his horse. The animal had wandered away, and it trotted over to them. “I’m not about to leave you out on the road alone. There’s no telling who you might run into.” He raised a wicked brow. “There’s no telling what you might attempt up against a tree.”

  “Ah! It was your idea! I was a fine, respectable girl before I met you.”

  “Aren’t I lucky to have been the man to corrupt you?”

  He grabbed her and lifted her onto his horse, and he leapt up behind her. With an arm across her chest, and a kick to the horse’s sides, they cantered to the castle, Anne laughing with joy all the way home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “It’s fine construction.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Hugh glanced over at Henry. They were in the cottage Ranulf had built for Bedelia, evaluating its condition.

  “A pity to have it standing empty,” Henry said.

  “I agree.”

  “Will you bring her here? Will you give it to her?”

  Hugh considered the question, finally responding with, “Perhaps.”

  “I can’t imag
ine she’d complain over it. Then again, with Charmaine, nothing is ever grand enough for her.”

  At Henry’s apt description of Charmaine, Hugh chuckled.

  Any woman in the kingdom would be grateful to receive a house, but she was different than most. She had bigger dreams. She’d likely roll into Morven and immediately begin inquiring as to when she could have the castle, too.

  She thrived on greed and cunning, and he’d been intrigued by her voracity, by her blatant hunger for more and more and more. He’d hungered for much in his life, too, so he understood the cravings that drove her.

  But that was before he’d met Anne.

  Anne was content with what she had, and she never asked him for anything. Except to host the annual harvest fair, but she hadn’t wanted it for herself. She’d wanted it for the people of Morven. To make them happy. To make them love Hugh even more than they already appeared to.

  “If I let Charmaine come,” he asked Henry, “what would the villagers think? I rather like how they hold me in such high esteem. How would they react to her?”

  “They wouldn’t like it, but what could they do?”

  “Tar and feather her. Run her off with torches in the middle of the night. Burn her as a witch.”

  “You’re their lord and master. They wouldn’t dare.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Besides,” Henry added, “isn’t that precisely what Ranulf did with Anne’s mother? Didn’t he bring her to Morven?”

  “I’m told she arrived on her own. She was a performer in a traveling troupe. Ranulf saw her and was besotted.”

  “He definitely must have been. He built her this cottage and played cozy with her while his lawful wife glared down from the battlements. The man must have had nerves of steel.”

  “Or he just didn’t worry over her opinion. He was married to Blodwin, after all.”

  Henry gave a mock shudder. “If that old battle axe was my wife, I’d find a pretty tart to keep me warm, too. She could have any damn thing she wanted—so long as I never had to go home.”

  Hugh laughed and shook his head.

  Henry was under no pressure to wed. He had no father to arrange a union, no mother to insist on it. He was an orphan, as was Hugh, and with his own dispensation from the king, he could marry whenever he felt like it.

  He had earned plenty during their years of fighting, and he was wealthy enough to proceed, but he hadn’t yet landed at the bottom where Hugh had fallen.

  Hugh had finally stood on a precipice with the king where he simply couldn’t jump over it, no matter how eloquently Richard had coaxed him. Henry wasn’t perched at that desperate spot. If the king tempted him with the right amount of coin, or if his need for adventure started to flare, he’d trot off in an instant.

  “Marriage makes everything so complicated,” Hugh said.

  “It certainly does,” Henry agreed. “A man takes vows and swears to be true, but there are so many beautiful women in the world. How can a fellow settle for just one?”

  It was a question Hugh had been asking himself over and over the past few weeks.

  After he’d left the Holy Land for England, he’d stopped in Normandy, which was where he’d met Charmaine. His intense affair with her was the main reason he’d delayed in his journey to Morven. He’d been in no hurry to leave her bed.

  In his travels, Hugh had seen the greatest palaces mankind had to offer. Morven was located at the very ends of civilization, and he’d wanted to surround himself with the trappings of culture and society so that Morven would be more interesting, more uplifting for him.

  Charmaine had been raised in the French court, with King Phillip rumored to be her sire. She was very sophisticated, would deliver the style and grace he sought in his new environs.

  When he’d made his plans for her, he had known he would wed in Morven, but the idea of his taking a bride hadn’t seemed real. She’d had no face, no name. She’d been a cipher, a phantom, and he hadn’t fretted over her.

  But now, he was married to Anne.

  He didn’t have to ponder what she would think of Charmaine. He was well aware of what her opinion would be, and he didn’t want to quarrel, didn’t want to deliberately hurt her.

  Yet he was lord and master at Morven. If he kept a paramour, if he chased the maids or rolled around with the tavern wenches, it wasn’t Anne’s business to complain. A wife had no right to protest her husband’s habits, so he was sorely vexed.

  His men were expecting Charmaine to join Hugh, and to his chagrin, he would hate to appear foolish in their eyes.

