Heather Graham

by The Kings Pleasure

  “You’re afraid!”

  “No …”

  “Liar!”

  “Why are we here?” she cried out.

  “Why are you afraid?”

  “I’m not!”

  “Why, damn you!”

  “I came after my mother died … the doors were closed by accident.” She paused, moistening her lips. “I was locked in here in the dark for hours …”

  “Ah,” he murmured, and started to walk by her, deep in thought.

  “Adrien, don’t leave me, don’t lock me in here!” she cried out.

  He spun back to her. She was white as a sheet, her beautiful features fragile and delicate against the ebony of her hair and the green of her eyes. He didn’t dare show her compassion, but he’d never had any intention of leaving her. He strode back to her, an arm around her waist, and she cried out as he drew her over to her mother’s tomb, in the center of the crypt. She struggled against him again, slamming her fists wildly against his chest. “You will not leave me here—”

  Once again, a wave of remorse swept over him as her head fell back. She tried so desperately, always, to hide her fear and emotion from him.

  He shook her, determined to force her from the raging fear that had assailed her. “I’ve not come to leave you here!” he told her. “What kind of a monster do you think I am? Never mind!” he said wryly. “It is just that you are so damned fond of vows.” He took her hand again. She resisted but he ignored her, laying her hand palm down, fingers splayed, upon her mother’s tomb. “Here lies Lenore. Now, you’ll give me a vow. Swear. Swear on her grave that you will not run from Aville while I am gone, that you will await me, your husband. Swear that you will not welcome my enemies, that you will hold this place in my name for its rightful overlord, Edward of England.”

  “Adrien …” she began in protest, but her voice was weak.

  “Swear it!” he interrupted harshly.

  “Oh, damn you! I swear it!” she cried at last. Then a sob suddenly shuddered through her and she cast her face against his chest, hiding from the scent and feel and touch of decay and death.

  Sweet Jesu, but the little things that she could do! Had she held a knife against his throat, he would have forgotten and forgiven at that moment. He swept her up into his arms once again, grabbed the torch to lead the way up the steps, and carried her from the crypt. He strode swiftly from the chapel, fitting the torch back into the sconce on the wall outside it. He brought Danielle back across the courtyard once again. They entered the keep, and she still lay silent, curled within his arms as they crossed the hall and climbed the stairs. In their room he set her in one of the huge tapestried chairs before the fire. He poured wine from a carafe on a nearby table into a goblet and brought it to her. Her fingers closed around the goblet. “Sip it!” he commanded, and as she did so, he knelt upon one knee and took a small, very cold foot into his hands, rubbing it until the warmth of life seemed to sweep back into it again.

  “How did you know?” she whispered to him suddenly. “How could you have known?”

  He looked up at her, a small frown knitting his brow. “Know—what?” She didn’t answer, but sipped the wine again, and he sighed softly. “Ah, that you were afraid of the crypt?”

  Her lashes, lowered.

  Afraid was not a word she liked, he thought, and he smiled. “I didn’t know that you were uneasy in the crypt. Had I known, I wouldn’t have brought you there.”

  “Really?” she asked, and she looked up frowning. Her eyes were so bright on his. Her lips were the color of a rose against the pale marble of her face. They trembled slightly as she spoke. “But what else might you have done to—”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know that I intended to force a vow from you until I came into this room,” he admitted flatly.

  She stared at him, sipped the wine once more, then passed the goblet to him. He took a long swallow himself, and was glad, for it did take away the chill of the night. “You did give me your word,” he reminded her softly. “You made a vow.”

  She stood and walked across the room, hanging her mantle back on the hook, her head slightly bowed. She hesitated there, then walked back to the fire, staring into the flames before she turned back to him. “I gave my word,” she admitted after a moment. “I’m not so very sure that you needed it. I threatened you because I was angry. But where would I have gone? What rebellion did I stir up before you came? What will be different here now when you leave?”

