“Giselle.”
Her name was a huskily whispered plea on his lips. When she looked up from his chest, she saw naked desire and raw need etched into the lines of his face. Instinctively, she cupped her small hands around his face and leaned in to press a kiss to each of his cheeks. She felt his fingers knot in the loose folds of her thin gown, his eyelids drifting closed. Growing bolder, she gently nibbled at the corner of his mouth. His rough stubble prickled at her cheek. Curious, she rubbed her cheek against his before opening her plump lips to lightly trace the square line of his jaw with her tongue.
Eustache’s jaw dropped as he groaned, a deep, rumbling sound that came from the depths of his belly. She was lighting all of his senses on fire, and his heart thundered with the same intensity as it did in the midst of battle. It felt as if his every nerve was alight. His body was rigid with pent-up desire, and only the years of honing his strict self-discipline stopped him from ripping her clothes away, tossing her to the mattress and riding her into dawn.
But when he felt her moist tongue darting across his skin, he could not help but tangle his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her head back so that he could bury his nose in her neck. A shudder shook his body as he inhaled deeply. She smelled of the open fields; a rich, earthy scent that was the very opposite of the cloying, artificial perfumes that nobility wore. As he began to lave her slender neck with his tongue, he felt her breathing hitch. Fingers caressing her scalp, he pulled back slightly to look her in the eye. He reached for the hem of her frock, pulling it up over her legs.
“Giselle,” he said, his voice hoarse with need, “open yourself to me.”
She complied instinctively, spreading her legs ever so slightly, and he slid a rough hand up the delicate flesh of her thigh. But when his thumb brushed her most intimate place, she tensed and clamped her legs tightly around his hand.
Eustache pressed his lips to her collarbone and planted a row of nibbling kisses to her shoulder.
“Do not be afraid,” he murmured softly as he gently coaxed her thighs apart again.
With a feather-light touch, he stroked the seam of her folds. She gasped, breath caught in her throat. When he gently probed her opening, her head lolled back against his shoulder, a shudder of pleasure running through her slight frame. His other arm snaked around her waist, and he smoothed his hand up her ribcage. He fondled her pert breasts under her gown, and Giselle could not stifle a low, throaty moan. When she began to buck against his hand, Eustache could not contain himself any longer.
He withdrew his fingers from her and stood up, cradling her in his arms. He set her on the bed and grabbed at her dress, pulling it haphazardly over her head and throwing it over his shoulder. Then, he took a step back to admire her.
She was kneeling with one hand planted on the mattress, staring up at him with luminous blue eyes. His gaze grew hungry, and he didn’t bother to look down as he undid the clasps on his trousers. He stepped free of the constricting material and climbed onto the bed in front of her. Her eyes dropped and then widened at the full sight of him.
Eustache grabbed her ankle and pulled her toward himself, causing her to fall backward to the bed.
“Mon seigneur—” she began, her hands clapping against his chest.
But her words were silenced as he leaned down and kissed her, his lips scorching and demanding upon hers. He began to trail heated kisses all over her trembling body, his hands wandering over her sweet curves. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal pressing into her stomach as he rocked against her, moulding his body to hers. White-hot pleasure raced through her when he cupped one of her breasts and took its caramel peak in his mouth. His tongue flicked out to tease the tightening bud, and she cried out as he suckled and then released it with a loud pop.
Groaning impatiently, Eustache hooked her knees around his hips and leaned forward onto his elbows. He slowly pressed his hips into hers, and she felt him prod gently at her entrance. She was panting, and her eyes were wide, awed and full of want. He pressed his forehead to hers.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice rough with need.
She merely nodded and wrapped her slender arms around his broad shoulders.
“Forgive me,” he whispered at her ear.
And then he pushed forward in one quick thrust, sheathing himself completely in her slick warmth. She dug her fingernails into his shoulder blades, and he held himself perfectly still within her, waiting.
