Awakened by a Kiss

by Lila DiPasqua

  Gabriel chuckled good-naturedly. “I was not a monk, and well you know it. I was in the seminary. I hadn’t taken any vows yet. Our dear departed father felt he needed to have one son in the service of God. I told him it was a mistake to send me.”

  “I suppose ‘our dear departed father’ overestimated your restraint. Here you thought celibacy was a mere suggestion and not a requirement for a man studying to become a member of the Holy Church.”

  “Exactly.” Gabriel grinned. “Glad you see my point.”

  “Yes, and who knew they’d take it so seriously when they caught you with two women at the same time—twice.”

  Gabriel laughed. “Ah, now Tristan, those women were well worth being expelled from the seminary. Who needs to wait to die to go to paradise when a man can sample those four lovelies right here on earth?”

  “Tristan.” His uncle Richard de Tiersonnier entered the room, his brow furrowed. “Are you expecting a Duc?”

  “A Duc?” he repeated. “Of course not, why?” No one from court had visited him since his departure from the royal palace. He’d been well forgotten in mere weeks—after years of loyal service to the King and his family.

  “There is a six-horse carriage among the entourage outside.”

  Tristan was baffled. Entourage? A six-horse carriage was definitely a Duc. What Duc? Why was he here?

  Grabbing his cane, he struggled to his feet, refusing help from Gabriel, and made his way to the courtyard to greet his notable visitor, his uncle and brother falling in behind him.

  Tristan arrested his steps outside the main entrance of his château. Two carriages, one with six white horses, and thirty of his former men each on horseback filled his courtyard.

  But if that wasn’t enough, by far the most astonishing sight was the King’s favorite daughter, Elisabeth, Duchesse de Roussel. Flanked by her maid and her sister, she stood not twenty feet away dressed in breeches, black boots, and a white shirt—male clothing custom-fitted to her form.

  She looked nothing like a man.

  Her breeches accentuated her mouth-watering curves, black boots—like none he’d ever seen—molded to her slender calves, and then there was her shirt. The breeze fluttered the white material, teasing him with glimpses of creamy flesh above her breasts. He felt his prick harden.

  Tristan clenched his teeth. Jésus-Christ, he hadn’t had sex since his injury. He’d definitely gone too long without a good fuck if the sight of the King’s most spoiled offspring, dressed in men’s clothing, was stiffening his cock.

  “Where is the Duc?” his uncle asked.

  Gabriel stepped around Tristan. “Never mind that, Uncle. Who is that woman dressed in breeches?”

  “One of His Majesty’s illegitimate daughters.” Tristan couldn’t keep the disdain from his tone.

  “I thought he legitimized all his children born to his mistresses,” Richard stated.

  “He did. He gave them status and arranged powerful matches for them, too,” Tristan said. “This is one of the more self-indulgent among those in the royal brood.”

  Tightening his jaw, he made his way across the courtyard, hating it that his former men had to see him hobbling like a cripple. Whatever Elisabeth wanted, he’d refuse. Whatever game she was playing—and it was obvious she was up to no good—he wouldn’t engage in it.

  He was going to send her and her entourage straight back to Versailles.

  2

  Elisabeth’s heart hammered in her chest as she watched Tristan approach. He wasn’t happy to see her. No surprise there. The summer wind caressed his dark hair and pressed his shirt against his strong chest. Normally in uniform, this was the first time she’d ever seen him in plain clothing.

  He looked even more dangerous and delicious.

  Elisabeth felt the usual hot quickening in her belly at the sight of him.

  He stopped, towering before her, and gave a short, stiff obligatory bow. “Madame, to what do I owe this honor?” The last word was particularly weighty with sarcasm.

  Here we go, Elisabeth . . . She prayed he didn’t notice how she trembled. Schooling her features, she lifted her chin a notch. “And a good day to you, too, Tristan.” She’d never addressed him in such a familiar manner, but if she wanted a more intimate involvement, she might as well speak to him in a more intimate way. “Yes, I am well and I had a good trip. Thank you.” She kept her tone light and her gaze fixed to his, anxiety and arousal swirling through her system. Just being this close to him made her sex moisten.

