By Royal Command

by Laura Navarre

  Steel fingers closed on her shoulder and dragged her around to face him, eyes blazing with dark fire. Desperate, she twisted free.

  “Eomond, we can’t speak—”

  “You intend to leave with no more explanation than that, by Thor’s bloody hammer? After all your pretty pleas to be left alone and spared the horrors of another marriage—should I believe this means nothing to you?”

  Driven beyond her limits, tears spilled from her brimming eyes. Seeing them, he stilled, uncertainty flickering in his gaze.

  “For the love of God,” she whispered, “have you no more discretion than to come charging after me? Haven’t we given them enough gossip without this last—?”

  “You seemed dismayed. The king himself bade me follow you.”

  “Oh, aye,” she sighed, “so that I may assure you I go willing to Belmaine! Do you not know your own master, after so many years in the Devil’s service?”

  Sudden footsteps thudded on the stair below. Eomond urged her before him toward the chapel. The confessional loomed before them and he chivvied her toward it, but she protested this sacrilege in an outraged whisper.

  With a muttered oath, he wrenched aside a hanging arras to expose a small door and pulled her through, giving her no opportunity to resist. Forced into close quarters, she fumbled to close the door behind them, barely in time as the footsteps trotted past.

  Now they stood in the chapel storeroom, little more than a closet, wine barrels draped with cobwebs surrounding them. An arrow-slit admitted a streak of gray daylight. A serene wooden angel in gold and cobalt overlooked the chaos.

  This was precisely the situation she’d sought to avoid: an opportunity for him to interrogate her in private and destroy her flimsy defenses. She must lie then—and lie well. She must deflect him from any further interest in her affairs, for both their sakes.

  “I see no purpose to this interrogation,” she said. “I go full willing to this alliance, and marriage into one of the wealthiest families in England. The contracts are already drawn up—all I must do is sign.”

  She meant to sound certain, but her words rang thin, like a spoiled child threatening to misbehave. Hearing it, his brows hoisted.

  “You make it sound simple, lady. I might almost believe you, but I’ve heard you rail too often against that fate.”

  “I was a naïve little foolet, and persuaded to a wiser course.”

  “Tell me what was said to persuade you.”

  In a flash Ethelred’s words tumbled through her mind, his thinly veiled threats and smiling malice, his casual dismissal of Eomond’s loyal service, the theyn risking his own safety on the king’s behalf.

  “La!” Somehow, she managed to laugh. “Perhaps my ears were filled with such glowing praise of Belmaine’s achievements that I fell in love.”

  “Don’t!” His eyes flashed a lightning bolt of warning. “I’ll hear no talk of love from you, my fine lady, who know not even the meaning of the word. If you were seduced by a heavy purse and a high title, say it outright.”

  “So I have!” she cried, furious to hear him disparage her—he, who’d used her like a whore and abandoned her. “I’m no such immodest harlot as your fair Edwynna, to foment in sinful longing for love outside the marriage bed. My heart belongs to my rightful lord—”

  “By Odin’s lost eye,” he growled, low and dangerous. “I’ve said I’ll hear no words of love. Perhaps you’ve forgotten how I react when a woman lies.”

  Katrin pressed her back against the wall. She feared to goad him further, but the better she did it, the farther she’d propel him, to his own certain safety.

  She steeled herself and lifted her chin. “Will you turn me over your knee for it? This time you have no such authority. Another man has the keeping of me now.”

  “At the moment, you’re in no man’s keeping but mine.”

  In three swift strides he closed the distance to tower over her, before the angel’s pacific gaze. She flung up her hands to stop him, palms striking his steel-linked hauberk.

  “Eomond, don’t do this! I’m pledged to marry the baron—”

  “To hear them tell it, your baron’s half a monk. No marriage is binding if it can’t be consummated.”

  She felt as though she were suffocating, to discuss the consummation of her marriage with him of all people.

  “But it will be consummated,” she whispered. “Do not think otherwise.”