Giselle felt a twinge as he broke past her maidenhood, but the sensations flooding her body were far from painful. She felt filled and completed and yet…there was a burning ache that demanded soothing. She began to roll her hips against his, seeking relief—and Eustache knew she was ready.
He began to rock against her slowly, pushing and withdrawing in time to her pleasured cries. When he began to plunge deeper, Giselle arched up off the bed, her lips parted in a moan of passion. The delicious friction between them was electric and sent tingling jolts of pleasure to the very tips of her toes. As Eustache’s rhythm became frantic, Giselle hooked her ankles behind his back, her hands blindly reaching to clutch at the sheets as she twisted wantonly beneath him. Suddenly, Eustache grabbed her hips and drove into her with frenzied force. Then, with a loud, feral groan, he threw his head back and emptied himself into her core. For a long moment, they were locked in that position, his hips shuddering against hers.
Completely spent and satisfied, Eustache lowered himself onto Giselle, gently plying her face with tender kisses. With a sated grunt, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled them over so that she lay atop him with her legs straddling his and her hair spilling over his chest. She laid her head over his chest, listening to his heart pound. He threaded his fingers through her hair, watching as she slowly drifted away.
As Giselle’s face relaxed and her breathing slowed, Eustache dared to name the feeling building in his chest.
Desire.
Even after taking her body, he still desired her. One night of passion had not been enough. He wanted more, much more. He wanted to slowly unravel the mysteries of her body and mind, relishing the nuance of her every gasp, her every moan. But as she was—a spoiled bride in an impoverished family—Eustache could not keep her.
He closed his eyes. He knew what he needed to do.
Chapter Four
When Giselle woke, golden rays of sunlight were already streaming through the windows. Blinking bleary eyes, she slowly came into consciousness. A dull ache spread through her thighs, and she rolled onto her side, taking a fistful of sheets with her. Giselle sighed contentedly, still floating in a half dream.
Warm sunshine on her bare shoulders. Sweetly crisp linen shrouding her body. The thickest, softest mattress she’d ever been on cushioning her curves.
Her eyes immediately snapped open as the memories came flooding back.
Last night…
For a moment, she felt paralysed by panic, and dread began to climb from her stomach into her chest. How had she slept so late? Where was the lord? Would he have her cast from the chateau like waste, to return as a useless daughter to her impoverished family? Had she failed to make a lasting impression? Tears began to prick at the corners of her eyes.
Suddenly Giselle heard the creak of a chair, and she sat bolt upright, her white-knuckled fist clutching the sheets to her chest.
There he was, sitting in the armchair by the stone fireplace. He was leaning forward, his forearms braced on his knees and his eyes trained intensely upon her. Giselle stared back for a long moment, stunned. He studied her impassively for a long moment before sitting back in the chair.
“You are awake,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Giselle swallowed nervously.
“Yes, mon seigneur,” she answered. “I am very sorry for intruding upon your morning. Please allow me to leave.”
“No,” Eustache replied crossly, turning away to look out the window. “Stay.”
“Yes, mon seigneur,” Giselle said, bow
ing her head.
Eustache looked back at her, his gaze piercing and serious. Giselle froze, wondering if she’d already managed to anger him. His lips turned down into a frown, and he clenched his fists and cleared his throat.
“I have decided,” he began stiffly, “that you are to assume the role of my personal chambermaid.”
Giselle gaped, her mouth dropping open. Such a thing…it was unheard of! A peasant farmer girl such as herself had never been chosen as a servant in the chateau, much less as a personal attendant to a lord. It went far beyond what she could have ever hoped for.
“You are to wear these clothes,” he said, gesturing to a fine linen shirt and woollen kirtle that lay folded near her pillow. “After I leave, Madame Lessard will explain your tasks.”
Bewildered, Giselle’s eyes moved to her new clothes. She reached out to finger the exquisite fabric in amazement. It was the finest set of clothes she’d ever touched. She looked up at her lord again, speechless. His frown deepened.
