Heather Graham

by The Kings Pleasure

  “Very!” she promised.

  “Ah, then let the danger come!” he whispered softly. “I am willing to risk it for the wealth of fire and beauty that come as its fair price!”

  Again, just as her fury crested, he had spoken soft words that somehow tempered and twisted the emotion. His hold upon her eased—he kissed her forehead, her throat, and at last, her lips. He fumbled swiftly with his breeches, and she was speared with sudden, searing heat just as his tongue delved deep into her mouth. Daylight rippled all around them, and she thought that he was right; she didn’t find him a monster, did not at all despise his touch … only her own swift reaction to it. Yet that morning when their passion had been sated, she lay awake beside him as she seldom did at night, and realized that her feeling for him was becoming more intense. She was far too glad of him beside her in what had been her bed. She was fascinated when she lay against his chest and felt his heartbeat, the deep sound of his breathing. She loved his warmth, the feel of his bare flesh against her, his arms around her, or a leg draped here, a hand lain there, while they slept. Adrien had never left her unaffected. Once upon a time, she had convinced herself she hated him deeply; she could want him just as passionately now.

  He had married her because the king had commanded it. He had achieved greater power and a higher title, she reminded herself. And she should not become too enamored of his presence because he would ride away again to honor his obligations to the liege lord who had given him such riches—through her.

  She felt his eyes upon her as she lay against him. His arm looped possessively about her waist. He rose on an elbow and stared down at her with a curious glitter in his eyes. “Ah, Danielle, what I would not give to read that ever-calculating mind of yours!”

  She tried to roll away from him, but he held her tight. She tried then to pry his arm away, but he did not intend to budge. When she heard his soft laughter, she ceased her efforts and stiffened indignantly.

  “What would you give? A fortune in gold? A county, your earldom? One of your horses, perhaps?”

  “One of my horses? Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John? Why, never, lady—they serve so well!”

  “And each of them is of more importance than one wife who is not so well-trained and cannot be ridden so well?”

  “On the contrary, lady, you are beyond a doubt the best ride a lord could desire.”

  She colored from head to toe—that hadn’t been at all what she had meant, but leave it to him to twist her words! She tried again to escape him, but failed in her efforts, other than to amuse him. She lowered her head and bit hard into one of his restraining hands, and was satisfied to hear a sharp cry of surprise. She started to smile, but her smile faded and her teeth eased their hold when his palm landed with a firm crack upon her bare backside. She shoved at him with such force and fury that he actually gave ground to her, falling to his back as she crawled atop him. “How dare you, how dare you!” she raged, only to discover him laughing again, reaching for her. She very, very quickly discovered her mistake, for he rose slightly and quickly and she was impaled upon him, captured in a glorious new rise of passion as his hands held her hips and guided them. Swift shudders riddled through her. She closed her eyes, seeking to fight the hunger that swirled within her with each rise and plunge, but then she was drawn down, rolled beneath him. He withdrew from her and she was stunned, left aching, yet her desire burned ever brighter as he captured her mouth, her throat, her breasts with his lips and tongue and the erotic brush of his teeth. He moved against her, the caress of his lips and fingers brushing ever lower against her body, creating a maelstrom within her. His touch became achingly intimate until she shrieked out. He rose above her, and the second he swept within her again, it seemed as if the world ignited and exploded with force of gunpowder, and only the stars left to twinkle down upon her.

  The sensation ebbed. He eased his weight from her. She felt the coolness of the room and realized how easily she had been seduced, how very much she wanted him. She swung her legs over the bed, ready to bolt from it, needing to escape him. But again, his hand was on her arm, drawing her back down, and his features were duly puzzled when he leaned over her and demanded, “What in God’s name have I done now?”

  “Other than being a tyrant?” she inquired stubbornly.

  “Other than!”

  Her lashes fell. “Adrien, will you just let me be? Please, you may feel free to gloat alone. You have won again. You never lose, in battle or game!”