  With a violence that brought her heart all the way up to her throat, he drove his fist against the wall. A fey voice was singing in her blood, a siren’s song luring her to ruin. Like Odysseus, she saw her doom but strained toward it all the same.

  Still, breathless, she flung defiance in his face. “God and Mary, I don’t see why it should vex you. You’ve other beds in which to take your pleasure—and now so have I.”

  “You’ll find no such pleasure in your bishop’s bed as this.”

  His mouth opened hers, his touch igniting her. Not for him the chaste kisses of troubadours’ lays; these were the frank passions of a fighting man goaded to his limits. When persuasion failed, he would take what he wanted by force.

  Torn between protest and surging passion, she struggled to push him away. Moaned into his open mouth, fingers clenching the rivets of his armor as he pressed her to the wall.

  Aye, this alone was real. She was going up in flames. When he shoved one thigh between hers, she arched against him. Without lifting his mouth or easing the rub of his thigh against her throbbing center, he fumbled for her laces. With an impatient grunt, he set his strength against them. The iniquitous sound of tearing cloth rent the air. Now gown and shift were sliding down her shoulders, falling all the way to her waist, exposing her to sin and damnation.

  There in the pale spill of daylight, he pinned her against the wall and devoured her mouth as though he was starved, with the angel watching.

  Wicked as any demon, knowing she was lost, she moaned against his kisses. “Now, let it be now, I can’t—”

  “When I say.” He gripped her piled hair, clenched until her scalp tingled, hand questing beneath her skirt.

  She shuddered as the shock of his rough palm skimmed up her thigh and, finally, brushed her moist heat. Her head fell back, eyes closing as she leaned into him. Turning his face into her shoulder, he uttered muffled words as his palm cupped her secret place. His fingers slid between her moist folds to find the beating heart of her pleasure.

  Abandoning all decorum, she moved against him as he stroked that pulsing jewel, her channel running slick with honey. One-handed, he tugged at his armor.

  “Hurry,” she gasped, clutching his hauberk as he wrestled garments aside to free his rigid length. She would know this paralyzing pleasure once more before she married, once more to remember against the dull fabric of years before her.

  When he guided his length into her heat, she moaned behind clenched teeth. Pressing his face into her neck as if he dared not look at her, he surged into her, stretching and filling her wet passage. She’d feared never to see him again, never to be claimed and caressed by him. Dear God, she loved him, surely this was what love meant…

  His hands closed behind her thighs, lifting and opening her wide, pinioning her between his armored frame and the wall behind her.

  “Tell me you’ve dreamed of this,” he groaned into her hair. “Every blessed moment, asleep or awake…”

  “I haven’t.” She met him thrust for thrust. “I care nothing for you.”

  “Liar,” he said tenderly, like an endearment. His tall frame shuddered violently as he emptied into her. She cried out, heedless of anything except the waves of pleasure surging over her. They left her beached against him, gasping, as the tide ebbed.

  Panting, he sagged against her, half out of his armor. She clung to him limply, exposed to the waist, le
gs twined around him and skirts bunched between them. At last, he pushed away from the wall and lowered her to the ground.

  In a daze, she fumbled the kirtle into place around her shoulders, though the gown gaped perilously in back where he’d torn her laces. She could hardly grasp what had just occurred, how her hasty plans, forged in cunning and despair, had skewed so wildly amiss. Far from diverting him, she’d given him ample reason to continue his pursuit.

  Eomond shot her a chagrined glance, not quite meeting her eyes. “Beg pardon for being so…hasty. I’ve been too long away.”

  Suddenly, she was keenly aware of the burn and wetness between her thighs. With bitter regret, she recalled the consequences of their last unguarded passion—and what she’d lost.

  Head ducked, she struggled with her gown until he circled behind to tie her torn laces, muttering under his breath at the obvious ruin he’d made of them.

