“Well now, Giselle,” Eustache told her, leaning in so that his warm breath dusted her face, “we will meet again on the eve of your wedding day.”
Caught in his commanding stare, Giselle could only stare back in mute awe. But even so captivated, she suddenly knew what she had to do. As the lord ran the tip of his finger down the column of her throat to her collarbone, she shivered involuntarily. But Giselle fearlessly held his lusty gaze with her own, her plan taking root.
By the simple virtue of being a woman, she had been forced into this situation. But as a woman, she knew she could bend the steeliest of men with her feminine wiles if she truly tried. She would trap this lord—no, this man—in his own desires, even though he thought that it was he who had her trapped. She would twist her fate yet!
“And I will have you in my bed,” Eustache promised fiercely.
Giselle’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
And I will have you in the palm of my hand, she vowed silently in return.
Chapter Two
The next morning, Giselle proceeded with her daily chores as if a life-changing event had not happened the evening before. Her parents, still grieving the loss of their alliance with Henri, were stunned by her apparent serenity. But Giselle simply shrugged at their concerned looks with a secretive and determined smile, offhandedly commenting that there was nothing that anyone could do to change the lord’s decision. Her baffled parents could only watch as their daughter continued about her tasks as usual, not knowing whether they should be grateful for her good humour or should question her sanity.
But by the time Giselle had ventured out to the manor courtyard to do the week’s baking in the lord’s communal oven, she had already begun to doubt her self-confidence. After all, she was untrained in seduction and had no firsthand experience in the art of pleasuring a man. Could she, by her looks alone, garner the support of such a cold-hearted lord? Or would he simply cast her away once he had sated his lust for her? As she waited for her batch of bread to rise in the warming oven, Giselle wandered the corners of the courtyard and pondered her plight…completely oblivious to the keen eyes that followed her.
Eustache studied the object of his desire from the parapet atop the thick stone walls that encircled the manor courtyard. He watched her graceful gait, her easy smile and her swaying hips. He watched as she paused to help an elderly woman unload her cart of vegetables. He watched her arms reaching to lift the bundles. Eustache paused to consider her arms; they were long and sinewy with lean muscle, so different from the pudgy arms of noble women, whose skin flapped and jiggled with every movement. He imagined gripping her slim arms with his fingers tight around the supple flesh, and his palms flat against her skin. Her limbs would be soft and pliant—but also firm from years of physical labour. For the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to imagine the feel of her flexing under his hands as he leaned over her, covering her body with his.
Yes, he thought as he casually left his post to wander down to the courtyard, Giselle was exactly what he wanted—and what he needed.
He exited the winding staircase to the parapet and strode over to where Giselle stood, idly listening in on peasant girl chatter. He stopped when he stood just behind her, and all the girls fell instantly silent. She seemed to sense his presence, for she stiffened and squared her shoulders. But she did not turn.
“Giselle,” he said in a low rumble.
For her part, Giselle had discovered that her courage had fled the instant he said her name. Swallowing nervously, she slowly turned and dropped into an awkward curtsey.
“Yes, mon seigneur?” she asked, desperately trying to keep her voice from shaking.
“Walk with me,” he told her.
She followed a step behind him as he crossed the courtyard, his long strides nearly doubling hers. She had to skip to keep up, and he slanted his eyes in her direction every time he heard her footsteps quicken. The girl moved nimbly and with more grace than a dancing noblewoman.
Eustache found his thoughts wandering to his new life at the manor. It was painfully dull, an unending loop of fatty meals and afternoon rides. The country pace was monotonous—and yet his brother and father seemed content to lounge the days away in a lazy stupor. His gaze slid back to the slender woman at his side, suddenly curious.
“What are you here for?” he asked abruptly.
She looked up, surprised at being addressed.
“I am baking bread, mon seigneur,” she answered, doe-like eyes blinking.
“You do this every day?”
“No, mon seigneur,” she said, hiding a smile behind her hand. “Only once a week.”