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Forgive my manners.” His reply was tightly dealt. “I should have inquired about your well-being and your trip. I’m glad all is well. The point of your visit is?”

  The man didn’t believe in mincing words, did he? He couldn’t make it more obvious he wanted her gone. Posthaste. Well, she wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Agathe, the letter, please.” She held out her hand to her maid.

  Agathe pulled out a folded parchment from inside the sleeve of her dress and handed it to her.

  Elisabeth held it out to Tristan. “From the King.”

  Taking the letter from her, Tristan broke open the seal with one hand, leaning heavily on his cane with the other, and scanned its contents. He snorted. “This asks that I help you secure a new fencing instructor.”

  “That’s correct.” Every so often the breeze blew just the right way and delighted her senses with his scent. He smelled wonderful. All male. Potent and virile, his leg injury diminishing him in no way in her eyes. She wanted to lean in and inhale deeply, and had to fight back the urge to lace her arms around him and brush her lips along his neck, his skin tempting her in the worst way. Too many nights she’d lain in bed, wondering how he’d feel against her, inside her. Her every instinct told her that any carnal encounter with this man would be like none she’d ever known. Behind the cold glares he gave her was a man who was naturally—deliciously—dominant in the boudoir. With a wicked blend of hot sensuality and sinful skills, he knew how to drive a woman wild. Stories of his sexual talents abounded at the palace.

  Sadly, he didn’t even need to lift a finger to affect her. She was already wild and wet for him.

  “I’ll be staying awhile. We all will.” She gestured toward the large group she’d brought. “Now if you will show me to my rooms.”

  Gripped by anger, his light blue eyes shone with such bedazzling fire.

  “I’ll not show you anywhere, madame, except back to your carriage. I have no fencing instructor to suggest to you. Inform the King of my regrets. Kindly take your party and return to Versailles.”

  Where most would have stepped back when on the receiving end of one of Tristan de Tiersonnier’s fierce looks and sharp tones, boldly she took a step closer to him. A delectable rush of heat flooded over her. Her nipples tightened and pressed hard against her shirt.

  “I don’t think so. I am staying.” She forced herself to hold his regard without wavering. “You see, my father knows how much I love to fence and has always provided me with fine instructors in the past. I’ve learned all I can from my last instructor. Therefore, I need a new one. He has ordered you to assist me in finding one to my liking, and I’ve chosen the instructor I want. You.”

  Tristan gave a harsh laugh. “Me? Madame, are you blind? Perhaps you missed my injured leg?” he all but growled at her.

  Unfazed, she responded, “I’m aware of your injury. It won’t hinder you, I’m sure. You are the best swordsman in the country. You have a lot to teach me. And you’ll not disobey your King’s orders.”

  She stepped around him. Without turning back, she walked toward the château with purposeful strides, passing the small group of servants who’d formed a line outside, her sister and maid on her heels. She hated sounding spoiled and demanding, knowing it fed into his preconceived notions of her, but he left her no choice. He needed persuasion. Only by throwing the King’s name and authority around could she bend his will to hers.

  “Oh, this is good. This is
so much better than the seminary.” Gabriel snickered. “Tristan, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a woman order you about.”

  Tristan watched the saucy sway of Elisabeth’s luscious derrière as she walked away. He held back the expletives bellowing in his head. He was at a full cock stand—in front of a fucking squad of his former men. In fact, the moment she’d stepped close and he’d noticed the telltale sign of her stiffened nipples, he was slammed with a hot wave of arousal. He was exciting her. Merde. It was affecting him.

