Heather Graham

by The Kings Pleasure

  He would bring her to Scotland, and leave her there while his temper cooled. Perhaps he could rid himself of his obsession for a wife who betrayed him at every turn. And if not, well, he would go to London. London was full of diversions.

  Late that night, when Prince Edward was at last alone, Adrien returned to his battlefield tent and asked for permission to leave the field and return to Aville for his wife.

  “I need you with me a while longer—there’s much to settle here. Send to Aville and have her brought to the Channel. We’ll meet up with her party there. Will that do?”

  “If that’s what you’re granting me,” Adrien said.

  Edward smiled. “You needn’t worry. She’s not going to find a way to help King Jean escape.”

  Adrien arched a brow. “I’m glad you’re so certain.”

  Edward laughed. “That is your fear, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps …”

  “I don’t think she’ll manage to free him from the tower, either.”

  “I’m not bringing her to London.”

  “To your English estates—”

  “No. Home. To Scotland.”

  “Far, far away. But I’ll require you to come back to London. My father will expect you—”

  “I’ll return to London after I’ve seen to affairs in Scotland.”

  “With the countess?”

  “Doubtfully.”

  Edward smiled. “Perhaps some time in the barbaric wilds will be good for your fair damsel. But I imagine that my father will ask to see her, eventually.”

  “Perhaps. He has always held a tenderness for her, though why, I honestly can’t imagine. She betrays him time and time again.”

  Edward shrugged. “Perhaps it’s guilt, regarding Aville. Or perhaps it’s in memory of his friendship with her father, or guilt for seizing her mother’s property. Father can be a strange man.”

  “If he commands that I send for her, I will. But I’d like to take her home to Scotland now.”

  “As you wish.”

  News of the terrible defeat of the French army at Poitiers came quickly to Aville.

  Though she’d had the run of her home once again, Danielle had known from the beginning that she wasn’t to leave, and she was to be allowed no quarter should she attempt to do so. She was home, where she wanted to be, so she made no attempt to leave. But Sir Giles escorted her to her room every evening, and she didn’t move a step outside the keep without Daylin or another of her husband’s men behind her. Monteine was with her again, for which she was grateful, but she had awaited some word from Adrien or the front with a greater nervousness than ever. When word came, it was grim. It came first in the way of maimed, bloodied, and worn men, trying to make their way home. They were the enemy, defeated, but at Aville, as ordered by Adrien through the first messenger to reach the place, they were fed, their wounds were treated, and they were helped on their way.

  News of the disaster wasn’t given to Danielle, but to Sir Giles, and it was he who asked her to come into the great hall, and he who told her quietly that God be praised, Prince Edward had beaten the French, and King Jean was a prisoner of the English.

  “And Adrien?”

  “Laird MacLachlan emerged unscathed, my lady, noble warrior that he is.”

  She was shaking, first with relief for Adrien, then with sorrow for the French, and for Jean. She fled from the great hall and hurried upstairs. Flushed and nauseous, she lay down, worried. What would happen now?”

  Within a few days Daylin came to her room to tell her that she must prepare—they were going to travel.

  “Where?”

  “To the Channel.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I don’t know, my lady. King Jean is to be taken to London. Many more French nobles have been taken for ransom, and they will become prisoners in the tower as well.”

  She felt very cold. Had Adrien disavowed her then? Was he seeking a divorce? Was she to be among the French prisoners in the tower?

  She would have plagued Daylin for answers, except that she knew he had none. Monteine had questioned him ceaselessly, and he had angrily told her that he knew nothing. Monteine was nervous about what was to happen, and Danielle found herself becoming very afraid of the future.

  The house of Valois was, for the time being, shattered, and so, if she had been frightened enough to try to run away, there would have been no one to help her. She hid her fear, involved herself in packing, and asked if she would be allowed to ride Star. She was. On the appointed day, she rode out without a murmur of protest, determined to keep her head high.

  They rode to Calais, where they were met by one Sir Timothy Field, who was gracious in greeting and escorting her to spacious quarters in an old Norman castle. She was given one room, but it was huge, with a fireplace that stretched almost the length of one wall. A large canopied and draped bed sat on a dais in a far corner, while warming tapestries covered the narrow windows and numerous shelves of books lined the walls.

  “I hope you will be comfortable,” Sir Timothy said. He was an old knight, but his shoulders were as broad as an ox’s and he was tall as an oak. “My family has lived here for generations, and we have done what we can for warmth and comfort.”

  She smiled at him and flashed a glance to Daylin, who stood to his side.

  “I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable. Am I to stay long?”

  Sir Timothy looked at Daylin, arching a brow. He bowed to Danielle. “That, my lady, I cannot say. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll allow you to settle in.”

  Daylin followed him out; Monteine nearly tripped over herself to follow Daylin, and Danielle was left alone.

  She soon discovered that her door was bolted. She wasn’t a guest. She was a prisoner.

  But she was tired, more tired than she could ever remember being. A manservant came to ask if she would like a bath, and she gladly accepted. The ride had been long and muddy. She had barely finished with the castle’s elaborate brass hip tub when dinner was brought to her. After eating, she was still too tired to bang on the door and demand an explanation, so she curled up on the bed and slept.

