DESIRE’S PRIZE
M. S. Laurens
DESIRE’S PRIZE
Copyright © 2013 by Savdek Management Proprietary Limited
ISBN: 978-0-9922789-0-8
Cover design by Robin Ludwig Design Inc., http://www.gobookcoverdesign.com/.
Cover photograph by Jenn LeBlanc/Illustrated Romance.
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First electronic publication: October 2013
Savdek Management Proprietary Limited, Melbourne, Australia.
www.stephanielaurens.com
Email: [email protected]
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This e-book may not be sold, shared, or given away.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DESIRE’S PRIZE
Stephanie Laurens writing as M. S. Laurens
1347. Calais has finally fallen and Alaun de Montisfryth, first Earl of Montisfryn, powerful Marcher lord and companion of Edward III, is dispatched back to England with orders to secure the Welsh border. Halfway home, pride tempts Montisfryn to attend a tournament held by his family’s old foes at Versallet Castle.
Eloise de Versallet, the widowed Lady de Cannar, rules her father’s castle with a tongue sharper than any sword. She has no great opinion of men in general and of knights in particular.
Montisfryn and Eloise meet and sparks fly.
He is intrigued. She is irritated.
He is under royal edict to wed.
An experienced lady, well-born, still young, and exceedingly well-endowed with both wealth and beauty, Eloise is a matrimonial prize beyond compare—and has vowed to remain unwed.
Potent and powerful, will Montisfryn be able to breach her walls, storm her castle, and succeed where all others have failed?
Or will Eloise, haughty and defiant to the last, prevail?
The gauntlet is flung, the challenge accepted.
And desire enters the fray.
A medieval historical romance in the classic style, this work contains multiple explicit love scenes.
LENGTH: Novel of 140,000 words
“When it comes to dishing up lusciously sensual, relentlessly readable historical romances, Laurens is unrivalled.” Booklist
“Laurens’s writing shines.” Publishers Weekly
“One of the most talented authors on the scene today…Laurens has a real talent for writing sensuous and compelling love scenes.” Romance Reviews
“Stephanie Laurens never fails to entertain and charm her readers with vibrant plots, snappy dialogue, and unforgettable characters.” Historical Romance Reviews.
“Stephanie Laurens plays into readers’ fantasies like a master and claims their hearts time and again.” Romantic Times Magazine
DEDICATION
This work is dedicated to all those who have contributed to the e-book r-evolution—from Mark Coker and Smashwords, Amazon with their KDP platform, and all the other retailers who followed suit, and most especially all the authors who marched fearlessly into the evolving world and shaped it into the thriving—and still evolving—enterprise it now is.
I especially wish to thank all my fellow authors who have so generously shared their experiences and knowledge—my colleagues on the Author Friends loop, and also those who widely share their wisdom via blogs, both in the posts and the commentary. Your contributions, large and small, helped this book reach my readers.
Why? Because being a medieval historical romance penned by an established author whose name is synonymous with Regency-era historical romances, adequate publication via any traditional route was never going to happen.
But that was then, and this is now.
With sincere appreciation to all those who have made “now” what it is.
PROLOGUE
Versallet Castle, on the Hampshire/Wiltshire border
June in the 12th Year of our Sovereign Lord, Edward III (1338)
He’d been a fool—an abject fool.
Whump!
The force behind the mace thudding into his leather shield buckled Alaun’s knees. Dragging in an agonized breath, he pressed exhausted muscles to his bidding and hauled himself upright—just in time to meet the next punishing blow.
Thurrump!
The sound of the blows was becoming monotonous, but he could do nothing to stem the tide. Sweat trickled beneath his armored skull-cap, stinging his eyes. Blinking as he positioned himself to meet the next Herculean blow, he glimpsed his opponent’s eyes.
Henry de Versallet was enjoying himself.
At just over forty, Henry was heavy and barrel-chested, with arms like rough-hewn oak, yet what he’d lost to the years in speed and agility he more than made up for in skill. He wasn’t in any hurry to bring the beating to an end.
Alaun’s shield shuddered again; the impact jarred his shoulder plates. He swore, wishing he’d been wiser. He’d suggested the bout, confident his advantage in height and reach would be decisive. Instead, Henry was having the time of his life, doubtless grinning from ear to ear behind his visored helm.
Thump!
Strength waning, Alaun braced himself for the next mighty wallop. His broadsword hung useless from his fist; he was too weak to raise it. Knowing Henry would favor the mace, he’d worn both plate and mail, while Henry, with only the blunted edge of his tournament broadsword to deflect, had appeared clad in mail hauberk and surcote alone. Without the additional weight of plate armor, the older man had a telling advantage, provided the bout revolved on endurance.
Henry had made sure that it had, refusing to offer a blow until Alaun had been wild with impatience and half-exhausted to boot. Then the thrashing had begun.
Crump!
Alaun staggered. Had it been any other man, he’d have yielded long since, but nothing—no amount of punishment—would ever be sufficient to make him cry quarter of a de Versallet. He’d never fully understood the long-standing, somewhat subtle enmity that had brewed for generations between their two families—some insult over the de Versallets’ pure Norman ancestry as opposed to the de Montisfryth blood, tainted by Irish Norse, Celt, and Saxon, had reputedly started it. The countering response was the success of his family, appointed by the Conqueror as Marcher lords, all-powerful in their domains.