  He didn’t need this. He was already in torment thanks to his leg. He didn’t need his prick to add to his misery. Elisabeth de Roussel was nothing more than a coquette—a flirt who didn’t offer up the ultimate prize. He’d seen her cock-teasing at court. She had it down to an art. With her beauty and wit, she had men all but panting for her. She lapped it up, purring with pleasure over their interest and thriving on the power she wielded over them. Countless fools had vied for her attention and were ultimately turned down.

  Few had ever made it to her bed. It was a game to her. A mere diversion.

  The royal family was, by and large, self-absorbed and full of artifice—Veronique and Elisabeth among the worst. Only Veronique never received preferential treatment from the King the way Elisabeth did. Loyalty, honesty, and honor meant nothing to any member of His Majesty’s family. Not a sincere soul in the bunch. He didn’t miss the games at court or those who played them.

  Clearly, Elisabeth was bored, looking for new diversions.

  He wasn’t about to become that diversion.

  Tristan glanced at the men he used to command. Most were dismounting and wouldn’t make eye contact with him. Their first meeting since his dismissal, the awkwardness and tension in the air was palpable. He missed leading these men. Every one of the twenty-seven hundred that made up the King’s private Guard was of noble birth, impeccable character, and superior skill. If he were still in charge, he could order them to escort the Duchesse de Roussel back to the palace with a letter to the King recommending that for her own safety his daughter not travel the countryside in her outrageous attire. But he had no authority over them any longer. They had to abide by their mistress’s wishes, unable to take orders from him.

  “Tristan, what do you wish to do with all these men?” Richard asked.

  Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gabriel smiling, thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “Send them to the stables until I settle this matter.”

  They wouldn’t be there long.

  She was leaving.

  She wasn’t leaving, she told herself. You are going to collect yourself and not allow him to overwhelm you. Not with his size. Not with his scratchy temperament, and most especially not with his potent allure. It was bad enough she was having a difficult time thinking clearly with him near, her thoughts dominated by the shameless fantasies he inspired.

  “Well, at least the inside of the château looks better than the outside,” Agathe remarked, glancing around. Standing in the vestibule, Elisabeth gazed up at the grand staircase, caring little about the condition of Tristan’s home at the moment. Not when she needed to steel her resolve so that she didn’t run back to Versailles like a coward. In a few moments, Tristan would enter the château and she had to be ready for another round of wits and wills.

  She was supposed to be seducing him. Have him mindless with hunger for her. She thought she’d seen heated interest in his eyes. Or was that simply wishful thinking? Her senses were so frenzied, she couldn’t say for certain if she was having a warming effect on him.

  Claire placed her hand on Elisabeth’s shoulder. “Are you all right? You look a bit flushed.”

  Elisabeth forced a smile. “It’s this terrible heat. I’m fine.” Nothing could be further from the truth. She was in over her head and drowning fast.

  Tristan entered with the same two men who’d been with him outside, both men bearing a striking resemblance to him, though one gentleman was at least twenty-five years Tristan’s senior.

  The second Tristan spotted her in the grand entranceway, he marched to her, his cane aiding him along.

  Anytime he entered a room, his male beauty took her breath away. Now was no exception. Her breath stuck in her throat for a moment and her heart gave a flutter.

  Oh, Elisabeth, you are so under his spell. She was all but ready to throw herself at him and beg him to take her just so she’d have some relief from the yearning throbbing through her core. Anything that would put an end to this attraction and affinity.

  She dropped her gaze briefly and couldn’t help but notice the pronounced bulge in his breeches. Dear God, he . . . desired her. It was indisputable. It was incredible.

  A sudden surge of much-needed confidence welled inside her. Her insides danced.

  Frowning, he halted before her.

  Smiling, she looked up at him. Oh, yes . . . This is going to happen. He was going to be her lover. Maybe even more . . . her heart whispered.

  “I don’t know what game you are playing, nor do I wish to know,” he said. “If you’re looking for new forms of amusement, I suggest you seek them out at court. Not here.”