  Hours later, she awakened. There were no lamps or candles lit, and the fire in the huge hearth had died down. She moved the drapes and stepped barefoot from the bed, then walked to the fire, shivering. She sat down on the rug before it, stretching her hands out to feel its warmth.

  “So, Adrien!” she mused to the fire. “What am I doing here, locked in this room in Calais? What have you planned for me, you … bastard!” she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. The future loomed bleak before her. Apparently, he couldn’t be bothered with her anymore himself. She was simply to be escorted from place to place. Left behind, while he went about the business of being one of King Edward’s great champions!

  “You should burn in the fires of hell!” she whispered to the flames.

  “How charming.”

  She was glad she was sitting. Hearing Adrien speak, his voice deep ice, was so startling she would have fallen had she been standing. She spun around on her haunches to see that he was seated in one of the huge leather chairs before the fire.

  “Adrien!”

  “My love,” he acknowledged evenly. He sat comfortably back against the chair, studying her with eyes that glittered pure gold against the flames. He wore no armor, just tight breeches, shirt, tunic, and boots. His crest was embroidered in red upon the white tunic.

  She rose, slowly and carefully, wanting the advantage of looking down at him. He didn’t move, but continued to watch her gravely. Then he smiled with casual indifference. “So, you’ve missed me?” he inquired.

  She ignored the taunt, swallowing hard as her stomach knotted. “What am I doing here in Calais?” she asked him.

  “You are Sir Timothy’s guest,” he said flatly.

  “I’m a prisoner. My door is bolted.”

  “Surely you can’t be surprised at that.”

  “King Jean is a prisoner.”

&nbs
p; “Aye, and we intend that he should stay that way.”

  “What harm can I do—”

  “I’m afraid to find out.”

  She fell silent, looking down at the thick bear rug. She looked back at him, fighting for control.

  “What is to happen to the king?”

  “Edward? Why, his people will honor him for this great victory.”

  “I meant Jean, and you know it.”

  “He will come to England and be a prisoner in the tower.”

  “Am I to be imprisoned in the tower as well?”

  “No,” Adrien told her. “You needn’t worry so much about your King Jean. He will be a prisoner, yes, while the English await his ransom, but he will also be King Edward’s guest. I sincerely doubt that he will suffer in the least.”

  “So … what is to happen to me?”

  “You’re leaving France.”

  She felt herself grow pale. “For London?”

  “Scotland.”

  Scotland. His homeland. Far, far away from everything, and everyone. A barren wasteland.

  Where she could be left.

  “What about my father’s English estate?” she murmured.

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “In the morning. Early.” He rose, and as he towered over her, she saw that his hair was still damp. He smelled cleanly of a pine-scented soap. He hadn’t bathed here; she saw none of his belongings, and she felt a weakness in her knees as she thought that he had taken a room himself elsewhere. She was very tempted to throw herself at his feet and cry out to him that she had never meant to hurt him, that she was miserable, sorry for King Jean and France, and sorry for the two of them, because it seemed that their marriage had become a casualty of war.

  She didn’t throw herself at his feet. Or cry out. She stood very still, unnerved by the way he studied her.

  “You should get some sleep. I hear you haven’t been well,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’ve been fine.”

  “Monteine has told Daylin that you’re frequently sick.”

  “Monteine has no right discussing me with Daylin.”

  “They are both concerned about you.”

  “Then I am grateful for their concern, but I’m fine, and they shouldn’t be discussing me.” If he was leaving, she thought, he needed to leave. She didn’t feel sick at the moment, she felt like bursting into tears. Everything had gone so very wrong. He sounded like a distant stranger when he spoke. It was tormenting to wonder where he was going when he left her to her comfortable prison.

  He shrugged, still watching her with his golden eyes. “At least you are here. You didn’t escape Aville.”

  “I didn’t escape Aville because I had no desire to escape Aville. It is my home, and where I should be.”

  “Ah, so if you had been at Aville, you’d not have gone to the Twisted Tree Tavern?” he inquired, his head inclined slightly.

  She sighed with exasperation. “I made a vow to my mother to honor the king—”

  “Aye, lady, I’m aware of your wretched vow. But don’t you think you fulfilled it long ago? Long enough so that you might now have kept a vow to me?”

  She exhaled slowly, trying not to shake. “I made a promise to the priest that I’d save Jean’s life if I could. The knights were threatening to kill him, Adrien.”

  “The priest was not a priest.”

  “I still promised to Christ to save King Jean’s life if I could. That was all. And it is God’s truth that I never knew the priest was not a priest. Had you just left me home at Aville—”

  “Well, lady, you are going home now.”

  “Not my home—”

  “Then you will make it so!” he interrupted sharply. “Sleep while you can,” he told her, and stepping past her, he exited the room.

  She heard the bolt slip into place.