  When she was more or less in the gown, he stilled—a hulking menace in steel and boiled leather. He gathered her fallen hair from her shoulders, lifting its weight from her neck. The curling tendrils cascaded through his fingers.

  “Odin’s pain,” he said softly. “I disliked hearing of this marriage. If you’re unwilling, by the king’s own law the match isn’t valid.”

  “Like it or nay, it must go forward.” An unexpected ache swelled her throat. “My uncle’s already signed the contract. If he doesn’t follow through, he’ll lose the earl of Argent. You’ve said it yourself—England needs the men and the money.”

  Still, impossibly, hope fluttered in her breast. Hardly daring to breathe, she turned and lifted her gaze to his.

  “If I cried off,” she whispered, “I couldn’t remain in England. I’d have to flee with nothing. If I go…” She swallowed hard and gathered all her courage. “Will you not go with me?”

  For a heartbeat, she thought she’d swayed him. Conflict furrowed his brow as his dark eyes searched hers. All her love blazing forth, knowing her soul burned in her face, she waited.

  Then his gaze flickered away. The bitter taste of ashes flooded her mouth as her last hope faded.

  “Katrin,” he said heavily, shaking his head and stepping back. “My loyalty lies with Ethelred, and with England. You’ll marry your baron at Easter, and I’ll return to war. We won’t discuss this again.”

  Well and truly, then, he’s made his choice. Though she hadn’t really hoped for any other outcome—he’d always chosen duty over desire—a flood of disappointment stung her eyes and closed her throat. But pride came to her rescue and stiffened her spine. By God, she was an aetheling, descended from kings! It would take more than a broken heart to crush her.

  Her chin rose. When she spoke, her voice crackled with resolve.

  “You’re correct about England’s need, sword-theyn. Moreover, I go to this marriage full willing for my own advancement. You shouldn’t have believed me when I said otherwise.” Turning away from him, she gripped a broken prie-dieu with both hands. “You yourself have condemned me for lying.”

  The air charged with silent lightning, lifting the hairs along her nape.

  “Well do I know I can’t trust a word you utter,” he said roughly. “But I don’t believe you lied when you opposed another marriage.”

  She clutched the prie-dieu hard enough to splinter her nails. “Then believe this—I’ve lied to you since the day I met you. I lied to you an hour after you saved my life, and lied to you with every word and look and gesture since. Do you not know it?

  “Sweet mercy, the moment we met, I set out to beguile you, even to seduce you outright. I set out to turn your loyalty for sport—and, lo, I nearly succeeded! Here you’ve stood, beneath the king’s very roof, and hovered a hair’s breadth from betraying him.”

  The cold voice she heard mocking him couldn’t be hers. She could never have hurled such deliberate bolts at this man she’d loved—or thought she loved—to distraction. Behind her, Eomond stood gripped in stillness, as if the floor had opened at his feet.

  To fill that dreadful silence, she demanded, “Do you comprehend me, sword-theyn? I yielded to you not from any tender sentiment, but for my own amusement.”

  Anguished, she gritted her teeth, then savagely finished it. “You’re nothing to me but a toy I played with and cast aside.”

  Behind her, the terrible silence built. Yet she dared not turn. She could bring herself to say whatever she must, but she could never hope to control her face. Nor would she fill her years with the searing memory of his contempt.

  When he stirred at last, the clash of armor shattered the stillness.

  “Is it so? Then I’m grateful you deigned to enlighten me.”

  His measured tread crossed the floor. Still she couldn’t turn, even for a farewell glimpse as he walked out of her life. On the threshold, he paused, and her breath hitched. Let him ask me to reconsider even once, and I’ll fling myself at his feet and take back every word.

  He spoke, cold as winter. “I wish your baron much pleasure in his marriage. Indeed, he’s welcome to it.”

  Even that much undid her. “Eomond, I—”

  The closing door was his reply. She spoke to empty air. He’d abandoned her as she’d wished, left her alone with the musk of shared arousal thick in the air—alone to face her fate.