  “My brother has completely forgotten his manners, madame.” The younger man elbowed past his older sibling. He had the same dark hair, but his eyes were not as vibrant as Tristan’s. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Gabriel de Tiersonnier.” He took her hand and pressed a kiss to it. “This is our uncle, Richard de Tiersonnier.”

  The older gentleman stepped forward and kissed her hand, too. “Enchanté, madame.”

  “A pleasure to meet you both.” She introduced her sister. Her nerves were beginning to settle as she became surer of herself. If Tristan desired her, even a little, she had him.

  Tristan simply glowered silently at her, then reluctantly murmured an apology and a greeting to Claire.

  “Now then, about my lessons.” Elisabeth leaped back into the subject before Tristan could begin a new tirade. She stepped close to Tristan again, this time leaving less room between their bodies than she had outside. Something flared in his eyes, something she read as hunger.

  Her fever spiked.

  Praying he couldn’t tell just how undone she was by him, lest she lose ground, she managed to state firmly, “You’ll provide a lesson every day. First thing in the morning. You see, I’ve challenged someone. By week’s end, I expect, thanks to your instructions, to be able to best him.”

  He held her stare for a moment. “Whom have you challenged?” There was skepticism in his tone. He thought she was lying. Well, she was lying. Normally, she didn’t give a whit what people thought of her. Would she have taken up fencing if she had? But Tristan’s low opinion of her bothered her.

  Had always bothered her.

  “That is none of your concern. You’ll be paid generously for your time and skill.”

  “Madame . . .” he began, his voice low and thick with ire.

  “Call me Elisabeth.”

  “Madame,” he repeated, this time sharply. The man was beyond stubborn. “If I cannot command the Musketeers, I most certainly am not fit to be your instructor—the King will quite agree with me.” Each word was laced with bitterness. She couldn’t blame him. Elisabeth had hated how quickly her father had dismissed and replaced Tristan. His years of devoted service completely ignored. That his injury had occurred during an assassin’s attempt against the King, Tristan saving his life, had been seemingly inconsequential to her father. “Get back in the carriage and return to your palace. Your father—”

  “Was right to send you here,” Gabriel injected. “Tristan is the best swordsman in the realm. And of course, we wouldn’t want to offend the King, now would we, Tristan?” He patted his shoulder. “You and your lovely sister are most welcome.” Gabriel smiled.

  Tristan dragged his gaze from her to give his brother a murderous glare.

  Gabriel’s brows shot up. “What? It’s but a week. Only seven days. A flash of time then it’s over.” His brother gl
anced at Claire then back to Elisabeth, his smile returning. “Such a short time to spend in such charming company.”

  “I agree with Gabriel,” Richard said. His uncle was a man of few words. This was a fine time for him to start voicing his opinion. “You are welcome to stay . . . and if you change your mind and want a different fencing instructor, you may look to me, madame. I taught Tristan everything he knows. I was once in the Musketeers myself before I retired from active service, you know.”

  Tristan strived for patience. His uncle and brother didn’t know what kind of woman they were dealing with, although her mode of dress should have alerted them to the obvious—she was trouble. Willful. Acting as though society’s mores didn’t apply to her because she was the King’s favorite daughter. A week with Elisabeth running about in her tight-fitted, stirring attire. Of her trying to garner the very physical reactions she’d wrought from his unruly cock.

  Jésus-Christ, of her entertaining herself at his expense.

  It wasn’t going to happen.

  Yet, if she wished to stay, he couldn’t toss her out—just as she’d gleefully pointed out. He may not be in His Majesty’s employ any longer, but was still obliged to his King. And he had to oblige the King’s favorite daughter, because of it.

  However, the key here was if she wished to stay.

  This was his home. His domain she was under. And there were a number of highly appealing ideas flitting through his mind on how to sway her into wanting to leave and abandon the fencing lessons she was demanding.

  For the first time since she’d arrived, he found himself fighting back a smile.

  “Are you sure you’d be comfortable staying here for these lessons, madame?” he asked. “This isn’t Versailles.”