  His pride was the very devil, and he couldn’t bear to have others realize he’d bowed to his wife’s feelings—especially when they went counter to his own. It was a major facet of how he believed men should carry on—that the man’s word prevailed, that the man’s desires were paramount—and he couldn’t move beyond his desire to live as he had before he’d wed.

  Charmaine was more adept at carnal games than any whore Hugh had ever encountered. She was extremely limber, extremely decadent in her tastes, extremely compliant and amenable to any risqué suggestion.

  But she never smiled as Anne did when she saw him walking down the hall. She never laughed as Anne did when he pulled her into a secluded alcove and kissed her. Charmaine never fussed over him, was never concerned if his bones were aching, never offered to rub a salve into his throbbing joints.

  Anne did those things for him, because she was kind. Because she cared about his welfare. Because she enjoyed tending him.

  He thought she was developing an affection for him, and he was pleased by her burgeoning sentiment.

  As for himself, he was suffering from his own heightened infatuation. He noticed himself thinking of her at the oddest times, wondering where she was and if, by chance, she might be thinking of him, too.

  Was he in love with her?

  It was another question that nagged at him.

  Could he fall in love? Was he capable of such an absurd emotion? How would he know if it had happened?

  He’d never been in love with anyone. What were the signs? Who could explain it?

  Not Henry, certainly. In their rough and tumble existence, Henry had spent even less time around females than Hugh had—if that was possible. Henry was no expert on either the feminine condition or on amour, and he definitely had no perspective that Hugh would deem to be valid.

  Still, Henry was Hugh’s only relative, his only connection to his childhood in Normandy. They’d fostered together, had served as pages, then squires. They’d been knighted within a year of each other. They were more like brothers than any two siblings could ever be.

  Hugh yearned to confide in Henry, yearned to discuss what was eating away at him.

  Did he love Anne? And if he did, how could he consider—even for a moment—bringing Charmaine to Morven?

  “How do you suppose,” he asked, “Anne would react if she knew about Charmaine?”

  “You’re not going to tell her, are you?” Henry gave another mock shudder. “My balls are still shriveled from that night she caught us in the bathing room with those two whores.”

  “No, I’m not going to tell her, but I don’t imagine she’d be too happy about the situation. If Charmaine showed up at Morven, and I moved her into this house, Anne would kill me.”

  “She’d just have to learn to deal with it,” Henry said like the bachelor he was. “She’s your wife, not your mother. Rich men have paramours. You’re rich; you have a paramour. Anne will have to accept it, or you can send her off to that convent she was so ready to join before you arrived.”

  Hugh rolled his eyes. “If you ever marry, I pity your bride.”

  “Why? Because I won’t tolerate a woman interfering with my life or my plans?”

  “No, because you’re an absolute idiot who hasn’t the faintest inkling of what a woman might want from you.”

  “Well, she’d get bloody little,” Henry snapped. “I’m a man’s man. I wouldn’t spend my
days worrying over whether I was upsetting her or not. Unlike some new husbands I could name, I won’t be neutered by a mere girl.”

  Hugh sighed and studied the spacious front room, trying to envision Charmaine living in it, trying to envision himself leaving the castle, riding over to be with her. She liked to be surrounded by fine things and interesting people. She’d invite acquaintances from London, would have actors and singers and poets to entertain and amuse.

  He would have a second residence, within rock throwing distance of his main one. Could he proceed in that fashion? Did he want to proceed? Was it worth it to wound Anne in the worst possible way?

  He had few feelings to waste on others. He’d expended them on battlefields in many foreign lands, as he’d killed and killed and killed. He was numb to sentiment, numb to emotion.

  But Anne…

  When she smiled at him, it was worth all the gold in the world.

  “What’s it to be, Hugh?” Henry pressed. “Will this be Charmaine’s home or not?”

  “I’m considering,” Hugh said, but he was terribly conflicted.

  “That’s no answer, Hugh,” Henry bluntly retorted. “Will we enjoy Charmaine’s many charms here at Morven? Will she come from London or not? For I have to confess, I’ve been hoping—if you grow tired of bedding her—that you would occasionally let me—“

  A loud noise stopped Henry from finishing his lewd comment.

  They whipped around to see Anne standing in the door, a hand over her mouth, looking as if she might be ill. She’d stumbled and bumped into a flowerpot, sending it crashing.

  How long had she been there? How long had she been listening? How much had she heard?

  “Anne,” he murmured, his voice like a plea, like a prayer.

  She whirled and ran.

  “Damn me,” he muttered and started after her.

  * * * *

  Anne strolled down the lane.

  Hugh had asked her not to walk by herself, and to ensure her compliance, he’d instructed his guards at the gate to deny her exit unless she had a full escort.

  It was such a foolish order. In her lifetime, there had never been any threat in the immediate vicinity of the castle. And if there might have been any prior chance of peril, there was none now that Hugh was in residence.