“And the other days?” he pressed, his voice gruff.
“I help with the crops. I tend the animals. I make the cheese. I help the groomsmen with the horses—”
“The horses?” Eustache interrupted. “You touch the horses?”
Before Giselle could respond, a sudden commotion erupted near the stables, and they both turned in surprise. Immediately, Giselle was running at full tilt toward the ruckus. Instinctively, Eustache reached out and caught her arm in an iron grip to stop her suicidal trajectory, and for a moment, she was jerked backward by the firm force. But then, heedless of the consequences, she twisted out of his grasp and sprinted away.
Because in that moment, Giselle knew one thing and one thing only.
The boy will be killed.
At the other end of the manor courtyard, a panicked stable boy was frantically grasping at the reins of an angry stallion that paced and sidestepped, its eyes white and wild with fury. The majestic creature towered over the boy, who was being pulled from his feet with every shake of the beast’s head. In desperation, the boy raised a riding crop and swung the tool towards the horse’s cheek.
Too slow, she thought with gritted teeth as she darted toward the pair. I must reach them before…
Just then, the great steed wrenched the lead from the boy’s hands with a violent toss of its head. The young lad fell backward with a cry, and the horse reared up, ready to crush the child under its razor-sharp hooves. In the split second that the horse hovered above the stable boy, Giselle stepped in between them with her arms wide and outstretched. For a moment, the stallion paused in his attack, and Giselle locked her eyes onto his.
“Be still,” she commanded calmly in a low voice. “Be still. There is no threat here.”
The horse lowered its massive hooves to the ground and backed away, snorting and tossing its head in confusion, fear and anger. Giselle slowed her breathing, willing the animal to do the same.
“Ah, mon ami,” she crooned, extending a slim hand to the horse’s quivering muzzle. “Come now. Don’t be afraid.”
The horse shifted its weight and tentatively shuffled closer, ducking its head as it did. Ignoring all others, Giselle beckoned to the horse as one would a frightened child, murmuring words of comfort under her breath. With a snort, the stallion edged closer and pushed its velvety nose into her palm.
“Yes, it’s all right now.”
Giselle gently smoothed her fingers over the crest of the great animal’s forehead. With a practiced hand, she slid her fingers around his bridle and stepped even closer. Tightening her grip on the leather strap, she let her other hand glide down the horse’s powerful neck. Behind her, she heard the stable boy scrambling to his feet as Eustache advanced upon them.
“Mon seigneur,” the boy began to apologise, his voice quivering in fear. “I am so sorry—”
“Get away from my horse, boy,” Eustache barked.
The boy scrambled away, nearly tripping over his own feet in haste. Eustache turned stormy eyes on Giselle.
“Do you want to die?” he demanded, his lips thin in anger.
“No, of course not, mon seigneur,” she answered, patting the stallion’s cheek.
Eustache’s arm shot out, and he grabbed the horse by the throatlatch. He pulled, and the beast paced closer to its master.
“This horse,” Eustac
he said, firmly gripping the bridle as the horse whinnied, “is my war horse, Bayard. He is not a farm nag that you can simply walk up to and pet.”
Giselle could not resist arching a delicate eyebrow.
“Mon seigneur,” she answered primly, “I am but a country girl, but I have learned that all horses are simply horses—just as all men are simply men.”
“Oh?”
Eustache raised a thick eyebrow before striding purposefully to the entrance of the stables, and causing several gawking stable hands to snap to attention. He held out a hand imperiously.
“Brush and a rag,” he commanded evenly.
The men rushed to drop the items into his outstretched hand. Eustache turned and held out the implements to the girl.
“Take them,” he instructed abruptly, gesturing to the war horse. “I would see you put such a silly belief to action. Groom Bayard.”