  She didn’t open her eyes; she felt him watching her as long moments passed, then felt him rise. He adjusted his clothing. She heard him take the gun and stride to the door. But curiously, he paused there. “Ah, but my lady, you are so mistaken. I have been nearly bested now so many times in these skirmishes that I am left all but defenseless!”

  She opened her eyes with surprise, twisting to see him go. But it was too late. He had uttered his strange words, then departed swiftly and silently, and all that she could do was lie there and ponder them …

  That afternoon, the men practiced out in the field again, this time on horseback with blunted lances against quintains, pivoted arms with targets on one end and weights on the opposite ends. When a man rode and struck at the target with his lance, he had to duck quickly—or be unseated by the force of the weighted arm. From the parapets, Danielle watched as Adrien shouted out orders, as the men laughed when one of their number failed, as Adrien saw to it that the man tried again and again, until he triumphed over the quintain. Even as they remained at their practice, she saw a group of four armed knights moving in upon the field from the southern road, their leader carrying the banner of the noble they served—Edward, Prince of Wales. The horsemen approached Adrien and he accepted a sealed document from the man with the banner.

  Far across the field, Adrien looked up, as if some instinct had warned him that she was watching. Despite the distance, she was certain she could feel the fire of his eyes. At last, he turned. Her breath caught, and she realized that he had indeed been in such rigorous training for a reason. The letter had been a summons. He had known damned well that it would come. He might have come here to claim her, but he had also come to create a larger fighting force with the men from Aville. He intended to bring her people with him to do battle for the English prince.

  She hurried from the parapets and rushed back to the keep. In the hall she told Rem that she had suddenly been taken very ill, that she could not come down to dinner that evening. She fled from the hall.

  She was not going to dine with any representatives from Edward, and she didn’t give a damn if Adrien was humiliated by her absence or not. She didn’t trust herself to try to speak with him in front of others tonight.

  Monteine came, and seemed to believe that she was ill, she was so pale. She rubbed oil into Danielle’s forehead, ordered a steaming bath, washed her hair with rosewater. Danielle thanked her, then asked to be left to sleep and told Monteine that she must inform Adrien that she had a devastating headache and would not be down.

  Darkness fell. She sat in a chair before the hearth, watched the flames, and hated him for taking her people away to fight and possibly die for Edward, the King of England. He had no right to do so! Gain their trust, and pit them in battle against the house of Valois. He had come just to leave, just to take her people, while making sure that he left a strong enough English force behind to assure that there would be no action against English rule in Gascony here.

  Her temper flamed with the heat of the fire. After a while she rose and paced in front of the hearth, and it was then that the door opened and closed so softly that she didn’t hear it, didn’t hear him as he came into the room and watched her pace like a cat.

  She turned at last and froze as she saw him there, his features rugged and tense, eyes narrowed and angry. “You don’t appear to be ill—my love.”

  “Oh, but you’re mistaken. I swear that I am sick. Sick to death of treacherous Scotsmen!”

  “There has never been anything
treacherous about me, Danielle. I am sworn to Edward in of England, in the service of the Prince of Wales.”

  “And you don’t care if you rip France to pieces in his service!”

  “Hardly France. We battle those who rebelled.”

  “All this time, you have known that you would come, take what you wanted, and leave! You have forced men into your service, and you haven’t given a damn where their own loyalties might lie!”

  “I’m their count, lord here, and their loyalty is to me.”

  “They are my people.”

  “And you are my wife, and damn you, lady, but your loyalty is to me as well!”

  “You have no right—”

  “The campaign will not be long.”

  “Pray God that it may last forever!”

  His eyes narrowed. “Pray God, lady, that I do not fall, for the prince, though he loves you like a brother, so he tells me, does not trust you. If you are left a widow, there might be dire consequences indeed, my lady.”