  She buried her face in her arms and wept.

  * * *

  Two days later beneath leaden skies, in the teeth of a frigid wind, Katrin departed for Argent. Astride her milk-white mare, she bade her uncle a chilly farewell.

  Ethelred glanced around the bailey—a seething chaos of horses, baggage wains and her harried retinue. Among them, Thorkell bellowed vainly for order.

  “We shall expect regular reports to assure us of your welfare,” the king murmured.

  She wondered whom among her entourage he’d ordered to spy for him. And she was sharply conscious of the clatter and clang across the bailey where a mounted Eomond, massive as a war engine, instructed his men in the Norman art of lances.

  He’d managed to avoid her since their last disastrous encounter, so any final hope of his relenting was lost. Clearly, the king’s theyn had made his choice. A swift rush of pain twisted her heart. If God was kinder than she deserved, perhaps Rafael le Senay would be too absorbed in his prayers to notice her broken heart.

  Ethelred studied her with a thoughtful smile. “You may expect to live in substantial comfort at the earl’s castle of Caerwyne. The clan is wealthy as Midas—they’re merchant princes in Anjou and Amalfi. Even the English branch lives in decadence.”

  He hesitated, and his voice altered. “I suppose you think I’ve sacrificed you on the altar for malice. Still, you may count me your friend and ally.”

  Katrin barely stifled a scornful noise. Easy enough for him now to toss her this sop.

  Ethelred lifted her gloved hand to his lips, then pressed it to his heart, his saturnine features no warmer than at the hunt, when he tossed the stag’s dripping heart to his mastiffs. “It will be lonely for you, I fear, in your bishop’s bed. After a few slow lifetimes of Belmaine’s embraces, perhaps you’ll regret spurning mine.”

  “May God assoil your soul for saying such things.” Shuddering, she crossed herself with her free hand.

  Somber mood vanquished, he shot her a playful glance. “Was it my likeness to your father that set you against it?”

  “It needed no more than you to set me against it.” Loathing him, she snatched her hand away.

  At that moment, the cumbrous baggage train began trundling toward the gate.

  “Bear yourself well in Argent, Katrin.” With a mocking bow, the king of England stepped back. “Be certain I will know it if you don’t.”

  The winding train snaked under the palisade onto the road to Argent. As they toiled past the practice ground, Eomond thundered down on the
quintain like an avalanche, stern and terrifying behind his helm, cloak billowing in his wake. Beneath this lethal force, his lance struck the target and shattered. Amid shouts of astonishment, he reined up.

  Now she was nearly at the gates. Losing her battle, Katrin turned her head and saw him, straight and still in his saddle. Between the slanting cheekguards and nasal of his helm, his dark eyes glittered.

  Though she wore her heart on her face for the entire court to read, he made no acknowledgement, no gesture of farewell. She’d known he wouldn’t—but still, in her heart she’d hoped. Did she still expect him to save her?

  Gaze falling listlessly, she turned away. As she passed beneath the walls and left the king’s stronghold, she prayed to God and St. Cuthbert she would never return.

  Part Two:

  The Would-Be Bishop

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mercia

  She’d signed away her soul when she signed the marriage contract.

  Katrin felt no urgency to reach the castle of Caerwyne and her unwanted betrothed. Indeed, her reluctance had mounted with each passing day. She’d done everything to delay their arrival, from feigned illness to pious demands for prayer at every church they passed.

  Never have I been so holy.

  Her tactics left Thorkell on the edge of open rebellion, barely civil to her dictates, all the more resolved to deliver her to the altar and have done with this burdensome business.

  When they came to Argent, a tourney was underway in the village below the keep. Katrin quickly suggested they stop for it.

  Unwillingly, Thorkell said, “It’s true the men would welcome a chance to win arms and armor in the melee. We’ve several among this lot with some repute for fighting.”

  “No doubt they’ll also welcome an opportunity to impress the ladies.” Katrin lifted her brows as she wielded this weapon.