Giselle carefully took the rag and brush with faintly trembling fingers. Dropping into a curtsey, she nodded and then moved back to where Bayard waited. Eustache tensed, ready to push the fool girl out of the way—Bayard was notoriously finicky, and he’d often had to rescue the most skilled groom from his flailing hooves. But, without a moment’s hesitation, the diminutive girl set about the task, her hands moving with practiced ease. As Eustache watched in growing amazement, he was enthralled by the unexpected grace with which she moved. The sweeping motion of her strokes was almost hypnotic in rhythm, and she hummed gently as she worked the relaxing horse.
Entranced, Eustache stepped closer to her until his chest was nearly touching her back. He planted one hand on the horse’s shoulder and the other on its flank, caging Giselle between his arms. But she did not pause in her strokes, her arms rhythmically sweeping across the stallion’s shining coat. Eustache pressed closer, leaning in so that his nose nearly touched her ear. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, sending skittering tingles of excitement down Giselle’s spine.
“Aren’t you afraid?”
Wondering if he meant of the horse or of the man himself, Giselle forced herself to remain loose and limber. It was instinct that cautioned her not to show her anxiety, to remain calm—just as she did before the great horses. She knew that if she wanted to catch and hold the lord’s interest, she needed to be fierce in the face of danger.
“Should I be?” she asked coyly, never pausing in her ministrations.
Ignoring the astounded gawking of the servants, Eustache placed his large hands on Giselle’s waist, his long fingers moulding to her ribs. He pulled her backward with a sharp jerk, so that she was flush against him. She could feel the beat of his heart against her back and the desperate tightness of his fingers as they crept down to cup her hips. She resisted the urge to smile—she knew that she had him wanting her more than ever.
“Perhaps,” he muttered against the sensitive skin of her svelte neck.
Giselle stilled then—shocked by the intimate gesture—and Eustache could feel the wild fluttering of her pulse under his lips. He was intrigued by this tiny woman; she was at once seductive yet innocent in manner, wilful yet fragile in demeanour, playful yet diligent at work. A woman who did not balk at facing a deadly beast of war that easily dwarfed her, but who trembled under a touch of his lips. He wanted to explore every inch of her body and discover her every wish.
“I cannot wait,” Eustache murmured, his hot breath moistening the shell of her ear. “You will come to my chambers tonight.”
Chapter Three
It was late into the evening when Eustache finally retired to his bedchambers, and the dark—as well as a crisp coolness—had crept into the room. But he saw her right away, her pure white nightgown a bright beacon in the dark.
She stood by the fireplace, and the shapely silhouette of her slender form was visible through her light gown, illuminated by the warm blaze behind her. Her hands were tightly clasped in front of her, and she trembled ever so faintly—but whether from the cold or from fear, he did not know. Eustache frowned. He had not wanted to frighten her.
He paced slowly across the room, pretending not to notice when she flinched at his approach. He walked past her without pausing, turning when he reached the four-poster bed. With one hand, he unbuckled the leather belt at his waist and tossed it to the floor. Then, he sat on the edge of the mattress, one hand resting on his knee.
“Girl,” he said, “help me with my tunic.”
Giselle exhaled slowly, trying to force out the nervous tension in her limbs. Obey, she told herself. She needed to keep him interested. Swallowing nervously, she stepped away from the comfort of the snapping fire. Her head felt light as she neared the man, but she was unable to look away from his face. In the dim light, the severe cut of his jaw was even more pronounced, and reflections of the orange and red flames danced in his eyes.
And yet…
He was even more handsome with his skin warmed by firelight. His expression was guarded, but she caught traces of flitting emotions. Determination. Impatience. Longing? Giselle already knew that he desired her body; that she was in his bedchambers was proof. But could she dare to hope that there was more behind his guarded eyes than just brutish lust? Could she ever be more than a passing fancy? Just before she reached him, she allowed herself to wonder if he would be gentle.
Eustache watched her from hooded eyes. Her steps were fluid and graceful, and he admired the way the thin fabric of her gown swished over the curve of her hips. She stopped before him, so close that the hem of her frock brushed his booted feet. His eyes travelled slowly up her body, stopping to rest on her delicate face.