  “Dire consequences, indeed, for by God, I’ll not be a pawn to the dictates of your kind any longer! I would place my fate in my own hands, and perhaps it is you, sir, who should pray God, because you are mistaken. Aville is mine, and I may not be here if and when you return!”

  They were the wrong words. She instantly regretted them, and her reckless fury, for he stared at her with such icy anger that her breath caught. He strode for her then with movements so swift and menacing that she cried out even before he reached her. His fingers gripped brutally into her arms and he shook her, forcing her head to fall back, her eyes to meet his.

  “Ah, Danielle!” he warned, voice deep, shaking, and it seemed he waged an awful battle with himself not to strangle her. “You have just sealed your fate!”

  She gasped as he spun around with her, lifting her, tossing her down upon the bed. She sprang up quickly, gasping for air again, tears springing to her eyes. She would fight him. God, yes, tonight, she would not be seduced! She would hate him with her very last breath.

  But he didn’t intend to touch her again. He was already striding angrily from the room.

  She had just sealed her fate …

  She leapt up, running after him. The door slammed before she could reach it. She fell against it, but it would not give.

  “Adrien!” she cried out, her voice rising in panic. “Adrien! Adrien, please …” she whispered.

  But Adrien didn’t hear her.

  Adrien was gone.

  She slammed her fists against the door. She called his name. She banged again, and again.

  No one was coming. Ah, she was lady here! She had ruled wisely and well. But he had come. And he was lord. And those who had loved her so dearly now obeyed and honored him.

  She kicked the door furiously. It shuddered, but did not budge. Her toe was in agony.

  She began to pace, and time passed. She felt as if she walked the room forever, planning what she would say to him if he returned, then plunging into despair and fear again as she wondered just what he could do to her. Leave her locked here within these four walls for days, weeks, months? Have her sent to England, trussed and gagged?

  The questions taunted her mercilessly, but at last, she wore herself to exhaustion and she sat upon the rug before the fire, seeking warmth since she felt so very cold. She stretched out, laying her head down upon the soft white fur. She couldn’t start crying. She wouldn’t stop. And she couldn’t admit that having to face the truth of Adrien’s steadfast loyalty where Edward was concerned seemed all the more bitter because he had made her care.

  She stared at the fire, and her eyes began to close.

  When Adrian returned to the room, his heart first seemed to skip a beat, then stop, for she was not there. Not pacing, not on the bed, not in the chair, and not by any arrow slit, looking out into the freedom of the night. But then his eyes fell to the fur rug before the hearth, and he saw her there. He paused in the doorway, for the candles in the room had burned low in their brass holders, and the only light in came from the fire. The rug was white, her nightdress was white, and her hair was a contrast of striking sleek ebony against it, sweeping over her shoulders, tendrils falling over her hips and buttocks, long locks sweeping in waves over the fur itself. Time seemed to stand still, with only the crackling sound of the fire to surround him, its warmth to beckon to him. And Danielle …

  He closed the door and came into the room, striding to the fire to stand over her, anguish seeming to rip through him from limbs and loin and heart into his soul. Sweet Jesu! He had not imagined this knifing turmoil when he had come here, that he could feel himself entangled into such knots with her, that the passion and anger and even tenderness she could evoke would rival any other emotion he’d ever felt. He had loved Joanna, but he had never felt this fever, never the haunting pain, and damn her, never the fear! Never before in his life had he remained in his great hall until no one else stirred, until even the wolves in the forest had fallen silent, staring into flames and wondering just what in God’s name to do. Never.

  He hunched down beside her, felt the tightening within, the pain of muscles clenching, the thunder of his heart. If she had tried to tempt him, had created some exotic fantasy, she could not have awakened a fiercer hunger and thirst and anguish than she did just by lying here, simply sleeping. The flames created a flickering light that delicately pierced the white linen of her gown, outlining her breasts and hips, dipping into the contours of her waist. Fabric fell from her right shoulder, baring perfect flesh all the way down to the mound of her breast, leaving just the hint of the rose-peaked nipple, inviting a man’s touch. Strands of ebony hair were all that clothed her where the gown fell free. Where she had curled her knees up, the gown had fallen away as well. A wickedly long, shapely length of leg and thigh were visible, hauntingly seductive.