“You are not pleased,” he said, eyes narrowing.
“Mon seigneur,” she replied, her voice cracking, “this is too great a kindness.”
“Do not question my decision,” Eustache said brusquely. Lips tightening ever so slightly, he continued, “Last night, I ruined your chances at a profitable marriage for your family. Your service to me in the chateau will cover more than half of your family’s taxes to my father.”
Before Giselle could respond, Eustache stood and strode away without looking back. Giselle felt her heart soar—this was the opportunity she needed to secure her family’s fortunes!
“I will leave you to Madame Lessard,” he said as he left his chambers.
The next few hours were a blur of activity. Before she knew it, Giselle had been whisked throughout the manor house, her mind spinning with new instructions and information: make the bed, sweep the floors, clean out the hearth, attend the lord at meals, bring hot water up to the bedchambers, warm the lord’s bed at night.
By the time her new world had stopped spinning, it was nearly time for the evening meal. Knowing she had a few free moments, Giselle slipped away to the stables to visit the horses. She made her way to Bayard, who was tethered to a post, awaiting his daily brushing. The giant war horse snorted in greeting, nudging her shoulder with his massive nose. Giselle laughed aloud, stroking his long muzzle with her palm.
A shadow fell over her, and Giselle looked over her shoulder in time to see Eustache stride into the stables. She turned, a sweetly mischievous lilt to her lips. He slowly arched a brow in response.
“Mon seigneur,” she greeted him, dipping her head deferentially.
“Are you not afraid of smelling of the animals?” he asked, stepping closer.
“No,” she answered. “Are you?”
A crease appeared between his brows, and he took another step toward her.
“Most women do not visit the stables,” he commented dryly.
“And most lords do not converse with their maids,” she quipped.
Eustache reached over her head to grab Bayard’s cheek strap. He bent over her, his voice dropping to a murmur.
“And do you think that I am like most lords?”
His words were a mere whisper, ghosting over her cheeks in a sensual swirl. Giselle’s breath caught in her throat, but she refused to edge away.
“I do not yet know enough about you to be sure,” she answered breathlessly.
He placed his palm at the base of her spine, sliding it slowly down to rest on the curve of her bottom. His touch sent deliciously electric thrills spiking through her body, and bit her lip to contain a gasp.
“And would you like to learn more?”
Giselle was sure he could hear the wild beating of her heart, but his expression did not change as he gazed down at her with gleaming eyes.
“It depends, mon seigneur,” she said slowly, “on what you would like to teach me.”
He leaned back then, and she found herself missing his warmth.
“We shall see,” he said solemnly. “But I do believe that you have another task awaiting you in the dining hall.”
With that, he turned to walk away as Giselle hurried away to the kitchens to get ready to attend him at the evening meal. It must have been a tediously long affair, but Giselle hardly noticed the time passing as she was keenly aware of Eustache’s eyes upon her throughout the meal. She basked in his heated gaze and shivered at the brush of his fingers against her wrist as she placed food in front of him. Then, with a sultry backward glance, she had left to prepare his chambers for the evening.
By nightfall, Giselle was pouring a stream of near boiling water into a large basin by the lord’s bedside. She set down the pail, which she’d lugged up the stone staircase just a few minutes before. Pausing for a moment, she stepped close to the room’s one large window and exhaled, peering out the dark glass toward her family’s patch of land. But the grey of dusk had already crept across the land, and all she could make out was a faint silhouette of the rolling hills in the distance.
Wiping away the cloud of mist that had settled on the window pane from her light breath, Giselle turned away from the dark and headed for the hearth. A chill was settling into the air, and she needed to have a fire roaring soon. As she bent down onto her knees to scrape out any lingering ash, she wondered what her mother and father were doing. Had mother used herbs from her garden to make the pottage? Surely, the news of their good fortune must have already reached their ears—perhaps they were celebrating with some village ale?