  “Danielle, you did threaten me. There’s the small matter of Simon, and indeed, if you desired, you could run to the French king.”

  “I love Aville. I was not a part of Simon’s schemes, whether you believe me or not.”

  “Danielle, you threatened to be gone.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, in all these years. You know I cannot break a certain loyalty I feel I owe to the Valois kings of France! I have sworn to you that I will not leave, and that I will hold Aville in your name for you and your king. I never meant to threaten you. It’s just that I am weary of this constant tug of war—not just between you and me!—but between Edward and the house of Valois, my countrymen against my countrymen. So many dead on the battlefields, so many wounded, maimed, dying cruel deaths long after the fights have been waged. And you are to ride away …”

  As her voice trailed off, she lifted her shoulders and turned her back on him.

  He strode across the room to her, spinning her around to face him again. “Could it be that you fear for me, milady?” He couldn’t quite keep the taunt from his voice, and he damned himself for it.

  She kept her head down and would not look at him.

  “Perhaps I fear what will happen to me if you fall, and I am left to the whim of kings once again. God knows what King Edward might plan next. You have already warned me he intends something dire.”

  “But I never fall, lady, in battle or game or life.”

  “No man is immune—you said so yourself when you were showing me the gun.”

  “I said that one day gunpowder might well make all our armor, chain and plate, obsolete. That lies far in the future, lady. Far beyond any battles here. And at this point, we are doing nothing but retaliating against those who cruelly raided Edward’s territory. I am not at great risk—other than that risk which threatens me here.”

  “How can I threaten you?” she whispered.

  “You hold yourself, and Aville.”

  “Even if you were to lose both, what difference would it make? You are the Earl of Glenwood, laird in your far northern country. You have come here by order of the king—”

  “I have come here because you and Aville are mine, and because I give up nothing that is mine,” he told her.

  “Then you have it, for fair or foul. You have wrenched your promises of Aville—and myself!—from me!”

  The argument could go on, he thought, circles within circles. She had made a promise to him, but she had made the deathbed vow to her mother as well, and no words he could say now would change her mind. The night was slipping away. The dawn would come so quickly. Despite the tenseness in her body he engulfed her in his arms, drawing her closely against him, chin atop her head as he whispered “And once again, Countess, you have gained freedom. The fortress is yours once again, and yours alone, from the great walls surrounding it to this room and the bed within it.”

  “Held in your name!” she reminded him, her words muffled against his chest, and he didn’t know if there was a bitter twist to them or not.

  “Held in my name!” he agreed, then shuddered fiercely as he held her. “But by God, lady, I am not gone as yet!” He fell to his knees there upon the fur before the fire, bearing her down with him. He caught the sweetness of her lips, easing her down upon the softness that seemed to engulf them both, along with the red-gold heat of the fire. The shining ebony darkness of her hair splayed out over the whiteness of the fur, entangling him as he held and caressed her, his love-making passionate, aggressive. Slender, silken fingers t
ouched his cheeks, dug into his shoulders, stroked over his back. Her lips, liquid, her tongue, a touch of fire, brushed his flesh. Climax threatened him; he withdrew from her and began again, lips upon hers, down the length of her body, intimate, mercurial. He spread her thighs, his caress still slow, merciless. He heard her whispers, heard her cry his name, he felt her touch, and knew that it would never leave his heart. He came to her again at last, and the world exploded into shimmering flames, his body searing into hers. He eased from her, savoring her beauty upon the fur, and when her eyes touched his again, he took her into his arms. “Hold all in my name!” he warned her vehemently. She didn’t reply, but curled against him, and as the fire continued to lap and burn its golden, warming glow, they slept.

  When Danielle awoke, the fire had all but died. She shivered, but realized that the tapestry from the bed had been wrapped around her.

  Still, the room seemed so chill, so empty.

  And then she knew. Adrien was gone.