  Eventually she lay down and slept. And she awoke slowly, aware of warmth, and the soft brush of fingers against the bare flesh of her back. She inhaled, afraid to move at first—then momentarily afraid that some stranger had come upon her. But it wasn’t a stranger, it was Adrien, and she knew he could touch lightly and seductively when he was so inclined. His hand had slipped beneath the hem of her nightgown, and he teased her awake, fingertips against her spine, circling her buttocks. His hand rounded her hip, drew her hard against his arousal. An arm slipped around her, holding her tight, and he caressed her breast as his lips pressed against the flesh of her shoulder and his manhood prodded against her until he slipped within …

  A small sound escaped her at first, and she tried to hold very still. But it seemed so long since … and the feel of him was so good. Within minutes she was on fire, moving against him, slick, wanting, reaching. She escalated quickly to a sweet, soaring climax, and scarcely moved as she trembled with the aftermath. He remained behind her, and did not withdraw for a long time. She kept her back to him when he did so.

  “There’s nothing you want to say to me?” he inquired.

  She wished he would not speak. She wished that the night could just be silent, and that they could he together and forget the battles of the day.

  “What would you have me say?” she whispered.

  “Ah … well, Adrien, you do look well. No battle axes in your head? No, well, thank God for that. Christian charity alone might make you glad to see that I did not bleed my life’s blood over your precious France.”

  “The French did not ask you to come from England to fight or die here.”

  He sighed, and she was aware that he stared up at the ceiling, worn and weary.

  “I knew you would survive,” she told him. Then she admitted very softly, “I prayed that you would survive.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Christian charity.”

  “Ah … but there is nothing else you would say to me?” he inquired, and he turned toward her back once again, an arm around her, fingers gently upon her waist and breast.

  “No!” she whispered.

  She felt his head settle on the pillow. He held her, and stroked her. He didn’t speak again, and neither did she. She barely breathed.

  When he said he would start early, he meant it. Dawn had barely broken when they started across the Channel. The seas were not wild, but slightly rough. Danielle had been at his side as he spoke with the ship’s captain when the motion became more than she could bear. She hurried aft, and was violently sick. Monteine brought her a cool, damp cloth and she cleaned her face, but as she thanked Monteine, she saw that Monteine had left her and Adrien had come to stand at her side. She flushed, looking over the water. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude to your English captain or disgrace you in any way. I don’t know what this is; I admit that it seems as if it has gone on forever and forever. Most probably—”

  “Danielle,” he said, leaning against the oak-rimmed hull and studying her with a fair amount of amusement. “I had thought you were trying to shun me in some way, and now I see that you are truly naive.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “So it seems. And if I hadn’t been with you last night, I’d not be so certain myself.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “You’re not sick, my love. You’re expecting a babe.” She sucked in her breath with surprise, and then she was angry because he was laughing at her. “You don’t know!” she whispered. “You can’t possibly know—”

  “I can, and I do.”

  “Oh! And how many children have you fathered?”

  His gold eyes glittered on hers. “None other, my lady,” he said, and she felt a tremendous relief until he added, “That I know about.” And with that, he walked away.

  By afternoon, with the good winds that had made the Channel rough, they reached Dover. Adrien had no wish to stay overnight, and when their horses and belongings were unloaded, they immediately began riding.

  That night they stayed at a tavern outside Winchester. Adr
ien spent much of the early evening in the public room, drinking with Daylin and the men-at-arms who accompanied them, Michael among them, but not Sir Giles, who had remained at Aville. Until late at night, Danielle could hear the men as their voices drifted up to her. They laughed, drank, gambled, told bawdy jokes, and played with the tavern wenches. Danielle tried to bury her head in her pillow. It did little good. Toward dawn, Adrien came up the stairs and into their room. He stumbled, slamming against the doorway as he came in. She heard him disrobe carelessly, then crawl in beside her. He reeked of good English ale. She had every right to fight him when he pulled her into his arms.

  “Now you’re a drunken wretched Scotsman,” she told him, which amused him no end.

  “Ah, but your drunken Scotsman, my love.”

  “Oh? And how often is that?” she whispered.

  “As often as I desire.”

  She shook her head violently. “Nay, sir, you can’t claim a wife that way. Drink with your comrades, whore with your friends, and then …”

  “You,” he informed her, rising above her, “are now being a pious French traitor. But you’re my pious French traitor, God help me!”

  “Adrien …” she protested, and tried to squirm from the bed; he dragged her back. He kissed her, stripped her, laved her breasts, her belly, her intimate flesh unbearably with liquid strokes. She couldn’t remember why she had been protesting. She no longer cared.

  In the morning, for once, she rose before him. When the tavernmaster banged on the door to tell him it was the hour he had asked to awaken, Adrien winced. He glanced at her from half-closed eyes and winced again. “My apologies, my love. Was I terribly rude?”

  “No worse than customary,” she informed him coolly, having already washed and dressed. He sat up in the bed, holding his head between his palms.

  “Good God, it’s been years and years since I’ve drunk so much …” he murmured. He glanced her way, hair tousled, eyes red. He groaned, and lay back. “What’s that I smell?”

  “Fish. The tavernmaster brought fresh fish and bread for our breakfast.”