Thrump!
Pain shot up his left arm; he gritted his teeth. His unwise challenge was about to come to an inglorious end. Still, while Henry might win Alaun’s late father’s stallion, no one could take from him his pride.
He didn’t see the blow that felled him; he hardly felt it. The horizon suddenly tilted and spun, then the dust of the arena enveloped him. His last coherent thought was that it was lucky the wedding was but a few hours away; there were no ladies and only a few nobles present to witness his ignominious defeat.
Blessed blackness engulfed him. With a sigh, he surrendered, honor intact.
Mailed legs planted wide, his mace gripped in one ham-like fist, Henry de Versallet stood over his opponent, staring down unmoving, until, assured de Montisfryth was beyond further chastisement, Henry harrumphed and raised his visor.
Squinting through the glare, h
e scanned the arena. Catching sight of an appalled face above the de Montisfryth livery, he roared, “You, boy! Come tend your master!”
Thus abjured, no fewer than five white-faced de Montisfryth retainers rushed out to attend their young lord. Inwardly reflecting that that was just as well, for the boy, young and lanky though he was, doubtless weighed a ton, armor and all, Henry grunted and turned away.
It had been a most satisfying morning.
Raising his eyes to the battlemented keep of his castle, two hundred yards distant across the tournament ground, his smile broadened. The morning had gone well, and the afternoon would crown his day.
Pulling off his gauntlets, he joined his old friend Albert d’Albron at the entrance to the arena.
“Was that really necessary?” Albert, a fine-boned aesthete with a forked black beard, his thin frame enveloped in the billowing folds of a red-and-green checkered houppelande, eyed Henry with resigned disapproval.
“An excellent way to start the day, teaching the young some manners.” Henry handed his helm to his squire and drew a deep breath. The morning air was crisp, spiced with the tang of wood smoke spiraling upward from the village cottages. He tossed his gauntlets to the squire. “Check on Lord de Montisfryth and report to me. And be sure you pick up that stallion.”
“Aye, m’lord.” The squire grinned.
Henry narrowed his eyes. “I want no fighting between retainers, mind.”
The squire’s grin faded. “No, m’lord.”
With a snort, Henry started for the castle. “That’s the last thing I need—scuffles disrupting the wedding feast. Elaine will be at me enough as it is.”
Albert’s brows rose. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d tell her.”
“I hadn’t intended to.” Raising a hand to his left shoulder, Henry winced. “But be damned if I don’t need some of that magical salve of hers.”
Albert’s brows rose higher. “I thought it was you did the teaching?”
Henry growled. “That whelp has enough damned weight behind his arm to sheer a statute in two. Just give him a few years to grow into that body of his and he’ll be a match for any man.” Henry grinned wickedly. “I’m just glad I caught him in time.”
About them, the morning mist rising off the River Bourne, flowing steadily southward on their right, thinned as the sun rose triumphant above the royal forest of Chute, to the east beyond the river. Behind them, the tournament field lay peacefully serene, the pavilions of the competing knights planted like jeweled blooms on the green slope beyond, identifying pennons snapping in the breeze. The curtain wall of Versallet Castle rose before them; a stream of country folk delivering produce requisitioned for the festivities hurried along the road, jostling as they crowded across the drawbridge and on through the castle’s gate tower. With respect tinged with awe, they gave their lord a wide berth.
“What do you plan for the stallion?”
Albert’s question had been idle. Henry’s answer was not. “I’ll breed from him. Had my eye on him for years, but de Montisfryth—the last—would never have parted with him.”
“Aha!” Albert glanced, narrow-eyed, at his friend. “You’re an evil man, Henry de Versallet. You may have gulled young de Montisfryth into believing he challenged you, but you had it in mind all along.”
Ferociously smug, Henry grinned.
Albert snorted. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Your time in purgatory has doubtless just doubled.”
“Fear not.” Henry’s grin deepened. “I’ll endow another chantry with the profits I’ll make from having a Montisfryn stallion at stud. The Good Lord, I’m told, makes allowance for such things.”
Albert snorted again.
The outer bailey was alive with scurrying humanity, ants provisioning a mound. The carter had brought a load of wood; lads hurried back and forth, unloading the logs. An army of women were scrubbing the church steps. Amidst the country drab, the gaudy clothes of lords and ladies invited to witness Henry’s daughter’s nuptials glowed brightly, declaring their owners’ gentility. Henry paused, viewing the scene with open satisfaction.
“I take it de Cannar accepted your terms?”
Albert’s question sliced through Henry’s distraction. “Oh, aye—eventually.” Henry resumed his progress toward the keep. “The income from half his estates as jointure against the dowry I offered.”
Albert’s brows reached his hairline. “He must have been keen to secure the alliance.”
“Keen as a Saracen’s blade.” Henry frowned. “The man’s got his eye on quick advancement and he doesn’t expect to die along the way. I’d say I’ve got my girl well-settled.”