“My tunic,” he reminded her, his voice low and soft.
She leaned forward and took the lower hem of his thick tunic in both hands. She pulled the garment upward, and he lifted his arms so she could get it over his head. The rough wool caught and ruffled his hair, and she almost smiled at his tousled locks. He grunted at her amusement and pulled off his linen undershirt, exposing his bare torso.
“Put it there,” he instructed, pointing to a chair beside the massive stone fireplace.
Tearing her eyes away from the muscular plane of his chest, Giselle gathered his tunic in her arms and walked away as he bent to undo the laces of his boots. After kicking them away, he straightened in time to see her turn back toward him, the light of the fire shining straight through her nightdress. With a start, he realised that underneath the thin linen, she was completely naked. As she approached, he could see the shadows and valleys of her intimate curves and the dark, erect peaks of her breasts through the gauzy material. Heat pooled in his groin, and his fists clenched as he felt himself harden.
“Come,” he said to her, holding out a large hand.
She placed her fingers in his, and as he drew her closer, he could feel the wild fluttering of her pulse at her wrist. She was a slender, fragile thing—the type of woman he had never before touched. He was accustomed to buxom, red-faced tavern matrons or brawling, crude-tongued battlefield whores. Neither had ever been as fair or as sweet as the young woman who stood before him. She was exquisitely ethereal, like the last, lingering rays of sunlight on a summer’s eve. In that instant, Eustache decided that he wanted her for more than just one night—he wanted to catch her and hold onto her.
“Are you frightened?” he asked gruffly.
She shook her bowed head.
“No, mon seigneur,” she said quietly.
With his other hand, he caught her chin with a rough fingertip and tilted her face up. Though she stood and he sat, their eyes were level. He regarded her contemplatively as she attempted not to squirm under scrutiny. Finally, she gave in to the truth that bubbled in her chest.
“I am not afraid of you, mon seigneur,” she admitted, a rosy blush staining her cheeks. “But I am frightened.”
He nodded slowly, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on hers.
“Sit,” he told her, patting his knee.
Heart pounding, Giselle lowered herself into sitting across his lap, and sh
e felt his taut muscles tighten beneath her thighs. He was so tall that her toes barely skimmed the floor, and she tensed at the thought of him supporting all her weight. The hand that had been gripping hers dropped to rest on her leg, his palm easily covering her knee. She looked down to study his broad hand. If she hadn’t known better, she might have mistaken it for the hand of a labourer. Covered with small cuts and callouses, his hands spoke of hard work.
Or of battles and war.
She glanced up, suddenly skittish, only to find him already watching her carefully.
“Do not be afraid. Any pain will be brief, and the pleasure will far outweigh it,” Eustache said, touching her cheek. “And I do not intend to hurt you.”
Giselle nodded. Eustache took her hand and placed it on his chest. Slightly flustered, she tried to pull her hand away, but he held it in place firmly. After a moment of fruitless tugging, she yielded to his wishes and stilled. It was then that she began to notice other things about her brooding lord. His skin was warm and his muscles were taut and hard. Thoughts of entrapping the man in a seductive scheme evaporated as she looked upon his strange beauty. Scars littered his shoulders and chest—long lines of raised skin that evidenced his experience in battle. With every breath, his bulging muscles tensed and relaxed, and she was riveted by the veins that stood out in sharp relief on his muscular arms. Without realising what she was doing, Giselle began to trace his scars with wondering fingers. She smoothed the pads of her fingers over his skin, captivated when each muscle tightened under her touch.
He was a warrior and a lord. He was massively built and dangerously strong. And he wanted her. The heat emanating from his skin and into her fingertips shot through her body, spiking through her limbs and gathering in a knot in her lower belly.
Give in, her body traitorously whispered. Give in to this delight.
Linda Skye Page 2