  Raven-black lashes fell in a soft sweep over her cheeks, alabaster touched with gold in the firelight. He was not dismayed to want her the way he did, with all the fire and life within him. Fate had made her legally his wife. A night’s treachery had made her so in all ways. The force of his own passions had made her his lover. He had buried Joanna and known nothing but guilt; he had come here thinking that he had buried emotion as well, that strength and power and possessions were what mattered in life now. He had meant to have her simply because she had been destined to be his. He had never realized that though he might take her, she would be the one to actually have him.

  She called him a tyrant; he had commanded many things. He had touched her, touched her again … but it seemed that he could never touch deep within her. She remained his enemy, sworn to a vow made when she was a child far too young to know or understand …

  Sworn against him.

  But it couldn’t be.

  He reached out at last, smoothing a strand of hair from her face. She awoke, her dark lashes rising above emerald eyes. She stared at him for a moment, then rose quickly to her knees, breathless suddenly as she sat back upon her heels, barely a foot from where he hunched down beside her.

  “Adrien!” she whispered. Studying her, he realized that she was glad that he had come, that she had been awaiting him. Aye. She might not ever beg mercy, but tonight she probably meant to seduce him from his anger. She knew what he had the power to do, and she had hastily threatened him. She had to know that he might well send her to England as a prisoner.

  He forced a wall to close around his heart. He could not be seduced.

  “Come!” he told her suddenly, his voice so rough that for a moment, he saw a hint of alarm in her eyes. That was as it had to be. He caught her hands, and drew her heedlessly to her feet, and all but dragged her across the room. He paused just briefly to take one of her mantles from the hook by the door and sweep it around her.

  “Adrien, what are you doing?” she demanded.

  He didn’t reply.

  “This is insane!” she told him as he led her down the stairs. He still ignored her, his hold upon her implacable as he led he
r through the still and empty hall and out into the chill night air in the courtyard. She shivered fiercely. “Adrien! Damn you—!” she gasped, panting. She cried out suddenly, and he realized with a certain remorse that he had taken her out barefoot. But he couldn’t stop, and he damned well couldn’t afford to offer her apologies now. He lifted her up into his arms to continue his long strides toward the chapel. He paused for a moment to seize a torch from the outer wall before entering into the dark interior.

  “Adrien, before God—” she protested.

  “Indeed, lady, before God!” he agreed, setting her upon the ground once again. In the eerie light cast by the torch’s wavering glow, statuary of virgins and saints seemed to move. Danielle pulled back, but he gripped her wrist more tightly, leading the way down to the altar, and then to the left of it, where a wide stairway led down to the crypt.

  “Adrian!” she cried furiously, struggling fiercely to escape his hold. Her voice had a note of desperate pleading. He ignored it. The torch brightened the way as they moved into the cool, pitch-darkness of the crypt. Once there, he set the flaming torch into a niche in the wall, and it illuminated most of the realm of the dead.

  The temperature here, deep in the earth, helped preserve the bodies. To one side lay the simple shelving where the dead nobility and gentry of Aville decayed slowly within their shrouds upon beds of stone and marble. Throughout the crypt were elegant tombs made for those who could afford them.

  “Adrien!” she cried again, desperately trying to free herself. He let her go. To his amazement, she went tearing for the stairway to escape the crypt. He flew after her and captured her with an arm around her waist, spinning her back into the center of the crypt. He met her eyes. They were wild. To his amazement, he realized that he had inadvertently discovered his wife’s Achilles’ heel: she was afraid of the crypt, of the bodies in their shrouds. He hadn’t meant to terrify her in such a way, but maybe it was best that she be terrified of something.