“And what of Eloise? Does she approve your choice?”
Henry shrugged. “She’s easy enough. I’ll give my lady that—she’s never encouraged any silly notions in the girl, even if she did insist that I sent Eloise to that blessed convent. Cost a small fortune, but the outcome’s been satisfactory.”
“So Eloise gets security, de Cannar fills the only vacancy as son-in-law to the de Versallets, and you—” Albert broke off. “What do you get from this, Henry?”
“Buggered if I know. De Cannar’s wealthy enough, but his lands don’t march with mine and he’s Warwick’s vassal.” Henry’s frown matched his growl, then he brightened. “The Montisfryn stallion, perhaps? Who knows—perhaps God was rewarding me for my selfless act in providing so handsomely for my daughter.”
Albert choked.
*
Five hours later, Albert d’Albron was one of the many nobles who danced at Eloise de Versallet’s wedding feast. In the ornately carved chair at the center of the lord’s table, raised above the rest of the hall, Eloise saw her father’s old crony and smiled and nodded politely. Her elbows on the table, hands cupped about the golden wedding goblet, she forced herself to take a slow sip.
Around her, the revelry was scaling new heights. The great hall was overflowing with guests. A smoky haze hung low, rising from the central hearth to veil the hall’s massive beams. The aromas of rich food and spilled wine overlaid the freshness of the new rushes on which the extravagantly garbed guests, as colorful as peacocks, strutted and posed.
Noise blanketed the shifting scene; the strains of a pipe and the rhythmic thump of a tabor were buried beneath it.
“Aye! An excellent win—that stallion will be worth a fortune at stud! Be interesting to see if de Cannar shapes up as well!”
Her father’s bellow was greeted with salacious laughter and ogling glances; Eloise ignored them. Her sire was in fine fettle; she wondered if marrying her off was really such a feat. The settlements had been explained to her, but she’d yet to divine what her father gained. Something, she was sure. She might be his daughter, yet he’d never given her reason to believe she was anything other than an encumbrance, a dependent he needs must dower and establish.
Perhaps that was it? Her marriage would get rid of her, and seal an alliance with the wool-wealthy de Cannars.
The point was no longer of any great relevance given she’d married Raoul de Cannar that day. Eloise caught her mother’s eye. Elaine of Montrose, lady de Versallet, sat beside her lord, her calm face betraying no comprehension of the increasingly ribald comments flying about her ears. Equally composed, Eloise returned her mother’s smile, then allowed her gaze to drift over the knights, squires, ladies, and maidens who milled before her, some dancing, others chattering, a fluid, jewel-hued tapestry carpeting the hall.
Soon it would be time to retire.
Suppressing a shiver, she reiterated, yet again, the arguments with which she’d resigned herself to her fate. As the daughter of a noble, her marriage had been arranged for worldly considerations; her family gained by the connection, as did de Cannar’s. In addition, he gained her sizeable dowry and the use of her body in which to plant his seed, while she gained security and position, which, to a lady of noble birth, was all.
Or should be. Unfortunately, she’d yet to convince herself of that. But on r
eturning from Claerwhen, the convent she’d attended for the past five years, she’d been presented with a fait accompli—the settlements had been signed, her only role to play her prescribed part.
“It’s natural to feel hesitant,” her mother had said, “but from all we’ve learned, de Cannar will make you a good husband. He’s inherited his father’s estates, and he’s not, so I hear, unattractive.” Her mother had paused to snip a thread, then had added, “At twenty-six, that’s a reasonable recommendation. Who knows? With the right management, he might even turn out as well as your father.”
Eloise had smiled and accepted her lot with equanimity if not enthusiasm—until two days ago she had come face to face with Raoul de Cannar. Her misgivings had returned with a vengeance. Her mother, when appealed to, had listened, not without sympathy. Even though she had reassured Eloise that de Cannar would treat his wife with all due respect, her mother, too, was uneasy.
Eloise forced down another sip of wine.
Beside her, in the carved chair matching hers, Raoul de Cannar lounged, his heavy warrior’s body imperfectly disguised by the blue velvet of his fashionable jupon. Replying to a ribald jest offered by one of his knights, Raoul grasped the moment as the knight moved on to turn to his bride. Raoul’s dark, sharp-featured face would have done justice to a satyr; his eyes, of a color that was no color at all, narrowed as he considered his new acquisition. As he watched her sip, the ends of his thin lips lifted.
Eloise appeared calm, serene, her ready smiles those of a young wife pleased with her new position. Her composure was faultless, as were her features, smooth, ivory cheeks barely touched by the sun, a broad forehead without line or wrinkle to mar its perfection, her lips full of promise despite her youth. Not even the graceful arch of her fine dark brows gave a hint of her underlying tension.
Raoul’s smile deepened. He knew that tension was there. Her eyes gave her away. Dark, lustrous, fathomless, they held too much intelligence, looked on the world with too clear a vision to fit the mold of unwary innocence. So large and wide they should have imparted a doe-like vulnerability, their startling vitality left the careful observer with an impression of unchartered depths.
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