  Chapter 16

  THE DAYS SEEMED TO pass peacefully enough at Aville. The circle of life turned, with peasants working the fields and tending their sheep and cattle and chickens while masons repaired walls. Women bore children, the old sickened and died, the sun rose in the morning and set at night.

  But every time a traveler came by Aville, each time a pilgrim en route to a shrine, a juggler, a poet, a cleric, or other passed by, Danielle found herself in turmoil. The news visitors brought was alarming. Adrien had said that Prince Edward’s forces were determined to put down rebellion in the English king’s ducal lands. The situation seemed to be growing far worse. The English were amassing in great force. The French king meant to expel them. They didn’t plan to leave.

  Danielle had learned that war killed with more than weapons. Invading armies levelled crops and decimated livestock. Whether friend or foe, an army was deadly to the land. Men and horses needed to be fed. Strategically, armies often swept the land barren to see to it that their enemies starved. Sometimes, the victors of a battle were decent—and merely pillaged the villages they took. Sometimes, men were tortured, women were raped, and children were left to be orphans. Such was war, and such was life for lesser men when kings became greedy.

  It was bad enough to worry about the country and the people, but her turmoil was inner as well, for despite herself, she missed her husband. In his absence, it seemed that life went on as normal, for Aville was like a well-oiled wheel, as it had been for years and years. Her mother had made it so, she had made it so—and Adrien had made it even more so. For even though he was gone, his strength could be felt in the subtle changes he had made to the fortifications, and in those he had left behind to guard it. Aville, though border land, had long been claimed by the English kings. And since her mother had long ago lost her battle with Edward, the people had gained a greater loyalty to the English king. If there was ever to be war within the walls, the English might well win.

  She prayed each morning that a miracle might occur to make King Jean of France and Edward of England reach an arrangement.

  And she prayed each day, even as she damned him, that her husband would return.

  She despised the fact that she missed him. She felt his absence in the cold at night. She lay awake remembering his wry comments, his smile, and the way his eyes looked sometimes when they fell upon her. Aye, she lay awake far too long and far too late in the darkness, wishing she could feel his warmth and his touch. Yet day by day, she forced herself to appear tranquil. Aville was hers, it remained hers, it would always be hers. With or without him.

  He had been gone several weeks. She was sitting in the great hall, listening to one of the masons explain an extension to the parapets which would give them a far greater view of the countryside, when Daylin appeared with the news that a party carrying the banner of Comte Langlois, one of King Jean’s able supporters, was approaching. She accompanied Daylin to the parapets and watched where Sir Giles stood like a stern sentinel as the Frenchmen approached. The comte was riding with five other men, a small party of horsemen, and they displayed their colors in the peaceable manner of a diplomatic delegation.

  “Do we welcome them?” Daylin asked her.

  “What else can we do?” she replied. “They have obviously come to talk, and no more. Jean is the King of France.”

  “Danielle,” Daylin reminded her softly, “we are in a precarious situation. Edward battles rebellion and claims to be King of France himself—”

  “The Plantagenets have been claiming to be kings of France for decades now—they think it gives them the right to do what they will here.”

  “Surely, King Edward does have some right.”

  Danielle looked down for a moment, fighting a great wave of nausea. She had seen this coming; she hated it. Edward didn’t have the right because he’d been born to be the king across the Channel. Why couldn’t Edward be content with England? And why did it seem that the French kings were always eager to taunt the English kings, claiming France to be far greater and more important a country to rule than the tiny, backward island property of England? She felt as if she were viciously tugged two ways and she suddenly wished God would reach down and strike both kings with a lightning bolt.

  “I cannot refuse to see an emissary of King Jean,” she said simply. She stared at the two men sternly. “You know it as well as I do!”

  The gates were opened; Danielle stood at the entry to the great hall surrounded by her own and Adrien’s men as the comte and his party rode in. She had heard of Langlois before, from Simon and King Jean, but she’d not met the man. He was tall and well-built with dark, searing eyes, dark hair, and a perfectly manicured mustache. He dismounted and approached her, bowing deeply before her.