A slight smile tugged at Giselle’s lips as she swept up the last remaining bits of ash and straightened. She swiped at her brow with the back of her wrist and imagined them sitting at the old wooden table in their cruck house, the light from their smoky fire pit casting orange shadows on everything in its reach. It was a warm, happy thought—and one that suddenly seemed distant when she remembered where she was.
She bent forward again quickly, remembering that the lord could return at any moment. With a few confident strokes against a spark rock, the fire caught and greedily consumed the kindling. Giselle carefully nursed the fledgling flame until it was a roaring blaze. Then she stood, dusting her hands off on the front of her woollen tunic.
Now to warm the bed…
Giselle looked from the bed to the fireplace and back again. How was she to warm the bed? Her eyes searched the chamber for any ideas on how to accomplish her last task of the evening. She eyed the large basin of warmed water. Placing it on top of the mattress would warm up one spot, but she risked spilling it. A soggy bedspread was definitely not an option. She looked to the fire. She could put some burning wood into the pail and put that on the bed, but the ash might spread and it would be horrible to clean up afterward. Giselle shook her head. There was only one option.
Determined, she grabbed the ends of the thick bedspread with both hands and pulled, trying to gather all of the voluminous material in her arms. With the expensive quilt piled high in her arms, she cautiously made her way to the hearth.
It was at that moment that the young lord decided to retire to his bedchambers.
“What are you doing?” Eustache asked, bewildered at the sight of his maid about to throw his bed sheets into the fire.
“Mon seigneur!” Giselle exclaimed, turning and nearly dropping the heavy fabric, “Pardon me. I was just warming your bed.”
When Eustache just stared at her blankly, Giselle began to shift from foot to foot nervously. Had she pressed her advantage too far?
“It won’t be a minute, mon seigneur,” she assured him.
Eustache strode over and abruptly took the large bundle from her arms. Ignoring her squeak of protest, he took the sheets back to the bed and threw them down haphazardly.
“I think you have misunderstood,” Eustache said, his voice gruff. “Warming my bed does not involve heating the sheets by fire.”
He looked over his shoulder at Giselle, who frowned, her brows puckering adorably.
“You still do not understand?” he asked, clearly disgruntled.
“Mon seigneur,” Giselle mumbled, hastily dropping into a curtsey, “please pardon me if I have offended you. I did not—”
Eustache coughed into his fist, stopping her apology mid-sentence.
“I am not offended,” he corrected her. He paused to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It is a simple misunderstanding. I do not wish for you to warm my bed with coals or fire.” He stopped again to clear his throat. “I wish for you to warm my bed with…” He paused awkwardly and then said, “Your body.”
“My body?” Giselle asked, tilting her head to one side.
Realisation suddenly struck her, and a rosy blush blossomed on her cheeks.
“I see,” she murmured.
All of a sudden, she was keenly aware of the scant distance between them and of his burning gaze on her body. His fingers were tightly clenched, and his spine was straight. He seemed taller and more intimidating than ever, his taciturn expression hard as stone. But when he frowned, his brows furrowing ever so slightly, Giselle caught a glimpse of something else.
It was just a slight twitch in his lips, a muscle clenching at his jaw—but she still saw it. As she studied his demeanour more carefully, Giselle began to reassess all of her experiences with the reserved warrior.
He had tried to stop her from rushing toward a dangerous war horse.
The night before, he had given as much pleasure as he had taken.
In the morning, he had provided her with work.
And all throughout the day, he had lavished her with attention.
She decided to test her suspicions—to see what truly lay behind the lord’s unapproachable air.
Eustache tensed when a mischievous smirk lit Giselle’s face. She stepped toward him slowly, her hips gently swaying as she did. He was astounded by her sudden change in demeanour; she had been shy and shrinking only a moment ago, but now she glowed with confidence. She stopped when she was a mere hairsbreadth from him. She gently tugged at her head cowl, and it fell away, freeing her long dark curls. He swallowed the lump in his throat as she let the cowl fall to the floor.
Linda Skye Page 3