  “M’lady! I confess to hearing wild tales regarding your beauty but none come so much as close to the truth. It is my greatest pleasure to be here, having been sent by our sovereign, King Jean of France. He has sent you a roll of silk, recently arrived from Persia, and a sword of Toledo steel for your husband, as King Jean has heard he favors such weapons.”

  “How very kind. I hope that my distant cousin, Jean of France, is well.”

  “Indeed, he is so.”

  “Comte Langlois, you are surely aware that my husband rides in the service of Prince Edward right now, but he would welcome you as I do. Will you join us for our evening meal?”

  “With the greatest pleasure.”

  “Come into the great hall and enjoy the wine from our vineyards. It is exceptional.”

  “So I have heard,” Langlois said pleasantly.

  As she turned to enter the hall, she realized that Daylin flanked her tightly and Sir Giles walked closely behind their guest.

  “He’s come to cause trouble!” Daylin whispered.

  Langlois heard him, but appeared not to take offense. “No, he has not come to cause trouble!” he whispered softly as well. Daylin flushed, and Danielle could not help but smile. “I have come in peace to remind the countess—”

  “And what of the earl?” Sir Giles asked gruffly.

  Langlois smiled. “Indeed, to remind the earl and the countess that Aville has always been friends with France, for though we are split into counties and duchies, France is our mother country. That is all.”

  In the great hall, wine was served as Langlois displayed the fine, shimmering silver silk King Jean had sent for her and the handsome sword, for her husband. Danielle sat in a chair by the hearth and Langlois stood some distance away at the table by the wine decanter. While Danielle touched the silk and commented appreciatively on its beauty, Sir Giles approached the mantel, leaned low to the fire, and whispered to her.

  “You must not accept it!”

  “I am to refuse a gift from the French king?”

  “A bribe! And Edward claims to be King of France.”

  “Giles, I cannot appear to be rude. I must accept these gifts. And one could hardly be bribed by a roll of silk or even a magnificent sword.”

  She rose
then, taking the handsomely fashioned sword from the French soldier who offered it to her. “My cousin, King Jean, is thoughtful and generous. I thank him for thinking of us, but Comte Langlois, I must remind you that my husband is a Scotsman who—”

  “Who, alas, rides for Prince Edward, when so many of the Scots have embraced the French with love over the centuries! But he is King Edward’s champion, and so his marriage to you was arranged. He is one Scot who must certainly come to appreciate all that is French.”

  She smiled graciously. “Comte, it’s quite true that over the years the Scots and French have often bonded together—against the English. But my husband is overlord of lands in England as well as Scotland, so he understands the trials of Scotsmen, Englishmen, and, as we live now at Aville, Frenchmen as well.”

  “Edward of England seeks the French throne.”

  “I don’t know the workings in the minds of kings, Comte Langlois. I pray that Edward and my cousin, Jean, find a peaceful solution—cousins themselves.”

  Langlois stared at her, then at Sir Giles to her one side, and Daylin at her other. He smiled boldly. “Sirs, I promise you this, I’ve not come to stir up trouble, merely to offer King Jean’s friendship. May I tell the king—the true and rightful King Jean of France—that you, milady, remain, at heart, his subject?”

  “You may tell him that I love him as I did his father, and pray for his continued good health. I hold this place—Laird MacLachlan and I hold Aville together, sir, and we both pray for peace and prosperity for all the people of France.”

  “If Laird MacLachlan rides with the English prince, he rides with danger. I pray, lady, that he survives to enjoy his great bounty.”

  “I pray for his health and welfare daily, sir.”

  Langlois appeared pleased, and she wasn’t certain why. She had been very careful to state that she was one with Adrien’s will, and she had been just as careful not to make a statement of sworn loyalty to either sovereign. Not even Sir Giles seemed to take offense at her words.